Sometimes I close my eyes and see what isn’t there, like a dream, and losing all time and place, suddenly start: The play before my eyes vanishes into corrupted memories, until all that’s left is the knowledge that something was there, something real, its momentary import like the blue exhaust from a beat up car; passing through, I leave the fading cloud—the dispersing vapors lost in the rearview-mirror.
Such are the dreams I grasp, and weaving their ethereal threads—what a jumble I find them in—try to play God, molding the chaos before their volatile time ends. What’s like a dream: is not the dream itself borrowing familiar form, and so the dream is the like, the thing original? So are they but dreams I grasp, or visions like dreams, or dreams like visions, or something else unknown?
What’s known are these wakeful dreams, like idea itself penetrating, with the tiniest pinprick, my mind, an image I must retell in story, but it closes, a hole in the sand. The light comes through so quickly and so briefly, there’s no time, no chance, to see, but I know I saw. I write, a blind man feeling the shape of a thing he once knew by sight.
Eyes open, eyes closed, I see war, famine, darkness, love, light, life; it’s all there. Grasping what I understand, I try to connect the parts. I write to give this invading spirit body, details that make sense in our world, but can it ever be the thing I saw?
Is our world capable of holding the form God bestows, to tell His grand story? And there, the Maker’s pinprick: He comes, the real into the dream, the foundation a slaughtered lamb, that first image which the story must express. The backstory stretches from this conclusion: “It is finished.”
Tale Told 