The light and color of the raw tattoo gently expanded and contracted. Imperceptible at first, he thought it simply the byproduct of his throbbing mind. But, no, the markings moved, were alive and moved with the rhythmic regularity of a heart beat. Slow. Slow. Slow. The red and oranges and yellows and whites blurred and mixed, then separated and regained their definition. The bird seemed to slowly, gently beat it's wings with each pulse. It was alive, distinct from him.
His mouth was agape, but the mouth in the mirror gently smiled back. He raised his eyes in alarm, but the calm face in the mirror remained placid, unmoved. The eyes glimmered love and the mouth spoke:
I have called you. Hear my words.
It wasn't sound. It was noiseless, but it penetrated him, went straight to his mind. It was pure. It bypassed the filters of ears and senses. The Word made him gently shake. Each Word carried with it a wave of love. An overwhelming onslaught of tenderness and compassion that understood him completely, had known him since before there was time. As it embraced him, he could see himself, drawn in to everything that was and ever would be. Loved as a part, an essential part, of the Whole.
The bird burst forth into flame. Again it pulsed. White became whiter with each successive wave, purer and purer, whiter and whiter and whiter. With each wave of brilliance, he could feel his body melting away, absorbing the light until he was one with the purity, one with the Light. There were no words now. Images moved before him as language. Perfect in their completeness. Perfect in their meaning. Perfect in their comprehension.
Before him was a great and ancient tree. A tree of untold years of permanence. At the base, the right half of the tree grew before him, green and strong, ever growing, ever expanding, ever moving skyward. Each bud sprouted forth and turned into leaves. Each branch multiplied and multiplied again without end.
At the base, the left half of the tree was dark and charred and dying. The leaves were brown and devoid of nutrients. They fell, rained continuously on the ground, each fallen leaf covering the resting place of the leaf that had fallen before it. Each leaf quickly decomposed and absorbed into the earth like a fresh snow on sunlit ground.
As he looked upward the tree twisted around itself chaotically; ever growing, ever dying.
The voice filled him again and commanded him:
Climb.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Friday, April 1, 2011
1
" Then said I, Woe is me! for I am undone; because I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips: for mine eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts."
Peter Sherman awoke in a fog. Ripped from the dreams of a young man, disoriented by the patterns of school friends and parents as they dissolved and gave way to a new world. His body ached. He was lying on a hard surface that he did not remember or recognize. He was aware of people passing by him, walking by him, looking down. Some incredulous, some utterly indifferent. Foreign faces. Whispers in an unknown tongue. His body ached, the hard surface he lay on did not help either. His brothers, Teague and Allen were nowhere to be seen. His chest really hurt, sore and throbbing. He looked down to see small drops of blood on the front of his light blue buttoned up shirt. A shirt he had never worn before and did not recognize. He closed his eyes a moment, quite sure that when he opened them again, the landscape would become familiar to him again. He had done this before on vacations, awaking in some strange hotel. Just a few moments and the mind would catch up to where his body was. The foreign nature would slowly transform into the solid landscape of the familiar. Oh, that's right, I'm on vacation. We got in late to the hotel. Dad laid me down on the bed. The bathroom is on the right, oh yes, now I remember.
But this time was different. The unfamiliarity would not dissolve. The landscape would not come to be defined by a recognizable point of reference.
A panic now arose in the stomach.
He sat up, the blood running painfully to his swollen mind. A few muffled chuckles could be heard. He would stand up slowly, he told himself. There was a bathroom over to the side of the hallway that he was lying in. Not really a hallway, it was open, there was sunlight, but there were walls on either side of him and a mesh covering as a roof. But of all the foreign signs that he saw around him, it was that universal symbol for man and woman that caught his attention and he would go there first. He took a moment. Acting as natural as he possibly could, even as the eyes stared at him, he looked around him. Yes, I overslept. Yes, I meant to be here. I'm just going to get up and pretend that I know where I'm going. The bathroom, of course. He noticed now that he had been lying on a wooden bench, no back. A series of similar, uniform benches surrounded him, upon which others sat. Some as families, some alone. A few empty. The wall next to him was indeed a long wall which surrounded a small building, but the wall on the far side was a railing and on the other side of the railing was a lake. He was in a park, it seemed. A mesh sunscreen above him. It was actually pleasant. It was actually a nice day.
He picked up the small black bag that lay next to him. His bag? He didn't recognize it, but it was pressed up against his left thigh. For some reason, it felt like his. His chest burned now. With each movement, twist in his body, a fresh wave of pain radiated from his chest.
He stood up gingerly and with all his energy focused on remaining as stable as possible, walked slowly to the symbol for man.
The heavy door resisted and groaned as he leaned in to open it. It was dimly lit and the stale smell of urine immediately greeted him. A few empty stalls on the left, a trough-style metal urinal on the right. There seemed to be a narrow hallway immediately to his right to which he proceeded. A dark shadow was walking toward him through the hallway. He stopped a moment to let the shadow past, but the shadow stopped as well. They regarded each other for a moment. A dirty man in shambled clothes, greasy, unkempt hair and a half exposed chest. The revelation startled him and he took a half step back as did the man. The man who stared at him through the mirror.
Looking through the glass, he recognized his eyes if nothing else. A weather-beaten face looked to be about thirty. Creases in his forehead, ripples of sorrows and joys wore the alabaster skin of his youth. Dirt and layers of filth told of uncounted hours on uncharted paths. He raised his hands to his face and saw a maze of tattoos from his arms all the way to his hands. Blue and red ink spilling down his fingers. Closing his eyes, he exhaled slowly. He enjoyed for this brief moment a feeling of calm, an armistice from the battle tearing in his mind. He still felt lightheaded, and this comforted him. It could still be a dream. He closed his eyes even tighter but the darkness could not mask the stench of his surroundings. The wrestle between what he knew to be true and what he perceived through his senses could not be held at bay. He knew they would soon vie as he opened his eyes.
And so the lids of his eyes parted. He saw now the cause of the pain on his chest. Red and orange and yellow and white seemed to pour out of his unbuttoned blue shirt. A fresh tattoo from just below his neckline down to the bottom of his rib cage. A fiery bird, wings thrown full forward, neck and head and beak and talons all converging on a single point. A dazzling display of colors, white to yellow to orange to red to violet. Each feather a distinct shade, clearer and more brilliant as it approached the focal point, darker and obscured as it fanned out. It seemed as if the bird, like light itself, would impale it full force and being upon this point; break through or destroy itself in the attempt. It was clear and vivid and alive.
The discomfort, filth and confusion fled from him.
Peter Sherman awoke in a fog. Ripped from the dreams of a young man, disoriented by the patterns of school friends and parents as they dissolved and gave way to a new world. His body ached. He was lying on a hard surface that he did not remember or recognize. He was aware of people passing by him, walking by him, looking down. Some incredulous, some utterly indifferent. Foreign faces. Whispers in an unknown tongue. His body ached, the hard surface he lay on did not help either. His brothers, Teague and Allen were nowhere to be seen. His chest really hurt, sore and throbbing. He looked down to see small drops of blood on the front of his light blue buttoned up shirt. A shirt he had never worn before and did not recognize. He closed his eyes a moment, quite sure that when he opened them again, the landscape would become familiar to him again. He had done this before on vacations, awaking in some strange hotel. Just a few moments and the mind would catch up to where his body was. The foreign nature would slowly transform into the solid landscape of the familiar. Oh, that's right, I'm on vacation. We got in late to the hotel. Dad laid me down on the bed. The bathroom is on the right, oh yes, now I remember.
But this time was different. The unfamiliarity would not dissolve. The landscape would not come to be defined by a recognizable point of reference.
A panic now arose in the stomach.
He sat up, the blood running painfully to his swollen mind. A few muffled chuckles could be heard. He would stand up slowly, he told himself. There was a bathroom over to the side of the hallway that he was lying in. Not really a hallway, it was open, there was sunlight, but there were walls on either side of him and a mesh covering as a roof. But of all the foreign signs that he saw around him, it was that universal symbol for man and woman that caught his attention and he would go there first. He took a moment. Acting as natural as he possibly could, even as the eyes stared at him, he looked around him. Yes, I overslept. Yes, I meant to be here. I'm just going to get up and pretend that I know where I'm going. The bathroom, of course. He noticed now that he had been lying on a wooden bench, no back. A series of similar, uniform benches surrounded him, upon which others sat. Some as families, some alone. A few empty. The wall next to him was indeed a long wall which surrounded a small building, but the wall on the far side was a railing and on the other side of the railing was a lake. He was in a park, it seemed. A mesh sunscreen above him. It was actually pleasant. It was actually a nice day.
He picked up the small black bag that lay next to him. His bag? He didn't recognize it, but it was pressed up against his left thigh. For some reason, it felt like his. His chest burned now. With each movement, twist in his body, a fresh wave of pain radiated from his chest.
He stood up gingerly and with all his energy focused on remaining as stable as possible, walked slowly to the symbol for man.
The heavy door resisted and groaned as he leaned in to open it. It was dimly lit and the stale smell of urine immediately greeted him. A few empty stalls on the left, a trough-style metal urinal on the right. There seemed to be a narrow hallway immediately to his right to which he proceeded. A dark shadow was walking toward him through the hallway. He stopped a moment to let the shadow past, but the shadow stopped as well. They regarded each other for a moment. A dirty man in shambled clothes, greasy, unkempt hair and a half exposed chest. The revelation startled him and he took a half step back as did the man. The man who stared at him through the mirror.
Looking through the glass, he recognized his eyes if nothing else. A weather-beaten face looked to be about thirty. Creases in his forehead, ripples of sorrows and joys wore the alabaster skin of his youth. Dirt and layers of filth told of uncounted hours on uncharted paths. He raised his hands to his face and saw a maze of tattoos from his arms all the way to his hands. Blue and red ink spilling down his fingers. Closing his eyes, he exhaled slowly. He enjoyed for this brief moment a feeling of calm, an armistice from the battle tearing in his mind. He still felt lightheaded, and this comforted him. It could still be a dream. He closed his eyes even tighter but the darkness could not mask the stench of his surroundings. The wrestle between what he knew to be true and what he perceived through his senses could not be held at bay. He knew they would soon vie as he opened his eyes.
And so the lids of his eyes parted. He saw now the cause of the pain on his chest. Red and orange and yellow and white seemed to pour out of his unbuttoned blue shirt. A fresh tattoo from just below his neckline down to the bottom of his rib cage. A fiery bird, wings thrown full forward, neck and head and beak and talons all converging on a single point. A dazzling display of colors, white to yellow to orange to red to violet. Each feather a distinct shade, clearer and more brilliant as it approached the focal point, darker and obscured as it fanned out. It seemed as if the bird, like light itself, would impale it full force and being upon this point; break through or destroy itself in the attempt. It was clear and vivid and alive.
The discomfort, filth and confusion fled from him.
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