Liminal

In the dream (because I am still dreaming odd, impossible dreams) I am running down a naked road at night, taxiing down it like a plane in the muted glow of the the dim streetlights; and my foot hits the ground in one decisive smack, propelling me into the air, and I’m suddenly back in the lucid indigo sleep of my childhood full of these secret flights. I rise quickly, grinning and giddy, my arms out at my sides. I know I can go anywhere, anywhen; open those doors hidden between seasons and orbiting stars and behind the rain and leap.  I turn as the wind streams around my limbs, thinking of a name…The scenery streaks past me like messy oil paint until I arrive…But I can’t find them in the great green field I’m standing in, butter-bright sun lighting up the grasses.

I feel myself settle back into my skin. Someone is next to me, sitting on the sofa blanket. I open my eyes suddenly, and now no one is there. Sometimes that happens, someone, something, follows me back. I hate these things; chittering, scrabbling creatures sniffing around the melting candle of my wandering spirit.

As a child, I never knew whether these nocturnal journeys were simply the whorls of my brain processing the day or if I was always lifting out of myself like smoke; so lightly tethered to my own flesh that falling asleep was one long, easy exhalation out of my mouth. Ectoplasmic, mystical, free.

IMG_0653 (1)

Now, for some reason, they’re back. I close my eyes and find myself in the ocean, or between the clouds, or standing in an unknown city; all reflections, clean metal and blown glass. Sometimes I visit places more than once – the cemetery with tombs engraved in a language I’ve never seen; the chapel that changes historical period every time I’m there; the grove of tall firs with a granite throne, covered in moss and ivy; and the city, of course. That golden glass citadel, temple bells ringing, saffron-yellow silk hanging from the doors and windows.

I don’t know; perhaps the fragile-fingered grip on my own sanity is loosening again. These explorations between dimensions mean I don’t sleep well, barely rest. Is it spiritual? Is it mental? I no longer know…I just desire a dreamless night, the cells of my body calmly soaking up the hours. If anyone knows how to stay nestled safely within your own soft shell, let me know.

Racing With the Rising Tide to my Father’s Door

In my dream, because odd, mystical little pockets of my subconscious are the one consistent thing in my life, I’m up to my waist in the sway of the sea. I can feel my legs fighting the sweep to and fro as the waves race each other to break their hearts on the shore; it reminds me again how powerful, how full of nature’s raw force, is something as clear and soft and submissive as water.

Christ wades in, the ocean moving like silk around him. I smile even in sleep because I remember how this man is no stranger to the sea and wonder why he doesn’t simply stand upon the surface as it whispers and shushes around us, then I think of baptism and purifying baths from time and temples immemorial and remember that in some ways we must be like children to enter the kingdom of Heaven, and I imagine he enjoys playing in the sea as much as the next wayward kid. He is wearing a plain robe that must have once been white, some kind of flax or rough linen, now rusty with red dust. We both look at the horizon, a long line of indigo melting into a strangely coloured sky that isn’t day or night.

CJfK0fBW8AAHVu5

A silence that is not silence blooms; that feeling you get when you are with a dear friend and there’s no need to communicate with something as clumsy as words when a smile, a raised brow, the click of the kettle’s switch will do. Christ and I rarely talk in these strange little visions of mine, but that doesn’t mean nothing is said. The keening, echoing cry of the gulls comes, arcing across the water like dry ice.

He tells me in the silence that I will have to be brave, that I cannot be afraid of emptiness, and I feel rage bubbling up like lava in my gullet because I am done being brave, I have spent years in the exile of emptiness, I have wasted my life treading water in this lonely ocean and I will not crawl any further on bleeding knees, I will not come to you with wounds weeping vinegar, I will not be broken I will not I will not Thou shalt not…

He says nothing, merely watches the water, but I think he understands.

The tide turns. Now the pull is back to the sea and I feel my legs protest against being dragged out into that roiling void where monsters propel themselves through the black canyons at crushing depth. I stand firm with the rough tongue of the the sand against my soles and turn to look at the man beside me but Christ has gone, as quietly and unobtrusively as a feather falling to earth. The water whispers its ceaseless, primordial lullaby, the sky has darkened to the violet glaze of perpetual sunset.

Above my head, the gulls laugh.

Milagro

Once when I was alone in Italian fields I saw a spirit on a Palamino horse. A female spirit in smooth white linen and in my vision I knew she was called Milagro. I waited as she rode straight towards me, whole body trembling like an arrow about to fly out from between someone’s fingers but when she was foot or so away she vanished, leaving a cool halo of misty air around my face like a cloud of flour settling on the swaying yellow grasses.

My windows are open to the night and to the smell of all the flowers that have gone to bed or are still up, sipping honey rain water from the ground like coffee. I don’t really sleep despite the chemicals I wash down every night with filtered water. Sometimes I drift into a half-awakening and go and visit that beautiful and terrible city in my liminal dreams that I call Somnopolis – go visit its surreal cathedral and walk long, polished aisles inhaling candle smoke and furniture polish. Watch the junkies on the kerb shoot up lucidity.

Writing is an occupation full of jangling hours, like the minutes are silent windchimes telling you another silent storm in your head is coming. The sky at dawn here is a mass of shifting violet with silent Roe deer grazing in the green fields and I always felt at my most alive in the dawn, connected to the world wide wisdom while the energy is fresh and undiluted by car horns and plastic and advertising. I rise with the mist from the waking grass, I am the steam pouring from the backs of the brown herd.

When I was a kid I’d walk down to the farm and talk to the horses the sky was that star-freckled watercolour. Take an apple for the sleepy amber mare in the long field, she was a true gentlewoman in ginger and ash blonde with velvet nostrils the colour of cinnamon, wholesome animal breath curling away into the minerals given up by the soft soil.

Stroke her coarse, bone-pale mane. remember the bleached robe of the miraculous spirit. Give the fruit to those blunt teeth in grateful communion, because the wine in the heart of the apple is sweet.

Dreamscape

The journey to and from the south is gruelling, despite the beauty of the French countryside. Seven hours on the first train, buoyed up by bottles of cheap wine. The sea was so blue, as we rushed past the coast, it felt as though I could have reached through the window glass and come away with paint all over my fingertips.

I miss the sun already; the way it looks slanting through the long pines of the forest. The silence broken only by birdsong; the rush of cool, silky water on my skin. I miss how clean the air feels, wildflowers and tree resin and warm rain, as fresh as Eden. My head is still thrumming with a week of strange dreams; they slumber behind my eyes, serpentine, waiting for analysis.

I dreamed I hired an anonymous room in the city to live out a secret life.

I dreamed my tattoos washed off in the rain.

I dreamed of a woman in a pale wax death mask.

I dreamed the Devil dyed my shoes and hair red.

 

CiBDD8yXIAADCtg

This place is an incubator for such things. I said once that this was somewhere full moons bred empty beds, somewhere it’s easy to feel alive. The nights are so clear that the stars are almost shocking; so many and so bright, they seem to rush at you in a dizzying wave, as though the sky were tilting.

Cip-NqCXAAAV88Y
CirHM-rWUAAZzpy
IMG_2597_zpsb47bc79a
The jasmine flowers are just beginning to open, spilling that distinct, heavy perfume through the kitchen door. If you’re lucky, you’ll see a black, fat-bellied lizard crawling in staccato fits and starts over the walls. Everything in the garden is a startling green, crushed emerald grass freckled with blue and white petals. The roses – soft and full and powder pink – nod their drowsy heads in the breeze, also dreaming.