Can I tell you? It’s true. Last night amid the corn I saw a whorl, a night-field of words swimming in trepidation. Colours too. And yes, there was a screen, a digital canvas with an expansive array of symbols. Now I ask myself what the colours were? I cannot say. At least not with certainty, my eye not having clasped the light under its lid, thin and frail, the lens not having caught the pastel hues. No. Of colours and shades of coloration, each lodged within its husk, all remained in possession of the corn.
It was growing dark. The day, vanquished, was reclining in full retreat. Banks of cloud were piling up above me, the little guy, my gaze eye-locked, aghast below the firmament. What, then, did I see? I recall visioning a kaleidoscope of motion, a helter-skelter of shadings lodged somewhere beyond the centre of the field, off to the right, lingering there out on the edges, like a palette, like a palette splashed by Dali, spinning in a blur. Some indigo and a shade of pale in there, too, I believe. The wind washed through me, sweeping across the field, through the fences and further out into the dank nowhere of night. I myself stood still. Motionless. A soldier sleeping in the army of the night. Nothing clearer to my eye could I behold. But for the whirl (and the whirling within the soft walls of wheat) I would have seen it all in focus, etched out line for line, adumbrated in the boldest of brush strokes by a hand more skilled than mine, and more besides I would have been able to reach in and touch them, too, the ears of corn, had it not been a dream. Ever dreamed of blogging? I did. Last night. Or so it seems. Shall I tell you?
Words in sequence, spliced and sewn, strung together, cut and punctuated into eloquence, then thrashed to lean, cropped, and tied-in together tight, riveted to structure and hemmed into an informal layout, now formal, with a dollop of singular trim. Nothing spectacular. Nothing the next guy or girl hasn’t already seen twice on a Friday morning between café and coffee and the bald guy standing on 13th Street. Have a donut, Marshall. Thanks Fred. None of it! Humbug! Just a vagueness, a mere blur fraying into the bleak – fading into the bleakness of an evening sky, if you can see her up there, above me, hovering. Nothing? No? Nothing, no. Nothing alas but a stir of night-fiction; a shade of grey-drift, soon lost to the inexorable, lost to morning – unremittingly sequential. But what about the fields? What of the corn? Was it real? I ask myself now.
Whether or not they were – who knows? – there was a flash or three, coupled to this inveterate sense of urgency to action, to formulate, to bring words to fever-pitch, to embellish the landscape, as it were, to hone the text and get it out, yonder, further than farther, move it on into the deep-seated humming magenta of another field, another screen, flecked iridescence, yes, flickering there behind the glass-eyelids that you love to blink into, wink at, scowl away from and then, right after, write yourself in through, via, but into whom? Who do you become when you compose?
The keyhole, there, in the locked space, the metallic hole in the closed-door, do you see it as ingress, or do you merely peer in on occasion? Does it matter? Perhaps. Either way, who knows, for words do venture through, don’t they, eventually. Does the keyhole transport you? If so, where to?
Please don’t frown. The keyhole could have been your dream. In fact, perhaps we shared it. Were you there too?
Can I tell you what the keenest sensation was though? The desire to peer in, the iron-heated wish to take a long look at the others – whatever the others are, whoever the others were – and having peered in at length, to then propel the urgent motion, push it firmly on, propel it into that greater space, from here to there – hither thither, gone – launched instantaneously into the yonder sphere. Posted. Docked. Ready to access, if not open.
Out roaming I read somewhere, believe me, recently I read that there are programs that aid the writer, formally, formal programs for (in)formal writers, programs that assist the matchless scrivener, to say nothing of the scribbler or poorer scribe – or of me too, I think. The dream reminded me. For if apart from the words and colour, if what I saw – minus the text – was a page, a screen, then that rectangular space was divided into parts and parcels, cultivated quadrants, like as many a farm field viewed from above, eagle-eyed from on high with all the variegated shades of earth and soil, and the golden hue of wheat and wheat crop culture written in the soil… that, people, is what the screen looked like: a vast crop of written harvest, a map upon the page. Can you see the windswept fields, cast your eye over their texture, behold the lettered landscape, can you? Did you see the same expanse of grain, of lush culture? Did you pick an ear of corn and taste the wheat? I believe I did.
More precisely, what I saw was row upon row of ripening victuals, stretching as far as the eye could focus, then blurring, shifting out, as each row became a series of rows, and each series forged itself with others into ranks, and then from ranks into fields, each wrought by toil, each fashioning an idiosyncratic tone, field upon field upon field, each tucked in side-by-side on the screen – in sum, I saw a harvest of words, relished, eye-nipped, savoured beneath the cover of shelter in silence.
Borne by desire.
In a thousand words or so, that’s more or less the picture, the dreamscape, or what I thought was a dream; what else could it have been? The feeling was incisive, needle-urgent at two a.m. Perhaps I ought to have sketched the detail; but alas my hand is poor.
One can merely attempt to thread light into the inner husk of words, and, tilting them upon the tongue, then try and spill one word into the next, tipping each one over so that the light falls from the cusp, painting pictures, summoning an image on the canvas of your mind, up from the screen, in beneath your salmon eyelids, and out under the inner-curtain of your eye, curling, so and so, reflecting thus when you blink, again. Can you hold it there, like butter, can your irises caress the acoustic texture of the wheat? Perhaps beneath your gaze the corn is shifting, perhaps the surface of the field rippled, and the barely lengthened in the wind. I myself got an eyeful. Did you? I myself tasted the corn. For I had a dream. I was a child again, dressed by the fields of wit and barely, afoot, wandering with words, a roaming in the languid yellow pasture of my youth.
Lights out Lambert.
(Photo credit: Golberz 2010 – link on photo)
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