Dead Among the Living

Maybe I'm just a bit twitchy lately, but things are getting a little creepy around here...  Last night I dreamed I was adrift on my own sturdy raft, in dim waters, when quite suddenly I found myself floating at the end of an untethered dock, at some distance through the cold night from my vessel, a seeming source of power.  To lose it, or to go after, and risk being drownd by the downward drag of my garments?  With no feeling of certainty I felt I must follow. I slipped in and began to swim, when I perceived the raft moving toward me, propelled by none other than my self in shadow, paddling with sure speed...yet as the craft drew closer I saw that it was not I who approached, but a black-robed witch, wearing tall and wide-rimmed hat and wielding a long stick which she deftly turned out of her last stroke to extend to my accepting hand, pulling me safely from the black waters in which I would otherwise have perished.  I climbed aboard, and it was then I learned that she was no witch, but my sister.  (And the dream continued.)

On waking this morning, I found myself thinking about Paul Wellstone, for no particular reason more than that I was singing to myself a sweet tune by John Lennon and wondering what the fuck is wrong with everybody...and then, while I was on the way to work a short time later, a voice on the radio spoke his name, and of his death--not that there's anything out of the ordinary about such an occurrence, mind you.  (No black cats crossing any paths, either, just the regular old grey variety.)

It's not around the house alone, where the whispering creaks and groans of the settling cold assume a new dimension, but out in the lot, the hall, the stairwell... Is it the just waning light that plays upon mine eyes?  But a chill wind in my ears? Or does the veil indeed grow thinner?  This I can not tell, only wonder.  I really can't say I see dead people but I am rather more interested in this aspect of America's favorite Celtic holiday than I am in sexy nurse costumes.  Shall we know death, or just fuck it?  If you know what I mean.  I think it's probably worth at least a couple days' consideration.

With all that and more in mind, come Sunday, I would like to honor the passing of The Year I Spent Inside, the bones I buried and the maggots that ate my flesh, giving rise to winged creatures of compound eyes; I want to acknowledge the end of life and the advent of death, not black or obscured but of full color, of chrysanthemums and bonfires, of ancient teeth as bright as the sun; I turn, for guidance, to those who have been bold enough to lead the way; I hope to welcome the rest of the Fall, of the passage through darkness toward the gentle light of Winter; I look forward to squash and fungus and homebrew and roasts, early nights spent stirring pots, playing chords, stoking fires, reading stories; I wish for blankets of deep rest and everlasting change, everlasting change...and I realize that I am going to kick the bucket, sell the farm and give up the ghost sooner or later. Wear your masks, lanterns lit, and recognize the dead among the living, living among the dead.  Happy Halloween, y'all.