I had a dream last night that I was the sole passenger on a train — A train that ran on no track. I only realized it when we passed through a place I wasn’t expecting. “This isn’t on the route”, I thought. I then noticed the train was free-falling down a steep slope. I was petrified. To my amazement, the unseen engineer skillfully navigated a sharp right turn onto an old trolley track, And we descended a curving road paved with Belgian block. The ride down was rough, but as we reached the bottom, we slid comfortably onto level ground. Then I watched with disbelief as the train coasted through a forbidding gate — The guard standing sentinel smiled and waved us through as if we were expected. I finally understood that this chaotic journey had been carefully orchestrated: The route without a track was exactly how I was supposed to reach my destination.
It’s true that the mercurial twists and turns of my life have often scared and perplexed me. I learned long ago to work with whatever tools are available to me in the moment, without attachment, Trusting that, somehow, it will lead me to my next step. When the tool inevitably breaks and the moment ends, I’ve never hesitated to take the next turn, the next bend, the next exit — To my mind, I’ve never had a choice. To those outside my train, it must look confusing and erratic. I’ve become used to the looks of bewilderment, the remarks of scorn and ridicule. What people have yet to comprehend is that this is the future planned for all of us: The tracks that were long ago laid are being actively dismantled and destroyed. No longer will we have the luxury of following a prescribed route in comfort — We must now learn to trust the wisdom of irrational guidance. Buckle up.
It’s one of those weird moments when I walk into a room after something awful has happened, but I don’t know what.
I see a few strangers standing in the corners, glancing at each other nervously and speaking in hushed tones.
The familiar faces are nowhere to be found. But even in their absence, I can feel the tension in the pit of my stomach.
I’m not part of any clique, and I keep to myself. I’m always the last to know about anything, if I ever know about it at all.
I’ve spent my life as an oblivious outsider — my only companion is my angel.
Through trial and error, we’ve developed a seamless form of communication. Something isn’t right, I’ll think to myself. “Time to go”, he whispers in confirmation.
I used to be scared by the uncertainty: he never tells me where we’re going next, and there’s usually some lingering sadness or guilt. Often a lot. We always end up in a better place, though.
Sometimes — years later, perhaps — an unbelievable quirk in the matrix will reveal to me what actually happened. Not the surface event necessarily, but the underlying truth of it. I have insane luck in that regard.
Oh, now I get it, I tell my guy, as I tuck the wisdom in my soul.
And here I am again, standing by myself in a dark space where life has suddenly gone absent. “Time to go”, he tells me.
It was a dreary summer morning: overcast, not as hot as it could be, muggy, lifeless, and boring as hell.
I lined up several buckets of silty water on the edge of the creek. My feet sank into the mud, with globs of dark sand coating my sandals. I tried to avoid the giant piles of goose shit, but there was so much of it that I quickly gave up.
The creek cut through the city like a sewer — smelled like one, too. The banks were covered with urban refuse: clothing, old furniture, car bumpers, that sort of thing. The water was clear, but it must have been incredibly toxic, because I never saw any fish in it.
Most days when I worked at the creek, a resident flock of Canadian geese would scatter across the surface of the water and fuss at me from a safe distance. They were gone that morning, though — the droppings and feathers on the ground let me know they had recently passed through.
Pulling water from the creek was sort of fun when I first started the job, but it quickly became routine drudgery. It wasn’t the filling part that was bad, but hauling those heavy buckets up the granite steps from the creek to the top of the bank.
I got slower and wearier with each visit, taking my sweet time and frequently stopping for breaks. No one from my work helped me or even checked in to see what I was doing, so what did it matter?
The creek was low that morning: there was a drop of a good foot or more from the bottom step to the sandbar, which was usually submerged in water. That made the trek up the steps particularly grueling, and I took more breaks than usual.
At some point, a hazy figure appeared in my periphery. I glanced up the slope to see a man in a dark shirt and blue jeans, likely in his 30s, stepping off a bicycle. From a distance, he looked like a typical urban dweller out for a morning bike ride. Probably from a nearby apartment building, I quickly decided.
As I walked up the steps with a bucket in each hand, the man took off his backpack and laid it beside his bicycle, rummaging through the bag slowly and deliberately.
Up close, my perception of him changed. His clothes were clean and form-fitting, his hair was neat and short, but his face was worn, sunburned, with several days’ growth of dirty blonde stubble. He had the grim expression of a drifter who lived hard and toiled much.
He muttered something to himself as I looked ahead and said nothing. Further away, I shifted my eyes in his direction for a moment and had the distinct impression that he was doing the same to me. I can usually sum up a person to my satisfaction within a second or two, but everything about this man confused me.
I was surprised that I had no fear of him, but my defenses were still raised from hardened experience, checking for any sudden movements or strange behavior. I readied myself for the typical sob story and request for money.
I walked back down the steps a few minutes later, and the guy was standing at the water’s edge, barefoot, with his shoes in hand, carefully shaking dirt out of them.
I said nothing as I stood beside him, grabbed the two remaining buckets, and walked away. His backpack was sitting on the steps, unzipped; it was faded but clean — cleaner than the bag I carried — and appeared neatly packed with folded clothes.
At the top of the steps, I looked down and saw the guy pouring water on his face and soaking his hair. Jesus, I wonder if he’s going to bathe there, I thought with a twinge of sadness. I stayed away for a few minutes to give him some privacy.
When I returned, he was at the top of the steps again, standing by the bicycle and wringing out a shirt that he had presumably soaked in the creek. I lined up all my buckets again on the sandbar and began refilling them.
“Hey, man”, he called from the top of the steps.
Here it comes, I thought.
“Can you fill this bottle for me from the creek?” he said with a slight drawl, holding out a container in my direction.
“Sure”, I said automatically, running up the steps to grab it from his hand. I was both perplexed by his request and my willingness to help.
The bottle was made of thick glass and appeared quite clean. I dutifully unscrewed the lid and dunked the container in the water, listening to the glub glub glub as I avoided touching the rim.
Is this guy going to drink this shit?, I thought. Why am I even doing this?
I pulled the bottle out and inspected the contents — the water looked perfectly clean and clear.
I darted back up the steps and handed the bottle to him.
“Thanks,” he said. “That water is nasty as hell, but I need it to cool off during the day.”
“Yeah”, I responded with a nervous chuckle, trying to sound genial.
“So what are you doing with all those buckets?” he asked.
“I’m watering the trees”, I said.
“Oh, gotcha. You’re working here.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
He placed the water bottle in the backpack, zipped it up, and hopped back on the bicycle. I didn’t notice when he rode away.
As I was refilling the buckets, I spotted a tiny fish — no bigger than one of my fingers — darting through the water.
The fish swam right up to the surface, and for several minutes we both stared at each other, peering into each other’s world through the glassy barrier of the water.
I search the streets in darkness for my friend The one who met me in a dream
We gave our names in a handshake of agreement A promising future ensured
When I broke from the group I saw my friend in shadows Silent and cloaked A soul apart
We began to share freely The warmth of light glowed between us
The cloak fell away My friend’s countenance changed We saw each other clearly Our hopes and fears laid bare
Now in the thick of night I wander the streets Observing signs and patterns Looking for my friend
But signs and patterns, I have learned, are often illusion Dreams, I must admit, are so very much too
What nook of this vast city harbors my friend? Our paths did not cross at the evening play, Nor the midnight show with a dozen dozing spectators
A card on the ground shows seven diamonds A sign of success? A reminder for patience? The meaning for my soul is unclear
Yet meaning does not exist, my mind tells me As a drunk girl crouches and pisses on the path ahead Are we not all animals wallowing in chaos?
Two young men dash up the street as if in a play Acting out a fight for my amusement “Help!” one cries in my direction, the other throwing mock punches They laugh and whisper as I shuffle past, ignoring the spectacle
Now a man in a thong bikini dances wildly in the street I walk past silently, too bemused for judgment My presence startles him
“You scared me,” the man tells me “How is that?” I ask “I didn’t know I had an audience.”
My coffee high wanes I wander to the river The sun rises early but light is obscured by haze Clarity eludes
I sit beneath a tree and watch old men cast poles into the water The night, I reflect, has been a short, strange dream But my friend has yet to find me
I close my eyes and wonder Must I wander the streets alone again?
So many years I stumbled in nights of silence Through empty towns and hostile country Terrain far more menacing than here
Here in darkness a play unfolds around me A character at every corner A story on each block
Happy endings are a delusion — Those who wish for them are mental infants.
The best you can hope for is a sense of closure: Some satisfying bookend to the dying tome; A swift and merciful pivot to the new work at hand.
But even closure comes so infrequently — so rarely — That when it does the resolution is a revelation, And not, I must note, without its own attending pains.
My heart was shred to pieces when I was pushed from the garden, Or more truthfully, the core of my delusions was demolished.
Seven years I nested in a cocoon of my own weaving. A full year followed in silent mourning.
In secret moments the lash of anger convulsed my body. In darkness I shed tears, Languishing the fate of my creation.
What would become of my children: The plants, the flowers, the trees, the vines?
I grew them, I lamented. I nurtured them. I was the tenderer. They were my legacy.
What of the birds and squirrels, The butterflies, lizards, and bees? The friendly possum, the bumbling armadillo, The haunting owl sheltered in the branches?
In hindsight, I was a magician of reckless arrogance; A Jupiter ego drunk on newborn power, Unchecked by the grace of Saturnian wisdom, Wholly unacquainted with holiness.
With fits and fumbles in those fledgling days I fulfilled the role of eager apprentice; Mistaking myself as master, Intoxicated by my newfound powers.
In the imprint of Gaia The spirits of the trees and plants went forth: They spread their tendrils and their branches — I shaped their destinies with tender pruning.
That, at least, was my illusion.
Dark dreams would sometimes visit me: Visions of the garden cut down, dismembered, The trees mutilated and removed; The animals dispersed and destroyed.
On my return, I was dismayed to find the nightmares manifest: A pile of stumps, discarded, Plants usurped by man-sized weeds; Limbs ripped from their bodies like severed arteries.
The latent anger lashed inside me: The fiery rage that shrieks for revenge, Unquenched by the waters of retribution.
In defiance, I began the work of restoration: A compulsion at first, then a humble reckoning. The man’s destruction, I had to concede, was complete — I could not reverse the damage.
I could only offer an apology to the land for my reckless ways: A plea for mercy on behalf of myself and my kin, Aware of the violence borne of my own ignorance, Planted by the seeds of my foolish arrogance.
In the act of repentance, I broke from the old path: The former route no longer served me. Wisdom and temperance had become my teachers.
Many were lost in the destruction; yet others survived. The fate of those left behind is not mine to determine; They remain my pride and joy.
A person from the old life saw me — Called me by a name I no longer know.
Go tell the tribe, old stranger, Tell them what you’ve seen. They will tsk and tut, as is their nature. It no longer matters to me.
Their vision is compromised, Their illusions betray them. They think themselves saviors; They hasten their own demise.
Once, many years ago, they inquired of my future plans And my mind had no ready answer. “Something larger”, I finally said, from the quiet of my soul. They were unmoved.
When love later detonated — as it so often does — at an unexpected intersection I saw myself entwined in a distant canyon; The pure light of eros beaming from heaven.
“With the power inside of me I could change the world”, I said, My body rising toward the darkened sky.
“But I want more.”
Mercury delivered a belated warning, And I was pulled to the ground like a helpless child. My power is great — I now know it — but my capacity has necessary limits.
I am, like every being, a tiny drop, a momentary vapor. Sharpened by the edge of humility, My limits are now my joy.
The head of the tree is buried in the earth: Chop off its legs and new ones appear. “No more cuts,” Wisdom tells me plainly — “Those days are behind you.”
“Do not force your will; do not violate the land with your ignorance.” Even a shovel entering the ground is an act of violence: An arrogant impulse of the deluded mind that believes it knows best — Yet knows nothing at all.
How joyous it is in this moment to live as a shadow — A mist drifting with the gentle breath of grace. A daily half-step in darkness; An occasional glimpse into the realm beyond mere sight.
The staff is planted, The call has been raised, The far-off journey beckons.
We see the distant castles, their joyous peaks. How we get from this moment to that one is a mystery. How we meet in our weaving and wandering is yet to be written.
Our ancestors of yore whisper in dreams, The angels and mentors guide us with visions. “Go forth swiftly and secretly”, they say. “Plant your seeds gently throughout the land.”
