Into the Wilds

I began to dream under the same raw moon as the tides that bare down on fragile flesh, the flesh of my forefathers. There’s blood in the apex of these stones, calling us to stitch the wounds of our own callousness and fleeting desires.

I wandered into the wilds, under sand pine prophets and oaken kings; I lamented on the nature of our odorous civilisations, our war machines and dogmas of oppression.

The egret and ibis heard my prayer and came to see the stranger in their midst. A creature of sorrow and sickness and greed.

But I wandered aloud, my footsteps bringing me to piles of rubble that once stood the test of time… and time is now mine under the stars of my newfound fortitude, this reckless keen edge of awareness budding to life inside my sleeping bones.

I was wary, once, of travellers of that forgotten golden realm; longing to hide in the shadows, a conscious observer of the night flights of those fighters, the fighters wringing the life out of the pockets of creation.

And I stood there watching while the memories came to dance about my head, spiders spinning webs in my hair to trickle thoughts of liberation into my brain.

I thought once of you, the way your eyes would move to judge the very fabric that weaves our flaws together. I set that memory free, and again turned to the wilds that so lovingly called me home.

I followed a deer growing thick with fetus in her belly, asked after the hymns that so wind their way around and through beast and tree, and she told me to listen.

So I listened to the gathering dusk, the crickets’ music transforming my soul, and then I was no longer afraid of growing old. So I climbed into the crook of a giant’s sheltering limbs, and I ate nothing but what I could catch in trembling hands.

I sacrificed my self into the hunt for this wealth, this need to resurrect what once was a feral heart. I stopped playing prey and found sanctuary in the blood of the earth, the blood of reptile skin and spear pointed teeth. And I became a solitary predator.

I dug into the midnight soil seeking a space to sink my roots, to wait and trap any form, any trace of food for my thoughts.

I wanted to grow wisdom. I wanted to relearn that Mother tongue of soil, muscle and memory. The language of the land’s savage composition.

I wandered the forest, aching to be found among the palmettos, a dying breed of mystic, planting seeds and craving all things that a human craves when burning that all to cinders and ash.

I buried myself in the darkness among cypress knees and Spanish moss. Letting nightcrawlers sing me to sleep. I wondered then what it would mean if I chose to stay, if I chose to let myself forget to be human for awhile.

So I tore from myself small strips of regret and tied the cloth of those sins to a dogwood tree. I cried at the wrath of the earth calling for my explanations of falling off the edge of this world, so long ago, now, it seems.

I entered the badlands of buzzing insects, leeches and steam. I let myself go back that way again and found the answer to that riddle:

 

I was never really me.

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I dreamed this dream of wooded Wilds

I dreamed this dream of wooded wilds, dripping moisture in the grey air. The Earth’s many scents release when the rain drops onto pine needles and oak leaves. The pat-pat sound of the rain on the palmetto fronds is familiar in my mind.

I rise from my bed, surrounded by quiet and the familiar hum of the ceiling fan. It is early morning, the hour of in between twilight just before dawn, and I hear a voice. A man’s voice outside. From deep inside the dark cool trees, his voice travels out to me. I know that voice.

I wander out of the house, at odd morning hours. My bare feet padding down the lawn leading to the edge of the woods. I hear a crow, the rain, and his voice calling to me.

So I enter that wild realm of insects, birds, spirits. The wild god who waits for me.

He calls to me again, his voice warm and dark as fertile soil. My pulse thickens inside my skin. Shivers tremble up and down my spine, but still I long to find him.

I wander with soft steps on sacred ground. The smells inundate me, decay and life and rain. I weave through the thick trunks of ancient trees, winding thickets of brush and bole, over roots jutting out on my path.

And then I find him. He waits for me by a stream. The sounds of pipe and drum hit me then, though he holds no instrument in his hands.

His face is unmistakable, though I only ever see it in dreams. He whispers my name, and I approach his perch above the swirling water.

“Look,” he tells me. “Your strength is in this shadow, buried beneath the birch tree.” He smiles a cryptic smile, as a teacher might to his student who is working out the solution to something in her own mind. There are no birch trees here.

He reaches his hands out to me, and I take them in mine. His hands are warm and rough, mine cold and unsure.

He pulls me to his body, his warmth, his earthly knowledge. He smells of pine and soil and the decay of leaves.

His mouth covers my own, and I suck him in, all the scents and senses, the knowledge and heat.

Then I wake. I’ve had this dream before. It’s as if this vision, this dream message and messenger are begging for clarification. And I can’t seem to (or I’m not meant to) decipher it yet. But it’s always the same, always ends before the best part.

I like these dreams though, when I have them. They’re comforting and mysterious, as if my fate can be divined by some dream Being’s mood swings in the ephemeral world.

 

 

[Featured photo found on Pinterest]

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I wandered until I was lost. Trodding sodden ground, clutching the blackness of obsidian destruction. A temporal fascination, overbearingly familiar, like déjà vu, surfaced from the cold dark waters of a buried consciousness, a buried light.
White was deathly, like pale fingers creeping in to paint splotches of scaled-down readiness across a canvas of nothingness.
The bleak of winter would comfort me now. In a world where spring is springing, where greens and blues decay under the whiteness of my sliding spirit. I am darkness in this light. This encompassing trend of rising to the occasion has been lost on me.
I feel as though the zigzag of humanity’s crumpling form is winding around me. I have learned this lesson before. I have learned to distrust. My weary ways have haunted me, have coalesced around this storm that swirls throughout my being. I am sick.
The grit and dew sparkle like dogmas cradled within the hierarchies of man. I have learned to hate and love in equal measure. I have tasted the waxen futility of this fight. This war on life. Control is today’s special. Beating the innocence out of the disciples of creation. My creation is eating me alive. Conquered and devoured. I can’t twist my view to the periphery of this room. My prison cell, I built it from the gifts I was given.
I wandered until I was lost, and now,
I’m not quite sure I ever want to be found.