Updated: Oct 14, 2019
Could you put as much effort as you do into pick-up lines for our break-up goodbye? Call them “put-down” lines, just as hopeful and precarious in their composition and delivery, but tailored for your graceful exit from my mind’s eye.
I wonder the plausibility of continual dreamscape travel in familiar territory, a place that escapes seasonality and whose climate shifts remarkably through time of day and distance of miles.
There is a fine, but definite demarcation between the dream network and the earthly realm. Though tempting to fuse, their rates of motion through time and space would prove disastrous. On the dream plateau, there is no linear time for it exists in a dimension of potential without the kinetic drive that allows for cause and effect. It is a world useful for reflection and meditation, but distressingly incompatible with solid states whose purpose relies on multiplication or division through function of time.
Creative beings learn how to move steadily on earth and allow dreamscapes, weightless blimps, to trail ethereally above us.
The monkey wizard awaits me at the gate. His call to fame is his power of suggestion, often overshadowed by the assertiveness of his uncertainty. I can rest assured that because of him, there is somebody who can both out-intellectualize and out-crazy me, so the responsibility of upholding that title can go to him. He can act as beloved wizard, but underneath he is a sweet monkey king.
To him, I may be a goddess or a crybaby, which seem to bear the same significance in monkey business. The fact that he can break away from mind clutter to observe and name something of intrigue is a feat in itself. His craft is in his hands, their constant tinkering on keys, strings, flora, you-name-it, everything within reach in dreams and on earth, in persistent effort to catch up with the cosmic pace of his mind. If you shall ever meet him, don’t take offense to remarks strangely slipped in his attempt to apply logic to poetry. Style in the craft of words is not one we share.
What we do share is the ability to cohabitate dreamscapes, pushing against the edges of worlds, testing the boundaries of what we choose to create. We make berries in my kitchen. Satisfyingly ripe for the spur of the moment, a savory tart pairing to our dinner.
He is one of my favorites because he inspires challenges to prove what is worth fighting for. And at times, worth not fighting for.
Like when he says, “I’m sorry that you love me.”
I could respond, “I’m sorry you’re frustrated with yourself,” but wouldn’t that be fuel for the fire? Wouldn’t it send us into a tailspin of blame, an argument for the sake of having an argument, to live out a lifetime of play-fighting in a matter of minutes, our egotism intensifying into a seated shouting match across the table just to release what cannot be released in put-down lines?
I’m not sorry that I love him. He is frustrating, but most things worthwhile in their natural aesthetics or function are complex, captivating and bewildering to the senses.
The challenge: choose to keep the peace.
There is little to hold us accountable for what we say in times likes this, times of transition and change, a forced acceptance of the limitations of earthly existence. Whatever bubbles forth from agitation will only serve as a diversion from the undeniable aftermath of dream cessation, when we re-enter the tunnels, transport into separate times, his crafty hands will leave with him, and I will be left to shoulder the full weight of my optimism.
I sit in silence, memorizing his face, celebrating it the way I like to imagine he does mine when he names me, goddess or otherwise. There is a difference in the way his eyelids droop, from work or from play, and in the way his lip corners perk depending on where I plant a wake-up kiss. The brightness in his gaze flourishes or diminishes depending on the distance we have till goodbye.
I memorize his face because it is one that has not yet disappointed. It is one who keeps his word and one who shows up, even though there will be no place on earth to share for a while. These worlds of the earth and of dreams provide responsibilities and rewards mutually exclusive.
The challenge: Keep dreaming, but tend to the responsibilities of the earth. Dream berries only taste as good as their earthly counterparts that provide us a frame of reference. Also, don’t tell people about the dream berries. They’ll mistake imagination for schizophrenia.
I eventually say, “If I go crazy, I will go crazy doing the things I love.”
Behind his copper-wired glasses and hair a handsome mess, my monkey beams back in agreement.