Lake (His Anecdote)

He sees at times that G_D comes down by the lake, dressed in a refinement that makes it easy to see that he is she. And it seems she wants to comb his brown hair with her fingers, wetted by the waters below.

Her cold air comes from a sweet mouth, a hallucinatory word of a devious faire. Spoken by a thin light of possible imagination, he’s never certain if she’s real, or a picture born in defense from his mind’s own devious lair. Is it true she tells him of her lovers, is it right she tells him how she really wants to care? “Meet me by the lake”, she whispers in the darkness, we can enter the blackness where no one really cares. Her picture becomes one of animation, one a Psychiatrist can say is never there, but still as the days turn their light into dark shadows. What once was neverland has eyes that really stare. For he knows she wishes him her secrets, the ones that dance where no one cares. The magic to walk upon the moonlit water, whose to say what afterlife is there.

The night songs come as much more frequent, framed within her blackened flowing hair. Words and gilded eyes that appear now much too frequent, no longer a doubt of if she’s with him there or just a faded belief. “Trust is a neurological vessel”, she whispers as she sails upon his nighttime seas, “and when the time is right, I will take you home. To far beneath that lake with me.”

And the pictures of his mind pass by all description of what analysis would seek to tell. An ancient witch of water coming forth in spell, or a broken right hemisphere, in diagnostic tales. A question or a myth in a modern world, a place of science or a supernatural scale. For what does he see, beckoning him by the lakeside. Is she a delusion or an interstellar bell? Ringing in his mind of the season, syllables and signs and beckoning tales. Oh, her perfect arms that reach to take him, from a mad world to the lake, her wishing well.

For a moment he sees himself, floundering in cold lake water, drowning in an indescribable sad dream. What a bad drama, or a lie of a story it would be if all he had seen, was not what he had deemed. But then a story is never just a story, a fable has a truth that’s really gleaned. She pulls him up, just when he is able to live his dream. She pulls him up, just when he is stable to live his dream.

He sees at times that G_D comes down by the lake, dressed in a refinement that makes it easy to see that he is she. And it seems she wants to comb his brown hair with her fingers, wetted by the waters below. – 03.11.2020 – דָנִיֵּאל

The Familiar










Touch me when you feel relevant once more.  Come into my heart when you are healed and play like a child again.  With difficulty I let you go, and like a hard habit that breaks my back you raze my bones and then you float silently away.  Snowing on Saturday and cold, this wilderness I am not sure I can take.  Yet, a word similar to therefore or however, there exist a possibility that with the release of you as a disability I find my way.

No one needs to hear about burdens, there are too many heartaches we all own.  Self and longing belong to the same god, a dogma that beholds the sinner to disbelief.  Candles that are self lit die in just a little shade.  I have to fashion new familiars that will help the exhausted want to wait.  Please give me black liturgical entanglements of words that limp then dance on a minor score that’s played.

The word that brings ideas to the criminal, the word of nothing that creates the end of decay.  No longer must adjectives describe, sounds they must utter, glory exalted in play.  Is there a need to describe harmony, are not the sounds you want to read in the chaos of what you falsely believe you cannot see.

Is this private pathological conversation with my familiar leading others to language that will help them find their way?  What psalm glides in silence across my paper when I choose not to obey.  This writer bequeaths his freedom to a stranger he thought he released yesterday, a noise filled proverbial that diffuses and threatens to take my sanity away.

Touch me wanderer, you feel relevant once again, paint my crooked sky with confused signs of magic, so that I might write and charm a familiar that leads others to play.

A good writer has a familiar. In truth that familiar must be released from time to time to help the writer maintain his or her soul.  It is known as writer’s block!  The reunion with a writer’s familiar upon his or her time in purgatory is filled with dark magic and deeds, and it is in that reunion that the most wonderful words are released.-Daniel Swearingen 02/01/2014