Awakening

One minute we are there, and then we are here. That time it takes to change from a then to a now, is it part of the present or the past? Or is that time, lost for all eternity? 

The prospect of having missed something, possibly life altering, or even in that moment of careless abandon where you just say to yourself, “to hell with it,” and close your eyes and hope to regain the vision of a calm sea at midnight, won't abandon you. But that time, does not occur, for if it did you would have lost one more physical tie to a world that is slipping from your grasp, but remains within reach of, “not caring to become involved.”

I do not remember my dreams for the most part. Oh yes, the occasional reoccurring race through eternal darkness, being chased by my latest version of desperation that sprung from an indecisive moment, when I failed to believe in myself. I am never caught, as I know only too well, that I would do nothing in the way of retribution, as the action would infer guilt in some measure, and I attempt to avoid guilt, even in my dreams.

I have succumbed to the indecisiveness of the dark side however, attested to by a recording machine I left by accident, I presume, turned on. It managed to record an entanglement I had with a fellow victim of hesitancy. Our exchange was clear although I had not realized my voice has a certain tinniness to it, when I am tentative.

I should explain, as my dreams, although my own, are not held hostage for the sake of exclusion. 

I, we, were standing on the corner of a non-descript street, below a lamp pole whose worldly globe had been disassociated from pristineness by an object, no doubt, not intended to roam the same realm. The light therefore was prejudiced against the dark in that it refracted, rather than reflected its purpose into disorganized rays of illumination, causing a distempering atmosphere for those with its immediate reign.

I attempted to introduce myself to the vision of a man standing in my presence, but found I was unable to speak. My utterances, more a wild animals attempt at communication than one I had nurtured over the years, was received as expected by it moving a few steps away from me. My attempts to apologize went unappreciated as he moved even further into the broken darkness.

As I stood wondering what would come next, when a hot air balloon filled with escapees from the mortuary sailed by. Their balloon, an array of rainbow ends, highlighted by a hellish fire from below. I waved, but they pretended not to see me, or possibly that I no longer existed. 

As I watched the balloon, the man adjacent to me moved closer, to get a better look I assume. He placed his hand on my shoulder freezing me immediately, as I do not like being touched in any manner by strangers, I do not know. He smiled and pointed to the balloon, as the first of its passengers fell like a sawdust stuffed angel from the darkness and landed in the street before us. I was beginning to show some concern apparently, as he removed his hand, literally, tipped his hat, and disappeared.  

I assumed he had somewhere else he needed to be, and let the episode, evaporate in his memory. I remembered the distraction in the street and looked to see if I could be of any assistance, which is not my normal reaction. The vision in black who had appeared and then disappeared, was helping the escapee down the street. He had apparently injured his foot as he was emitting a stream of sawdust from his shoe, which turned immediately to silver, or what resembled those replicas of musket shot people sprinkle on birthday cakes in an effort to deter gluttonous inclinations of those of fleeting will.

They disappeared into the darkness, now backlit by fireworks, explosions left over from the previous cancelled Fourth of July celebration. Some of the explosions reminded me of the war for independence, but it could also have been a notion implanted by the marching band that passed, playing the Star-Spangled Banner, in Korean. 

I heard an explosion behind me, which I believed had no relevance to the war overhead. As I turned, I found a man I knew from the Chinese Laundry down the street, on his knees before me, asking, “could you forgive yourself if my life depended upon it?”

This is the moment I usually wake up, not remembering, and for good reason. Carrying one nightmare back to another nightmare has been determined, I believe by Al Capone, to be taxable in more ways than one. 

But I remained, the Asian kneeler before me, his Japanese words burning into my soul, and an urgency to leave, dissipating. Being indecisive in life can be disadvantageous, but in repose, it becomes too illuminating to simply ignore. Even though I had no idea what he was praying for or to, assuming it wasn’t me, and being normally polite to the point of ad nauseum, I pretended I hadn’t heard him. 

He looked at me with tears in his eyes and repeated the invasive question. This time I could not ignore his request as he held both my hands and began to sing a Tibetan lullaby I remembered from childhood. It referenced moon beams, evolutionary dust, and the right of all the stars in the universe, to belong. 

I realized what he was attempting to solicit from my memory, a chance at redemption, his I assumed, not mine, as I have given up on being redeemed or even recycled, at least at this point in my life. He appeared to forgive me as he let go of my hands, and ascended into the splintered light above. 

No sooner had he disappeared, than the man in black returned, his pockets budging with I could only assume were musket balls of silver, as the toe of a familiar shoe protruded from his pocket. He then asks, like I’m an answering machine, “Did you happen to see a small Asian man carrying a bag of laundry?”

I didn’t know how to answer, feeling it was none of my concern, but also being compelled to help in the only way an indecisive person can, stall. “I believe he went,” I pointed up, and as we both looked up as a package fell from the sky. It was wrapped in a worn grocery bag, tied with an old shoe lace, and was addressed to me. 

The man in black looked unsurprised, as if this kind of occurrence happened often to him. “Open it,” he demanded, picking the package from the street, and pushing it against my heart. I had really no choice but to dispel my anxiety, and having run out of diversions that would come anywhere close to that dropped by the disappearing Asian man, I tore open the bundle.

There were several kimonos in white, a pair of sandals, and a note. The note was written in a hand I did not recognize, but it mattered not. I seemed to understand the meaning although the words looked like the remains of a game of pick-up-sticks run amok. 

I don’t know if it was because of the fireworks, the war, the resulting Constitution, or the fact that I’ve always felt a certain fondness for Ben Franklin, but I understood.  The meaning embedded itself in me like an Afghan word wheel, blown to infinity by an explosion of destiny. The note read, “All men are created equal." And then as if an after thought, "What happened?” 

I woke up to my surprise, dressed in a white kimono. The head of a dragon attempting to swallow its own tail had been embroidered on the sleeve. It caused me to want to go back to sleep and find out if George W, Washington, not the other one, had actually won the war for our independence, or had it been a fable passed down to us to keep us entertained, by our own nature.