Written by my brother George. He might even be curious to hear what you think
“Where is your story?” she asked, searching his face.
“I don’t know. I stopped dreaming, I lost my way”
But there was one dream that came – like a banished prophet banging on the gate.
Arising in the night he leaves his sleeping body on the bed. There is no sound and a kind of deadness in the air, a feeling of the magic hour. He moves to the window, climbs out onto the roof and searches the thick humid air, in which tall apartments are crowded – silent sentries on the hill. Down the valley something is coming. There is movement, and a slight humming of parts, some apparatus in the night sky. The sound gets louder, and looking up from the rooftop he sees a light. Is it – could it be – a flying machine? Straining eyes into the darkness, he waves both arms and thinks he sees another waving back. Thumbs up – a sign of hope – a sign that things might be alright after all.
Upon waking, but still in a dream, he has that flying feeling again. He wants to take the kite glider out to the side of the hill, knowing that one day a wind will come that really could lift him through the small gap in the tree canopy along the edge of the hill. But he knows, that must be a truly powerful wind. The gliders wings are too small.
He remembers another flying dream from before. The time the wind came up and he launched from the top of a concrete water tower above a north coast country town home. That was when he learned, it could lift him – over the water tank and along the edge of the hill overlooking the town.
Sato San warns him again not to talk about Leslie in that tone of voice. He was only remarking to the other expatriate David that she was hardly ever at work on time. Why do they care. Let them send him back home.
He wakes up in a dormitory but still in a dream, and Sato San’s bed is across the room. He focuses a camera lens on the bed (it is empty), and remarks to David about Leslie again. He zooms in, but Sato San is returning and David hurriedly departs hissing a warning.
“he’s coming – better put that down and shut up”
But he doesn’t care. Let them sever the strings that hold him in this place. The flying machine is waiting.
In the interview he saw those two. The girl was like the tall blond in the movie he watched last night, and the man – a kite glider. Both were flying enthusiasts. He watched the interview unravel on TV. She was describing her flying experience in poetry. The man was listening.
The words of her poem are soaring and capturing her experience. The words are beautiful beyond measure. The man, the kite glider – he’s enraptured – enchanted – knocked over – he gapes at the words – he stumbles at the end to comment.
“I’m only a kite glider – but you…, … you, … such beautiful words.”
He leans closer – the interview is becoming first class viewing. The audience gasps.
She looks into his eyes. There are no more words. They lean closer – kiss and embrace.
A wind like no other is coming. He knows it is time. The mini kite is waiting, tugging at his thoughts – he sees it lifting him – from the side of a hill – through the gap in trees now grown too tall – from the top of a building – up the valley between the monolithic apartments, their dark balconies a multitude of lidded eyes fluttering unseen garments in the night – from the inside of his dreams – now slowly awakening.
The other day my brother George (who lives in Japan) sent me an old poem of mine I had forgotten so I uploaded it.
Today he sent me some writing of his own written last December thinking I might enjoy his mad dream. I loved it and asked:
‘Can I upload it to Red Bubble and share it with my community?’
He said, ‘Of course – bring on the bubble’.
So here it is.