Morning after a Midwinter’s Eve
In a long winter’s dream Sol seems to shift ever so slightly, more a kind of internal wobble, somewhat uneasy but not unpleasantly so. Is that a solar yawn over the North?
No, Sol’s still pretty profoundly asleep but his dreams are turning from faint ambers to shades of green: spring-bud-green first, although that’s still pretty distant; chartreuse because he likes the name; then, apple green because he like apples though he’s yet to taste one and ever tasting one seems somewhat unlikely, at least for a very long time and there are not likely to be any apples left then. In fact, the way things are going in apple-home, there may well be none all too soon.
What about the green realm within “harlequin”? That sounds cool too. Sol is not really averse to cool; after all, for all his heat, he lives in a very cool neighborhood. Slowly starting the process of awakening Sol dreams of the myriad spectrum he’ll wake to, a dizzying verdant spectrum tinged with other hues and flavored with smells of different lands, and he dreams deep green thoughts: India green, Islamic green, jungle green, Pakistan green, Paris green, Persian green, all weaving deeper into his psyche. Of a sudden the dream shifts, isolates, focuses for the glimmer of an instant, and the shamrock green of the Emerald Isle touches Sol with traces of magic.
He shudders in delight, a miasma of plasma streams outward in a somnolent solar orgasm, impregnating nine spinning wives and countless swirling mistresses.
I also dream as Aurora approaches, I dream of deep indigos shifting into blues, and yes, greens too; then I dream tendrils of fuchsia, cerise, magenta and lavender. I dream of new beginnings and old endings, of hope and despair, of agony and ecstasy. In my sleep it seems I wonder at something meaningfully meaningless about Michelangelo. I dream of old loves distilled and new loves inchoate, germinating in fetid, fallow pastures, also in shades of green and hues and traces of orange and yellow. Perhaps the myriad greens of my beautiful mountains and the fecund browns of dreaming winter fields.
Then I wonder about Luis Pasteur and what relationship he has to pastures, old and new. And metaphors and similes, rhymes and alliterations all bundle with me in my bed.
In my sleep a shudder races through me bearing a message of some sort but I can’t grasp it and the more I try the more it fades, slowly at first then gathering speed as infinity loops replay the hint of a trace of an echo of a stray winter thought, dreaming of summer perhaps, at least I hope it’s so.
No orgasm for me though, not tonight, although somewhere, somehow I hear someone whisper my name and hope springs eternal.
© Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2011; all rights reserved