cygnoir.net

cygnoir.net

no small thing

Why the mind needs detail in dreams –

My car was broken into again. Jonathan and I went with the man from the Larkspur ferry to find it. It was in a small courtyard I remember stumbling upon in Seattle over the summertime. It felt like summertime, too, right after a heavy rain; the pavement was dark with thick green moss sticking up here and there. All the windows of my car were smashed out, all the doors and the trunk were open.

The club I used for Urban Golf two years ago was still in the trunk. Is still in the real, non-dreamed trunk. The radio was gone, the hole filled in with glossy black plastic.

Along one side of the courtyard was a large house with open sliding doors to its kitchen. I stepped inside and noticed that a child had placed a piece of yellow butcher-block paper on the floor and traced the outlines of two dog bowls on it. Named the bowls. One of the names was Travis. I called for the dog but the dog never came.

The man from the Larkspur ferry told me over and over, “It happens. This happens. No one was hurt. Go home.” I turned to Jonathan to ask him what to do, but he was gone. I remembered a dog; was there a dog? Next thing to go was the man from the Larkspur ferry, then the car. I was alone in the courtyard as the sky rumbled.

The mind tracks the small things. Jonathan in a blue shirt. Green moss on dark pavement. The man from the Larkspur ferry. Yellow paper and dog bowls. A golf club I almost never think about. The mind tracks, relies on these things to steady the whole, to make it a story, a piece of what happened. But it didn’t happen and won’t. The mind consumes a hundred details a millisecond, reconstitutes them as realities.

No small thing will be left alone.

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.

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