Purpling the pavement

When I first visited here, the jacoranda trees were in full bloom, and now a little over a year later the blossoms are fading, the trees turning over to green as the fleshy flowers purple the pavement. When I don't wear my glasses, it looks like a low lying violet fog beyond the fence, thick with the fecund smell.



The visions people have when their mind is turned off, the blood flow stopped and their body liminal between life and lack of it, are repeated by the ones who saw what they wanted to see. A divine and loving power urging them to return to the earth, their goodness and rightness reiterated.

In the early mornings, I hear someone knocking on the door and pressing the bell repeatedly. I stumble out of bed, wrap myself in an old quilt, negotiate the complexity of drawings and fabric to be cut laid across the parlor floor and dazedly answer the door.

There are other stories which haven't born the repetition of inspirational talk shows and New Age-y large print books. Some poeple have been slipped jelly like to a different place, lost beyond thier bodies in a place with no light. Something else is there with them, something that isn't lost and is looking for them. Being a cynic, I don't view the phenomenon as much besides an inexplicable. The thing in the dark, searching out the quivering ego, could be nothing more than the instinctual remnants of an animal whose ancestors for millenia were susceptible to nocturnal hunters. In the unplumbable depths of the brain sits the patient idea of the hungry night dweller, still waiting for a slip up, for the unwary to forget.



At the door the cold seamisted air wakes me up. No one is there. Each time I have the half dream the urgency increases. The knocking gets louder.