Unconscious Adventure

The wind blowing above the tippy treetop, shaking the leaves, allowing flecks of sun like confetti to move and remain in place. Baby green leaves, sprouts of life and complimentary smells of manure are all sure signs of spring. A sultry 86 degrees makes my blood push hot through my veins into my heart and then the extremities and back to center, always back to center, circumventing all of my internals, signaling perspiration to collect on my forehead, my breast and the back of my neck, and then the wind is caught briefly twirling in another direction over the grass, like seaweed on the floor of the ocean dancing with affectation, giving into the pressure of the water passing over, like a good dance partner. Here, in this field there is no water, only wind and yet I can’t help noticing the effect is precisely similar from a gust on the tall grass, to the edge where the farmers alfalfa meets a lazily manicured lawn. The in-between where the grass has not been cut, and the alfalfa ceases to grow, this small line of land on maps recorded at the country clerk is so clearly marked but realistically, it is a thin strip of unknown; one foot trespasses, the other safely at home. I straddle the unknown, and this is the place that I dig my hole.

My tiny shovel slowly adds dirt to the pile, the shovel grows too, growing from a baby with no real motor control, into a full blown engine powered by gas. A methodical capable beast! Summoned from necessity by magic, and I’m operating a bucket that appears to resemble a solo mandible jaw, obviously stolen from an unknown Titan, no longer trapped in the center of Earth with its teeth lining the edge, and biting the earth with deranged tenacity! Every piece of the mechanical metal giant it came must have been parted out, or gifted to sinners and priests alike. Unknowing of the source, they welcomed it into their home, the proximity to any piece, even a bolt could turn any heart sour. Time passes so quickly, I hadn’t noticed and I feel it is my genesis. I had been digging for 7 biblical days, except I had created nothing, but there was still light. I hadn’t noticed any darkness at all, but it felt like a perfect nap, I lost all track of time. The in-between had become everything and there was no lazily manicured lawn, or alfalfa anymore, there was only a hole, and on the edge of the hole my childhood home where my formative years played out parallelly to Huck and Sawyer, my imaginary friend, but I called him Stefan.

The grounds stained with memories, the good ones bring sadness because they’re over, but they were so sweet, and bad ones buried in the ground, pouring out of stuffed closets, tucked under the porch, behind locked doors, squished in the crawlspace, lining the basement steps leaving just enough space to tip toe around, piled five boxes high musty, but dry and stained from every catastrophe of tear flooding years before, soaked, saturated and dilapidated along with a dead mouse on a trap that was never removed, but somehow it emancipated the physical world, leaving just the bones showing exactly the point of the impact at the time of his death. Did his soul know he passed? Did he see the light and leave his body and scurry back to haunt his family in the crawlspace of my bedroom, without even realizing he was dead? Does every living thing have cognizance of here and there? Do we all go to another side? Do we all get to see what is behind the curtain? Or do we disperse to any side which is different, or only places we were curious enough to wonder and lay the framework for our life after purgatory? That would be assuming if purgatory is not here on earth, but why wouldn’t it be? If I could fantasize the many ways to torture a soul, I would start my trapping it in a body that degrades, in a place that is mercilessly stocked with highs and lows, ugly friends and beautiful foes, clearly it would be a place that evil had direct access to come and go, but from where and to where, and why, but also, why not? If we ignore the possibility of anything else, do we enter a space with no doors and simply become a particle of no use to anything besides filling the space between? But the in-between is not useless, even if it seems mindless. If we are so useless in life, we may be just the same afterwards, but for the ones who are here to prove their worth and move the earth, the space that mindless particles occupy creates the stubborn resistance needed, and the view to see, so the real warriors on earth can prove how much they will push through to face whatever invisible devil provokes him. The middle is where I will find a way to reconnect the strings that were cut when mom and dad left.

Strings of thought, insidiously, insolently feeling their way up and down the curves of my body, pushing through pours, confusing my senses, covering my eyes, quickening their pace when they enter my veins, taking over the function of my 98.6 degree body. I am mostly unaware of their invasion, but I have noticed some changes. I have no intermediate sensation, but to the best of my recollection, I'm certain my bedroom was upstairs... Pulled to pathways, thickening and I no longer recognize where I am, I assume it is the constant push of life. First, pushed out of a womb, then your childhood home, then the first love, and then you either learn or repeat the cycle, doing the same thing and expecting something else. There are nights I voluntarily impair myself; it is those nights alone I brave my mind, I illegally shine a light inside my head, finding things I thought I loved to be dead, and things I care not for consuming me instead. This fact eases and increases my physical tension, I blame myself, forgive myself then set out on a mission to fix myself.

I hear shouting, then shushing. Then I whisper to myself, promising the future will be better now that I know I need to add warnings and signage to the well beaten paths in my mind. I see I’ve turned into the shell of a doll with kaleidoscope eyes. Thought thickening habits comfortable with familiarity, consistency, and trust, making their way in search of my lost heart. I set up construction to prepare for the remodel, starting with the center, always back to center. I begin to operate the mandible jaw, digging for true love, I appear to myself in the mirror finish of the protected, perfect heart shaped locket containing my experiences, bundled in the in-between. It is too delicate and heavy to move because there is too much inside. I will have to sort it out, one ache at a time.

Blocking the dam, breaking the tin-like poorly built façade, but the spirit and memory of it stands, and that is where I lay, curled up in the fetal position. I am physically standing, I am calm and still undisturbed by the debris building up against me, standing strong, while the waters pour over the top, as if I were made to be washed over, but not washed away, but my soul was washed and cleaned many times. One stick, one last time, one straw too many, and my body is paralyzed. My mind drowning on fire, my face as stoic as stone, my soul long gone down the shore washed up hopefully not too far. I crawl back, my feet sinking in the mud, suctioning every time I pull it out, sinking deeply in, every step is harder, never easier, until the end, and it’s not the walking, running, or flying that’s hard, it’s the climb back up to the top, grabbing rails, so exhausted I can’t feel myself but I can feel what I’m touching and I have no strength but somehow, I never give up. I am at the door and I go inside. I lock the door and lean against it, hiding inside myself, assessing what’s left, seemingly shut down but still operating basic functions, although not efficient and nothing smooth, everything is infinitely more fragile and heavier to process, and I can’t even find the peace to do that.

It just occurred to me that I have been split into three: mind down south, body far east, and soul to the wild west. What if I had to choose only one part of me to save? It is decided without much debate, the soul is the only one I must save. I will go to the west reunite myself in the north. People seem to notice, but they want no part, so they accept when I say “I’m fine” but they ignore the unspoken plea written all over my face that I am not okay, but “fine” comes out half smiling, which is exactly what I need to hear, but I hear nothing I say, I feel nothing I do. I wish I could say I am beside myself, but the reality is I am nowhere to be seen, I have gone searching for the missing part of me.

I am following every jarring cry of every voice begging me to places, claiming to have what I need, but the minute I stopped I realized the voice is just an echo, in fact I am not far, but deep. I crave the fear that accompanies depth, and I did ask for a vivid dream. I am going up, climbing up river, up to the door of the dam, and in fact that is accurate, because right now I am down, not far away, not besides, not lost, just deep and I stumble into my heart while listening to my favorite white shadow talk. His name is Stefan, born in September, it is for him I wear a sapphire stone, he was cut from a fateful rope, he had fallen deeper than the eyes could see, deeper than the heart could feel, but he is the light. Suddenly, I'm scuba diving searching for a body in the murk of the river, blinded by partially unsettled sediment, then a hand touches my shoulder. I see my saturated soul covered in ash of the fire by the edge of the bank, holding a locket, empty of all content that previously bogged it. A flashlight plays peak-a-boo in dark woods, flickering between the trees and gentle breeze reminds me to breathe, and I wake gasping for air. Breathe in, out, and in again, my heart racing, as my mind tippy-toes back to me.