It was his finger that started it… pointed at the center of the shatter, into shards, like ice, like swords and daggers, his one eye set on the darkness before him, ready to press on into the night.
Best steps forward crunch into the dead leaves of virgin woods, leave behind the dusty gravel places peopled with strangers and go for the ever stranger abandoned, forgotten homes peopled by spirits, guarded by owl and trees.
But never go without sweetness, savor the emergency chocolates, the cinnamon browns, ice the fire in the heart with honey and sugar, sing like the padosan eager to serenade his lover but even without the voice for it, let the very noise of your feet wake up crows and sparrows, let the squirrels sing of your comings and goings, in the land where you are the only thing unique.
No road ends, the edge only leads to another means of daring…
Spell no fall, cling to your surface, face the sky and climb like flying.
You can reach further without trying hard, it is already dreamt, so it can be done, hold this in your hand, grip with your whole body, and if such slip shall slide away the soul, may the waves receive the creature kindly, and float, do not sink, catch yourself on a wave, carry on by surf nymph home to start again.
No matter where the stop, the road is always there, and if it isn’t, you can make one where ever you want to go…
Not all roads are black, not all roads gray, not all brown, they come up to greet you in shades of purple, blues, lavender, cream, even moss-green-yellow with hints of Queen Anne’s lace all along the sides like sleeves.
Black-tops hold heat far longer it seems than any substance, like cooling lava stinging through the shoes, steaming up into the sinuses, the stench of rubber from tires threatening to bring on migraines. How then can anyone stand to be in a car?
I don’t believe that adventures only belong to heroes anymore.
It all has changed, parts gone missing, with that one touch, last look, a shattering, breaking through, break down, melt down, poured into shape, into a dark thing that needs sharpening.
Are you listening to these echoes, echoes tracing my passing from out of the cave, echoes in the language of poetry and color — only true way I am comfortable to speak — flashes of light, echoes, words, letters in shapes I’m losing sight of, appearing as sigils as my consciousness drifts in the middle of my describing — losing myself — in the dream of adventure, that old obsession.
Let the colors talk. I’ve lost the ability to write and speak. For a few simple moments more.
There is something else I can say:
I can describe the Great Adventure as a taste and the colors of that taste I can put into a bowl and smell, feel them, let them slip in between my fingers and even hand them to you to carry because the very idea has a substance to it, it all exists, can be represented as tangible, in familiar things laying around the house. I could get them right now, but is it not more interesting to imagine, just spell them out in these colors and poems and let guess what they are?
That’s was the adventurer’s breakfast.
Below is the atmosphere — the very breath that surrounds him, the mountains, the rivers, the ground — she’s a woman, you see, far beyond him in experience and know-how, as old as she is young, she smells like sage and rosemary, coyotes follow her everywhere, in fact they announce her coming, but you’ll never hear her approach, and she leaves before you guess her gone.
Can you divorce yourself from the legends?
The epic that is sometimes Great Adventure is too much to live up to, impossible to strive for, mere mortals need Gods to intervene. Sometimes the fairy tale inspires, sometimes it is the creator of fools, luring geeks to a mediocre fate. Please, don’t put on the plastic knight’s cape.
Answer the urge to rise above the ordinary, follow the points upward — a horse standing on hind legs, hooves in the air — a sword slashes sky — a strong finger shatters the glass and breaks the eye — every direction is the direction and it does not matter where the end, only that the song begins again, again, again!
I still dream of heroes, of men and women gifted by the Gods, but a darkness within is sore and tired, asking for proof, tortured in disbelief and angry at all the dreams never come true, yet still asking, still wanting, hoping someone will turn it all around, make me believe in good men again, or that I can be super, too.
This is what every fan wants, every dreamer seeks, every girl I was wished for, every woman like me — illustrator of heroes, ever-seeking-ever-compelled by the pageantry of superpower glory and magic, all the magic glittering and bold — what I forever chase after, look into eyes and even if I don’t see, I’ll create it, it’s what I do, I’m a dreamer who also makes dreams.
Try to deny it, cannot fake it, it’s an addiction.
These are the colors we paint our make believe heroes with, the colors that make their adventures glow with as if they live in strip club underworlds, where everything stands out at attention, artificial yet accepted as part of the show, believed in order to make the characters seem noir, look real. The Great Adventure here is high-voltage acid surreal beyond fairy and into the alien where everything natural has eroded, where everything normal now is the dream, and my sentences, words, colors are coming out so delusional enough to make you think I need a hospital.
Adventure, I love you, but you make me afraid.
You steal away people, you can steal away me.
Like the time you took me underneath the water.
Did you think I would ever forget that?
I’ve never forgotten. Never will.
That was the day we parted.
The day I turned my back on you.
Before then I thought you my lover.
I never knew the fear of that pull.
Adventure, you still won’t let go of me.
Even after I survived the drowning and grew up.
I still hear you calling but I won’t answer you.
Not when you shout for me to come out to the deep end.
No, I’m not falling for that anymore.
No matter how many of my friends convince me it’s safe.
There are too many dark and unknown undersealings below.
What next will pull me under when I’m lost and unknowing?
And, hey, what about that time I thought I finally got over it and then started to swim out into the deeper places? What was up with that humongous sturgeon the same size as my own body?! That thing bumping into me like a living rock, eyes more curious about me than I was afraid, swimming away from me, then coming back at me, next time smoothing up to me, all friendly-like, but enough then for me to notice it was bigger than me, and too late I find I cannot swim faster than I can run and too slow and clumsy I try to reach shore, everyone laughing at me, the sturgeon even teasing me going underneath me, along side me, my choppy swimming making myself all the more interesting to explore…
Okay, I get it now. I became adventure to the sturgeon that day, right? Sometimes it works out like that.
I cannot stop talking about what I fear.
Just like I cannot stop talking about adventures.
They are the best stories.
Not all of the best adventures happen outdoors.
From his chair he can define his universe, create it, destroy it, build it all up again, play the God, make the heroes, be the heroes, find the quests, set new challenges, erase and save, pause, come back, do all the things in real life I sure as Hell can’t, become enthralled just as much as old ladies with little dolls do, yes. That is how I see the action figures that go along with games and their gamers — the merchandise that accompanies almighty Great Indoor Adventure — collect the whole set, win your prizes, all like being a kid, or staying a kid grown up and with money. This is adventure as indulgence, as escape, as time-out and zone-out.
His eyes remain on target, fingers and thumbs in a blur, oblivious to everything outside, and one wonders where wonder really is inside that box, or if I’m missing something I should discover… I watch him play, observe the ways every gamer takes each hit and loss and carry on, how they interact with each other as a different cultural unit with a language all their own, a realm I don’t understand.
Each world has its rules, its adventurers, its places to explore, continents to map, people to meet, everyday new discoveries, perhaps he or she or you will never understand my way of knowing, tasting, seeing, feeling and appreciating great adventure, but it is my way I carve out my own path and it does not make me crazy. Yet the drive of it makes me feel that way.
I see what others do, where others go, the distant fires burn straight back into my heart and it hurts to be home when all I want to be is with those in action. I dream the dream.
I keep the home fires burning…
well, candle fires burning, but fires nonetheless, and they smell like spiced vanilla, honeyed and iced, making me want tea right now, red lavender tea with a spot of mint and a drop of soy milk.
Great Adventure, he can wait, he’s out there with his finger making a smash where ever he comes and went, he’s in the news, out there in space, flying like a bird, making a mess, rescuing people from hurricane Issac and evacuating animals, too. Oh, he’s all over the place, at the start of the trouble and will be there at the end of it as well. He’s up to all the things — riding past me on the road, waving hello and good-bye in one stretch — up to all the things I can’t do while I’m walking on the sidewalk mumbling to myself, thinking about how I’m going to illustrate what he is in my language, my own form of poetry, and define him in colors, because that’s what I do, and it’s all that I can, and somehow it fits my dreams.