i woke up in cold sweats, head pounding for many mornings in a row..
i think today is the third day..
but today i’m going to wash it off, wish it off…
change it- tabula rasa- purify.
my dream:
i look out the east balcony doors.
a low dark line looms on the horizon
heavy black clouds rumbling with harsh purpose and intent..
a funnel descends from the lowest edge,
its circumfrence is enormous..
it moves inexorably towards us
as we frantically scramble to bring loose objects inside
and tie anything down that might become a flying hazard..
barricade ourselves inside..
then..
i am sitting on the warm grass in an english orchard..
i can see the rolling hills from here
and feel the sun on my eyelids..
lying next to me is an ascetic, a fakir..
he is from here- his skin is pale,
speckled with white scars from his bed of nails-
he is old- but his skin is still taut- papery..
his eyes are palest blue and alive..
his hair is white, intricately braided in buns close to his skull..
these painful hives of hair have been growing for years..
i can tell he secretly wants me to cut them off,
but would never say so..
i ask him why he does the things he does..
this self-mortification of the body, for the elevation of the mind..
he makes me want to tempt him with red apples..
i say to him, “everything in moderation-
i am temperance-
you are the hanged man.”
he tells his name is liliane.
it seems this is the only time i actually heard him speak..
i want him to tell me
where desire begins
and where it ends.
at the tone, the time will be..1..2..3..
wake up.