What Dreams are Made Of_Part Four: A Question of Time.

When golden rays came through the window and struck him boldly between the eyes it was 8:30 am. He pulled his covers over his head and turned his back on the sun as if he were hiding from a stranger. More than an hour later, half winched-up on one hip and using a hand to shield himself from the window, he gambled a glimpse at the clock.

Email: Check the net for jobs before the few new notices had been answered -and coffee if there was any. He passed his desk on the way to the shower. The pile of sketches gave him a sense of Déjà vu. He remembered the Moon. Imagination cradled his mind as a mother rocks her child, and he was afforded brief glimpses through her eyes. The moment broke abruptly in a gasp that released him into the world beyond the womb.

Watching the water rain down into the tub he felt his fatigue fade. His cat, a furry little person who kept a strict routine patterned from whimsical expectation, watched him drying off and demanded to be groomed. He obliged.

By the time he had slipped into his untied tennis shoes, his mind was racing again. He knew that the day was growing short and there was much to do; but how to choose? To survive and pay his way from week to week, while wearing his life down bit by bit; or to trust the talent that had given him a toehold in hope and a hiding place from the fear that fostered it. It was obvious that for progress to bloom, something must give way.

To be continued.

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What Dreams are Made Of_Part Three: Illumination.

Seconds passed like water drops freezing in time lapsed film. The hiss of the steam radiator starting up sounded far away. He felt strange. His toes were cold against the dust covered floorboards. Hand against the wall, his eyes adjusted just enough to search for slippers.

If ever there was a time to draw, this was it.

Sketch after sketch her silhouette grew from a blur of graphite to confident and convincing linear form. The drapery and movement felt so real in its weight and flow, he could almost touch the flesh and bone beneath the fabric with the tip of his pencil. He adjusted the lamp over his drafting desk and continued to draw.

With hours to go before morning, he pinned sketches to the wall and made notes in the margins. Bits of prose floated into his head and were instantly edited, discarded or jotted down. Where was this all going? What did it mean? He thought of his earlier climb up the old hill and studied one of the scenes. The light from the paper moon in the picture seemed almost real. He turned out the lamp to see. There was a faint glow.

To be continued.

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What Dreams are Made Of_Part Two: The Moon's Maiden

On the way back down there were weeds and brambles and gravel-slides to contend with. Not to mention going down took nearly two hours; had coming up taken as long? He wasn’t sure, just tired. He began to doubt. Wasn’t all this too much? Could it even be done? And if so, what made him the one to do it?

The nerve had been ground out of him as a child; he’d gone through the mill and come out cracked. For a long time he'd been fragile, laced with fissures invisible to the naked eye. Still he pressed on. Hope and reason were tied to creating worlds of words and pictures. It was both an escape from and an expression of his condition.

Back in his room, he began to put away his hope and ready himself for bed. A long day had passed. The magic of the Moon was nearly forgotten. Perhaps the notion of improving the present or having the future he’d long desired was best not pursued. Perhaps he’d sleep without vision or memory and put off this nonsense, until it was finally forgotten. At least he’d had the satisfaction of dabbling in his dreams.

When the lights went out, he was hidden safely beneath the blanket of a listless slumber. The minutes added up to hours and passed indifferently. The room was quiet. Even the katydids stopped their endless humming and turned a chitinous ear to the muted stars.

How he came to stand by the window with eyes wide and breathing slowed to a crawl, he was unaware. She was coming toward him, her white dress billowing in the twilight breeze. Her skin was pale and glowed like the Moon. She smiled and spoke delicately in a voice that was lost behind the window pane. He leaned forward as if to read her lips…that’s when he awoke.

To be continued

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What Dreams are Made Of_Part 0ne: The Moon

The gravel pushed rudely beneath his heels as he climbed the last few steps toward the peak of the old hill. He could see for miles. Silhouettes of trees and the forests that embraced them swayed gently near the horizon. He was tired but not spent; energy bristled through his limbs like water through a bed of stones. It was just an illusion, of course. Time could halt without warning. It was often hard to tell if the journey was a gain or loss. It felt like both.

The air was warm. Dry leaves scattered in the exhale of the Moon. He looked down deeply into the valley of his discontent. Shadows hid most of his secret regrets, except for the few that were edged in pallid light; they still pulled at his heart. A flock of blackbirds danced above. The long grass whispered to the wind. With eyes closed, chin to chest; breath held in defiantly, a heavy emptiness slowly overwhelmed his senses.

The Moon: how he longed to be there. It was waiting like a promise in the sky; too far away to touch yet close enough to let you feel its disappointment. It hung on silver threaded beams, like a perfect pearl among the diamonds, beckoning.

It was then in a lingering moment of self-pity and despair that a plan began to form. He felt it pour into his mind. It was like liquid light. His arms stretched involuntarily skyward. The answer was delivered in music; it was painted in oils; it was the sliver of an idea wrapped in words. So simple, no wonder it had never occurred to him before. Brushing aside conventional questions, he started back down the old hill. He could hardly wait to set himself to the task.

 To be continued.

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