Fiction Beyond Simple Identity, or Title


In dreams there is comfort, solitude, and sometimes conspiracy, yet always, that companionless journey of adventure.  Currently though, I seem to be looking over my shoulder, waiting for those eye’s that seem to follow me through shadows to make themselves known.  Who is it that keeps joining me on my travels to the realm of darkness where all is quiet, calm, and peaceful.  Is it that I am simply unhinged, or perhaps I see with far too much clarity.  Is it possible that I’m stuck in some kind of story like “1984” with a virtual “big brother” watching my every move.  What would interest anyone in my dull and boring life of simple existence?  There can’t possibly be anything of interest happening around me in this idiosyncratic realm.

The question one must ask of themselves, is it the dreams or reality that are causing the friction.  Where do you turn to find the answers, for there are no real interpretations out there, only guesses.   People say that dreams are affected by the all too genuine elements of life.  Must I now search those detectable aspects of actuality for an answer.  What concerns me most are the intangibles.   Those phenomenon that are nearly impossible to detect, much less understand, that seem to effect our very existence.   Where does that leave me?  With fewer answers than when I started, and perhaps a much more difficult search for understanding.

For the time being, I suppose I’ll have to deal with those shades within the shadows prying into things that have no meaning for anyone but me.  Thankfully this is only a dream, for I could become a seriously obsessed paranoid if it were otherwise.  Not that I don’t have enough faults already so flagrantly imposing on my essentiality.  I certainly don’t need any more.  I long to continue those tenebrous walks within the realm of darkness, unaccompanied, for that is my comfort zone.  Dreams are strange that way, so very personal, unique, and specific.

An Introduction to The New Look

Fairplay, CO

Image by opheliates via Flickr

Many of you have noticed that I have been playing with the appearance of my blog once again.  I think I have finally settled on “the look” I will stick with.  There are a couple of reasons for this, most of all the image in the background.  Say hello to Front Street in the small town I grew up in, nestled in amongst the fourteeners’ of Colorado’s high country.  I thought it appropriate and responsive to the title of this blog, not to mention the comfort I feel just looking at it.

The picture in the background was taken in the mid 70’s as near as I can tell.  For one thing the street is still gravel, I’m not sure of the date they actually paved it.  I do remember seeing the streets of our tiny mountain town paved, I was in grade school at the time.   It was a big deal to us, for we had been so used to the simple dirt streets of our town, we thought we were getting big city amenities.  

If you look at the buildings on the right hand side of the street, you’ll see a sign that say’s Pocock’s Grocery.  That is where mother did some of her shopping.  There had been a number of times we heard the statement “I’ll be a few minutes”,  only to find ourselves entertaining an active imagination for far longer than a few moments.  I can still remember the real boardwalks lining the street.  Some of the building even had the old hitching rails and abandoned water troughs in front of them.  It was fertile grounds for the wild imaginings of young kids. 

We would hear the jingling footsteps of cowboy boots, sporting spurs, walking up and down the boardwalks.  Of course my brother and I would be wearing our one pair of “shared” spurs, I wore one my brother the other, while we played cowboys and Indians.    It was a wonderful little town to grow up in.

Moon Shadows

Under a Blood Red Moon
Image by onkel_wart (off duty) via Flickr

Even as daylight's battle ebbs under smoldering horizon, leaving embers flickering brilliantly in the night sky.  Blazing colors fade…  Darker shades, purple, obsidian, and onyx, wink timidly under the ascending crimson glow of a vernal season’s full moon.  The sultry heat of solar crescendo; appeased, tempered, and humbled by a comfortable welcome coolness of nightfall's mercy.  A stunning stillness swaddles and sooths all creatures with silence… Ephemeral yet indomitable and gallant in it’s darkness.  

The changing of guard by celestial sentinels, a sincere, sublime, and stirringly emotional ceremony.  If ever there was an abeyance in time, it is this moment, a brief juncture when seconds swell.  An epoch when eternity seems possible, infinity has relevance, destiny tickles inevitability.  The triviality of life dwindles, leaving an ambiance of unclouded invigoration and gratitude.  That brief occasion when existence has consequence, significance, and prospect.

As a gentle breeze stirs virgin leaves of stalwart Oaks and skeletal mesquite.  Bullfrogs cavort and frolic noisily along rippling waters edge.  Crickets begin their evening telegraph, sounding messages musically alluring.  An owl plaintively questions darkened shadows, challenging that which we cannot see.  The defiant instance of silence, pure solitude, is violated to disclose an episodic twilight of sentience.

Moon shadows cast against the landscape, toys, tempts, and deceives perception.  Tree limbs, bent and misshapen by the crimson glow of a manipulating moon.  A chicanery perpetrated by a mischievous  sentinel for it’s own perverse amusement.  Unnerving imaginings of dilettantish thoughts distort judgment, confuse senses.  A spirited night livens the ambiance, forces concentration.  Inspiration flourishes, investing concept, reflection, intimation.  A prosperous environment for the creatively inclined.

“The moon is a white strange world, great, white, soft-seeming globe in the night sky, and what she actually communicates to me across space I shall never fully know. But the moon that pulls the tides, and the moon that controls the menstrual periods of women, and the moon that touches the lunatics, she is not the mere dead lump of the astronomist. When we describe the moon as dead, we are describing the deadness in ourselves. When we find space so hideously void, we are describing our own unbearable emptiness.”

D.H. Lawrence


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