I was a thousand metres above sea level near a prehistoric lake and the moon was so close and bright I had to turn my head away to fall asleep. And sometime between the 8th and 9th of April, as I crammed my legs into the back of the Jeep, I dreamt of my hair falling off and my face breaking up, and I was coughing up a glob of something very dark: like congealed blood.
I had blood cancer and it wasn’t heroic, and there were administration problems in the hospital, or something like that. But I did wake up and turn away from the moon, and might have even looked around for the fox I had heard hours ago, in the evening, barking above Ala. But foxes cough, and I never did see this one.
I had stared at the moon in 2001 and had stopped dead in my tracks on Juhu Beach, trying to soak it all up. It was the year I had lost myself somewhere between insomnia and sleep, and knew that nothing could ever make it better.
from www.Pinaki.info
6 Comments
Had to read it many times to decipher where the dream and where reality was. It reminded me of a recent nightmare where a friend was spitting moss from inside the window of an overturned car. Just like then, today my blood froze again. Some would believe that being a poet would provoke dreams and not nightmares in magical sceneries lit by an equally enchanting full moon and deliciously haunted by rambling wild canines. But being a different poet can produce a dream out of the nightmare, too. Obviously. Hmmm. Thanks for the morning goose bumps.
so maybe this is the closure to 2001…
you`ve spat it up and finished with it , under the same moon glow.
admin hosp probs? noone can help you except yrself and you can do it.. hozzat for armchair amateur analyzing!!?? seriously, just kidding!
Staring at the moon is not so good then
Nice armchair, Reeth. Hi to Anila too, and all the deliciously add-soaked minds at home. We know they’re the best kind. Spitting it out reminds me of Eliot. I was keeping that for another post but you beat me to it. Unless you didn’t know it when you said it, and it’s alright then.
Nancy, I notice you’ve mentioned spitting too. There seems to be a connection here. I wonder what Vanda has to say. Do mermaids spit? Nice goosebumps though. See you in Gabon. When’re you inviting me to Masirah? Slowpoke.
Karma, sometimes I sits and thinks.
Yeap, definitely a “spitting” connection, Pinaki
And given your recent curiosity about mermaids (I’m methodically avoiding the word “obsession”) I think you should contact and meet Vanda ASAP. But then again… you may detest the sea altogether after that. So, please, I beg of you, stay away from everything sea-relevant and keep enchanting mountains and mountain plateaus, canines, dinner tables, foxes, beautiful cats and everything else beautiful or not. The more I think of it, the more I think you’ll hate Masirah. But you’re invited anyways, whenever you like.
I think often our dreams and our reactions to them should be separated. I get the feeling here of something ending and a new beginning. a resistance to the new beginning in the hospital admin etc. Dreaming of sickness might mean a new period of rejuvenation ahead. A glob of blood, something that needs to be said, a creative action, maybe in posting this story and photo it came to fruition for you.
That tree looks like a pyre, dying(no pun intended) to be set alight.
Imagine the fantastic fire, and imagine yourself, a part of yourself that only you can know about, soaring as a phoenix from the flames.