Ascent

Ascending spiraled steps in hope of eventually reaching a solid surface, more a chore than a mission as we continue inexorably day by day. Or is that eternity by eternity? There's not much choice, as these stairs, though solid and seemingly endless, do not provide enough solidity, enough surface, for other sustained activity. There is not even room to climb by twos, thus enabling the solace of close companionship. Certainly there is no room to make love between, stair to stair, to find what respite or pleasure such loving might provide. Perhaps for some of the more daring an occasional rearguard rape may be accomplished, coming from behind as it were, never seeing the face of the victim, so that's alright. A temporary digression from the rote work, hand over hand, leg up and leg up, monotonous unfulfilling dance.

There has been word sent down from time to time, messages in popping soap bubbles. No one is quite sure what they say, written in unfamiliar code, dripping from the watery former bubbles. Some take faith that since we have no soap or water, the fact of such material proves the surface is not far ahead. How far can bubbles fall before popping to release their secrets? Others suspect this phenomenon to be some sort of rain, a creature of sky, not surface.

We have always been upon the stairs. No one remembers any other existence. If there were surface below, from which we started our climb, there are no stories to describe it.

Sometimes some one will let go in disgust, give up on climbing to take a chance on a less strenuous eternal fall. We never hear them hit a bottom, only senseless screaming tapering off into distance silence.

There is a myth, I don't know how I heard it. Perhaps subliminal messages are written upon stairs along the way; or it might have come as lyrics from the times of spontaneous singing. The myth claims there is a method of mindplay that can allow us to metamorph into birdlike beings who can open vestigial wings and fly swiftly beyond the stairway to wonders of land, sea, continents, oceans, possibilities beyond imagining.

I have attached my mind, all my will, to that one thought. I can almost feel my wings stiffening, getting ready to fly. But to fly, I will have to release my grip by grip on the stair, leap into faith that flight is even possible, and more importantly, possible for me.

Or is flying just another way to define falling?

(c) Laurie Corzett/libramoon March 29, 2009



Shades of Real

I am in that place of bonded service to the shadows. Strong brick and stone, tarnished by long years of miasma, are my walls. There are rough chinks. Sometimes sunlight shines through in bright bits of warming rays. I have no memory of seeing outside, though faint hazy echoes of sunny airy landscape seems to have familiarity I can't quite apprehend.

There is disturbance. I am called to a shadow chamber, given mission to carry a message between worlds. I am outfitted to detract notice, given instructions, missive, and coin of the realm to which I will travel. Before I fully reach my destination, I am overcome with not unexpected fatigue. I find a shelter among a cluster of wild brush and rusting trash to await clarity.

Awakening to a bed of eider down and an array of concerned faces, I am drawn to my target.

"The shadow commands you." I say, simply, directly, without inflection, as I have been trained. No one else notices.

Satisfied with my task completed, I am allowed to sleep, dreaming of that other place. The shadow releases me from bondage.

Walking carefree in the sunshine, I smile to see elongating shadows. Soon balance will be restored, one world not of service and bondage, but reciprocity.

I don't know where this thought has come from, perhaps words of a popular song.

(c) Laurie Corzett/libramoon March 28, 2009