DREAMCHANTS
by David Eide .

Here is the detestable one, killing my Mother. "I have killed her, accidentally, but she is dead." But I don't believe him. I think he planned it this way. So, I am stunned and in tears. The detestable one enters the room disheveled, "this is the worst day of my life," he mutters as though attempting to placate me. He snaps the TV on, then just as quickly, snaps it off. I am sitting in a chair and weeping. I see my Mother, the clearest image I have of my dear Mother; as she was when young. Now I am surrounded by people who are mumbling and engaged in trivial conversations. I remember the hospital scene and how the detestable one tried to keep me away. My Mother is still alive! I am next to her. She is laying in the bed. The doctor says she'll be this way forever but the joy that she is alive is overwhelming and I ignore him. And the days pass and as they pass she gets better but she metamorphoses into something different, something strange and foreign to me; old and with features I do not recognize. She looks up to me, slowly moving her head toward me, old and frail now. "I have been to the Memory Center. I will be there in the years to come."


That terrible and difficult dark night of the soul where the habits become enemies. Where the habits become things dangling down from the precipice of hope and press a terrible lassitude on the creating mind. It is war. War! The spirit is in a war with itself and seeks, like the young and eager soldier in a new field of battle, something to struggle with. And even after massacres and bloodshed he wakes in a quiet morning to the slanting rays of sun and says, "why am I unloved? All I have received are small doses of love and yet I have given much. How this disturbs the sprit and makes things seem to fly away from me."

The dark night suffered against what is imposed. It seeks light, no light, only suffering, all suffering, all nothing.


The terrible war is upon us! What we have feared has descended. We only thought it an abstraction that humanity was not capable of but that was our illusion. They will judge it just so. Pinned between players in a chess match we take on the painful consequences of their actions. Our heads are bowed wearily from the suffering knowledge of the outcome. We hear the distant but outrageous snorts from the players. Do they see us in their minds? And comes another battle sun from the brain of a stunned animal crazed with the blood and shadows of millions radiating from his fingers.



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© 2001 David Eide. All rights reserved.