There are rooms I remember that never were. One was eight feet off the landing between our second and third floor. Clearly, a dream door. I never actually saw the room behind it because I didn't dream I could fly, nor did it come equipped with a ladder. But the door I remember clearly. more so than any other. I remember wondering why I had never seen it before. Then I realized I had. I had seen it in other dreams and I'd see it in more. A dream in a dream is like a mirror in a mirror; it goes on and on and little new is added.
I have filled in the blanks so many times, it's the blanks I remember most. There was a giant caterpillar crossing a sidewalk. Not a large caterpillar, but a giant, a gargantuan caterpillar, a caterpillar the size of a very fat squirrel. I ran home in fear and hid. I was not Huck Finn. Now, I've run this scenario over and over in my mind for over four decades. And what I want to know is: did it happen? or was it a dream? My old brain tells me there are no such things as squirrel-sized caterpillars. And seeing them would not cause me - or so I'd like to think - to go wee wee wee all the way home. So I keep trying to convince myself that yes, it was a dream. And yet, for years after the fact there was no question whatsoever but it was real.
There was also the time, much later, when my father left. This was no trip. He up and split. He didn't leave for good, but he was gone for months, maybe a year. When he returned, we walked on eggshells so as not to send him off again. Now, for some reason unknown to me, the rest of my family does not remember this happening. One or more of us is suffering under a delusion. Sheer numbers would seem to overrule me. Another dream or collection of dreams, I suppose. And yet, I recall weeks and months going by with me trying to imagine his surroundings, his new life. More time than could fit in a few recurring dreams. Granted, time can be compressed in a dream, but can all that experience come to be imagined? Seems a stretch. And yet...
The stories in Irena's head would come out from time to time, mostly when primed by good food, wine and friends. It was in this way that the stories of the animals became known and handed down.
As a girl, Irena made sure every animal in her village had a name and a story. If they didn't tell her their name and story, she told them. Even birds, the gypsies of the animal kingdom, were identified. Irena kept a journal and carried it with her everywhere. Into it went all the animals' stories; their lineage, where they lived, who their mates were, who their enemies were. She sometimes made inferences she would later have cause to revise. Her handwriting was incredibly tiny.
Young Kirby emerged beyond his years, espousing stillness through tumult. He attained the ultimate stillness by taking his own life while imprisoned in the enemy's dungeon, thus depriving said enemy of his god-given right to keep prisoners in mystery and misery forever or until death, whichever came first. Kirby had no regard for human death.
Boy Kirby's visage was chiseled in stone, blow by blow, as it had been by his father in life. Luckily for him, the form it took was that of the background, rendering him invisible as well as untouchable.
There are rooms I remember that never were. One was eight feet off the landing between our second and third floor. Clearly, a dream door. I never actually saw the room behind it because I didn't dream I could fly, nor did it come equipped with a ladder. But the door I remember clearly. more so than any other. I remember wondering why I had never seen it before. Then I realized I had. I had seen it in other dreams and I'd see it in more. A dream in a dream is like a mirror in a mirror; it goes on and on and little new is added.
Bingo's out down at the Ladies Auxiliary. They purchased a bank of computers and now it's all Google all the time. They're trolling the net for identities. They start with medical records, zero in on ladies their age, well off, near death, without families. Then they circle like vultures, waiting for them to cash in. Interference is run when they do. The body is disposed of and the lady bearing the closest resemblance is installed in her place.
Call up the Guard, seal off the borders, put up a fence. Good answer. As long as you have one fence, add others to form pens, holding tanks. People the pens and tanks. May as well put families to work in the fields while they await return. Build stouter chambers for Suspected Terrorists. Rendition extraordinarily the baddest of the bad guys. You, in the back... The answer is eminent domain. The creation of a demilitarized zone. The Battleground Annexation Act of 2006. Yes, it was a rider in the defense budget. Yes, it received nearly unanimous approval. Remarkable inroads made by the prison industry. Major arms manufacturers drawn to the border area. The Rio Grande Military Canal and Irrigation Act of 2007. Mexico's Mandatory Workforce Act of 2008. It's all in the public record. Our entry points were vulnerable. We were in a constant state of war. The economy was in the tank. Cheap labor was needed. We had to do what we did.
In this corner, ladies and gentlemen, armed with Byzantine mace and spear and weighing in at one hundred and five pounds, fresh from bloody victories at Sevastapol and Constantinople, slayer of Brian the Moor, the Terror of Tinytown, Kid Pepito!
I've always liked confined spaces. Maybe that's why I chose to live here.