“I met this guy — and he looked like he might have been a hat check clerk at an ice rink. Which, in fact, he turned out to be. And I said: Oh boy. Right again. Let X = X. You know, it could be you. It’s a sky blue sky. Satellites are out tonight. Let X = X... And I gotta go. Cause I — I feel — feel like — I am — in a burning building — and I gotta go...” — Let X = X, Laurie Anderson
Nothing is more annoying than reading a story all the way through, gasping, only to have the narrator declare at the end that it was a dream. How cheesy is that? Like a lump of hot that could have been really delicious, but is now queasy and uneasy. Ashamed to eat it, not knowing how to tame its leakage or manipulate its stringy rebellion, there can be any number of responses. What is certain is that each one is more painful than the last. So I announce at the beginning: This is a dream. And it is not even my dream. It’s just a dream.
At see, afloat sitting on a rock pretending to be a lifeboat magic carpet raft. Clouds and breezes and the songs of wild birds punctuate the surround. And shells and bones and little rocks dance on the waves. At times there is a voice, almost silent and totally random. It is perfect. Heaven is not a place after all.
But perhaps it is a spiral reaching inward, watching watchers watch improbably. And outward, beyond idiographic. Like this.
You see: Lying on the outside, the rock opens a door. Here viewing finds format in the form of an odalisque looking up. She sees the rock in the sky, first far away. Then larger it becomes, slowly in process of filling the sky. She has a vague sense that larger might mean closer. And there emerges a vague prudent memory that closer heavy rock in descent is danger. What is danger? Does that mean that someone else would hold the dreaming? Who?
The speculation is like a soothing panegyric.
Who fabricates the hand, larger than rock or sky, that reaches in and stops the falling? Who writes the scene change?
Now she is a little girl, age less than two digits. The same breeze is breezing. No longer odalisque, she is wearing a yellow coat, yellow as her hair that streams, waving, in the familiar breeze. The coat has a white collar with a bit of embroidered edging to match the edging on the matching white ankle socks inside the black patent leather shining. Conspicuously, if one were able to enter her, there would be no words to be found. No stepping, no glancing, no touching, no tasting, no scent on the blowing breeze.
No thing to hear here.
And around her neck was her favorite scarf. It was very long and very narrow and very thin: Just right for a breeze. On its whiteness were blue roses, one after the other dancing in full bloom. All this delighted the child.
And the wind was delighted as well. He wrapped tentative non-fingers around the cloth, seducing.
No longer fabric, but now diaphanous and ethereal, the woven blooms sailed. The girl seemed to watch.
Soon, like Leda dropped by the swan, it was scarf again. Still. Delicate, but on the rock. And the girl did not know why she merely walked on. It would have been so easy to bend and reach and pick up.
But she simply crossed the street.
Let X = X. ¦
— Rx is the FloridaWeekly muse who hopes to inspire profound mutiny in all those who care to read. Our Rx may be wearing a pirate cloak of invisibility, but emanating from within this shadow is hope that readers will feel free to respond. Who knows: You may even inspire the muse. Make contact if you dare.