Wolf Sighting

A Parable of World Dilapidation by Degeneracy and Disillusionment

I have attempted here to be as accurate and detailed as possible in recounting a dream I had on 12/09/2011.

I stood upon a tall hill, distinctively mound-like in nature, with two extremely good friends in a very familiar, wilderness place. We desired to descend the hill to our camp and fishing location, presumably a small mountain lake. I do not know how we arrived at our present station or how long we had been there.

Between our aloft location and far-off destination, there were various observations of note: 1) the down-slope of the hill was minimally precarious—mildly rocky, mostly-bare ground with sparse vegetation; 2) the trail down was clearly worn; 3) immediately beginning at the hill’s base was a stretch of open, grassy plains—possibly 1,000 yards worth; 4) these plains resembled the denseness and tone of a harvestable wheat field; 5) beyond the field stood a semi-dense forest part, which would in estimation take 30 minutes to navigate and was a known home to many dangerously crafty and wild animals; 6) the forest was visibly dark and ominous; 7) a second trail moved West—left in my dream, for I never knew the sun’s location—and purposefully remained on the outskirts of the forest; 8) this western trail maintained a less dramatic slope down the hill and featured a paucity of wild beasts, therefore undoubtedly making it the safer route; 9) navigating this route would be time-consuming—possibly triple the travel time of the forest course—and also messy due to its massively muddy and winding disposition; 10) I was fully wilderness-prepared—food, blankets, tools, fuel, and weapons; 11) there had been much recent rainfall, but the grasslands were dry; 12) thick, gray clouds completely covered the sky, and a new and assumingly awful downpour was impending; 13) a chill had overcome the air and was coercing a gradual increase in velocity; 14) despite our anxiety to obtain camp and the deteriorating climate, the air, scenery, and circumstance were overall refreshing, the mood was sufficiently pleasing, and the surroundings seemed quite content; 15) these states, though, did not destroy in me the detection of impending destruction.

Because of the poor weather, we aimed to arrive at camp as soon as possible. The forest route was therefore most appealing. I strongly counseled my friends that choosing this direction would be unwise; the risk of a wild encounter was too great. Despite my pleading and to my dismay, they were relentlessly insistent on the forest route. I suppose because we did not want to split our group, I conceded to their wishes and decided on moving carefully down the hill, attentively crossing the grassland area, and then briskly, if not hastily, maneuvering through the forest to safety. Before the descent, I divvied my gear between my friends, including giving each friend one of my two machetes. The intent was to not only provide a friendly gesture of sharing but to also lighten my load for the journey.

We marched down the hillside with relative ease and made our way into the open grassland. Near midway into the field, I began to see wildlife activity. A deer or two scampered by, birds flew passed, and I recollect there being many other sundry movements. This quickly made me nervous, but my friends seemed unaware of the escalating commotion. And then it was like lighting had hit. In a flash, a mob of wolves were upon us. I squawked orders to my little band, calling them to seek protection and to preserve unity for strength in numbers. They immediately scampered up onto a black, cast-iron fence (maybe eight feet tall) and perched nervously with machetes drawn. The wolves were noticeably organized, encircling us and maintaining stealth behind small trees and brush (even though we were presently on land populated solely of grasses). One gray wolf entered their circle, lunging at me as I attempted to scale the fence. I raised my hand, attempting to deafen the oncoming blow, and its teeth clamped down on my knuckles, slicing some flesh and scratching my bones. The pain was sharp, but appreciably lighter than what I expected. I began punching madly at the wolf's nose (which was not a typical snout but instead a peculiarly large human nose, much like the enlarged schnoz of Steve Martin in the movie Roxanne). The wolf did relinquish, but this crippled me adequately enough and, sensing the advantage, much of the pack attacked in unison. Three or four wolves were on me instantly. I had been overtaken, and I awoke from the dream.

From the first moment I had been attacked by the first wolf to being blitzed from all sides, I pleaded my friends for help. But there they sat, motionless on the fence, not but three yards distant. They had my weapons and supplies but would not aid me. Were they too scared? Why had their loyalty vanquished? It was made abundantly evident in my dream that their succor (with the machetes) would have defeated these beasts. I could not believe they had deserted me. I had spared them provisions and my weapons. And these were the best of friends.

I returned to sleep some short time later and dreamt of recapitulating this dream to a friend. As I stood with him recounting the events, I reentered my original dream. This was the beginning of my dream within a dream, which continued as the first except for slight variations: 1) it was raining; 2) there was a large creek (swollen with rainwater) at the base of the hill just before the golden plains; 3) this creek was extremely swift and awkward to ford, and the water rapidly and remarkably rose with every second, increasingly causing instability of locomotion and also general discouragement.

I awoke by the sound of my alarm shortly after conquering the creek. I was quite curious about what additionally would have been added or changed in the second dream had I remained asleep.

An in-depth interpretation will be published as a future entry.

The Terrorist

From time to time, Torin and I visit random stores after leaving mommy at her work. These stops afford us valuable out-of-the-house exposure and squelch the monotony of being overly-routined.

As I eye Torin bouncing up and down the aisles, my bosom swells with elation at the sight of destruction by baby. Actions that would at least cause store chaos and prompt expulsion when perpetrated by me (an adult) are actually tolerated, if not celebrated, when done by my squirmy toddler. “How cute is that!” exclaim fellow shoppers and store attendants, admiring the swiftness and effectiveness of Torin’s toy-tampering, junk-jumbling, merchandise-meddling, package-penetrating behavior. If curiosity were an art stroked on canvas, Torin would be Picaso—brushing Cubism everywhere he scampers.

I envy the separate set of rules applied to him and others of his kind. Freedom is much more complete for them. As age increases, the cage size decreases; an older dog has less space in his kennel than when a pup. Or maybe it’s just the ultra-thinning of lines—so that they are so very easily crossed as to therefore exist to confine us with exactitude.

In a modern world so defined by rules, laws, and attempts of order and with the populous perpetually cognizant and wary of dangers both foreign and abroad, I secretly house my own WMD. Watching Torin terrorize makes me devilishly giddy inside. I can cross the line, experience freedom, and destroy—all by proxy through my immune-to-all-laws terrorist.

Who says you can't like terrorists? Nothing wrong with mine.

The Silent Voyage

Crimson sunrise
breathes another day,
lifting shadows off dreams.

Yet silent man lies in the mirror.

A vermillion visage,
a gaussian ruby,
lost in the mist of memories.

Surrounded only
by hollow years—
misunderstood.

Mirrors of lies of silent man.

An aegis apparition
of golden reflection
strafes but shudders in vane.

It's raining voices
in the glass prison—
a fortune in lies through my words.

Lie silent; man the mirrors.

The soft glow
of a mango cocoon
bound in cotton.

Wait for sleep
or after life—
for the funeral of this friend.

Man lies silent in the mirror.

Though wakes
in the waken war,
blooms beget bronze.

Trial of tears forsaken—
a change of season
waxes under a glass moon.

Home from the degrees
of inner turbulence;
beyond the life of a solitary shell.
Through her eyes, I see no more lies.

No silence of lies, but lies silenced.
A crimson sunset.

Wolves of Timber

Wolves of timber growl and wail,
barking back the colonist.

Their groves—
rooted by Natives,
reaped by nomads,
razed by inhabitants.

In stalking packs they hunt to haunt,
the sproutly ones not needless.

But echoes whimper during the light
when the gloom cannot cooperate.

Another member slain amidst the chains.

Howls too high in the firry air to intimidate,
muffled by the roar of the bladed fight.

Yawps unheard save from the carrion dwellers;
If only packs could ascend the soil.

Their groves then—
raised to inhabit
reaping nomads’
native roots.

Forests’ wood branch, but pines stumped by spines
of sapless shadows rake clear the lands of the wolves of timber.

My Little Shadow

Torin is now over one year old.

The comment directly above can be stated simply enough, but when read and thoughtfully evaluated, there is somehow a fantastic level of complexity squirming between its single line.

I’m not sure that I’ve ever uttered a simpler sentence that has in fact more greatly totalized the breadth of impact, state of feelings, and summation of existence relating to my current case in life. Over a year? It’s inconceivable. I feel certain that more meaningful and lasting developments have occurred in the last 379 days than the previous 10,642 days of my mortal walkabout.

There exists no perfect analogy that portrays the colossal change from pre-father status to fatherhood. No analogy could fully illuminate the intricacies and chronicle the composition of this transition. But to attempt…

I think of my shadow. It is predictable—in its level of brightness, contrast, transparency, sharpness, and skew—based on the light source(s), and its exact attributes are known at any given moment without any process of thought. My shadow’s predictable behavior is an established norm, found and formed from nearly 11,000 days of precedence. Then, after all those years of “normalcy,” I notice while working in the yard one summer afternoon that my shadow has become distorted, elongated substantially to the southwest. I gasp, lean forward, and squint in wonder. I gyrate left, right, shake my rake, and steer my shears all about, attempting to “test” my shadow. And the shadow goes right, left, rake droops lifeless, and shears maintain motionlessness. This can’t be happening. What is going on? Has there been a reboot? Or a new, upgraded operating system of reality? This is so different. In toying for some time though, I self-remark of the remarkability of this new state. Though new and initially shocking to my being, this “just-came-out” norm is fresh. My shadow (my son), still generally follows—trailing just behind—but acts independently and with such newness and soul. The transition to fatherhood has been logic-altering and sameness-busting, but this reboot has brought optimization.

A state of flux and over-predictability is alike to being zapped continuously with a growth-atrophyzing ray gun. Staying the same is decreasing.

The Calculator

Torin is the most CURIOUS little creature I've ever seen. His neck is on a swivel! He must see and touch every little thing possible. This behavior is FAR beyond that of the average baby. Like most babies, he tries to jam anything within reach into his mouth. But unlike many babies, Torin never stops going, searching, plotting, tampering, and discovering. I've really never seen anything quite like it. He's a curious kid times 100. He is NOT mischievous; he maintains a sense of caution, maybe fear. He’s suspicious at times but not so much to trump watchfulness.

Take, for example, rolling over from belly to back. He was capable of this milestone early on (2 months), but soon held back from performing it regularly until later (4 months). I sensed his capability, but as his intelligence grew or at least once his cognizance discovered that turning to his back was a precarious event—one that made him feel awkward or unnecessarily exposed to harm—he chose not to roll over. His caution trumped his curiosity. Only once he felt capable of handling, coping with, or advancing in some fashion beyond the roll, did he begin to routinely venture to that situation.

Maybe a silly dad is over-thinking things? It’s hard to know, but it’s clear he has been crafted with a curious and calculating mind.