Most times, my dreams aren’t profound, nor do they make much sense. Dream-logic, I’m told, never does. But this dream felt different. My father appeared on the football field of my youth. In life, he was a short man. But in this dream, he towered over me.
He wore denim dream-jeans, faded blue, and ripped at the knees. He smoked a giant dream-cigarette, and the smoke billowed like it was from a power plant. His dream-muscles were large and imposing, like Zeus’.
The old man speaks of phantoms. He lay on his death-bed, and his face is ashen and sickly.
“Our home,” he says, “it’s haunted. Haunted by my sins. Haunted by my father’s sins, and his father’s sins.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
The old man cried as the yellow half-moon murmured to the birds. The birds squeaked and squawked a beautiful song, but it didn’t stop the wise man from weeping.
“Why do you cry?” I asked him.
The gods often come in disguise. I know this, I know it all too well. But I forget sometimes. The slick salesman didn’t look like a god – far from it. He was a wheeler-and-dealer, a card shark. He told me so.
Jet-black hair slicked back, greasy with gel. White dress shirt, dark red tie that screamed “power!” and “too much testosterone!” What a bore this guy was. He tried to sell me a used car, something that wouldn’t get me very far, one that would creak, moan, die by the side of the road.
It was a full moon that night, a bright and powerful moon
that beamed blinding light onto the blankets of snow that covered the hills.
Here’s a piece of flash fiction I wrote a couple of years ago that, I suppose, is semi-autobiographical. It’s about loneliness and the yearning for human connection.
How can you know what perfect harmony is if you’ve never suffered?
It was like that for Adam and Eve, as they strolled through the Garden, bathing in sunlight and fresh air, at peace with all creatures.
“What you have, my friend, is a soul sickness.”
He appeared quite serious, pulling on the hairs of his bushy white mustache, and sipping from a cup of tea in the old office building he’d converted into his business space, known as, “Bill’s Spiritual Counseling.”
The soul-snatcher glared at me from the dusty street corner with fiery orange eyes, his hands cupped over his mouth because of the early morning cold.
I had been out late that night, and I was returning home a little tipsy.
“Hello there,” he said. “Looking for your fix?”
The monks say that without an absolute zeal for God, religion becomes just another opiate. This is referring to Marx’s famous statement, that religion is “the opiate of the people.” Who’s correct – Marx or the monks?