A few nights ago. . .
I am sitting at a table with my oldest son, at the age of 16 maybe, before me. I take out a pen and sketch pad and begin to draw a figure of the bad guy. One eye this way, the other upside down strokes. Son is impatient. I tell him I must draw this picture to rid ourselves of him once and forever; be patient.
In the morning I awake and record the image. I then pull a tiny sketch pad from the bath side table, and a fine point Sharpie. I draw him in the same fashion as the dream instructed. Then I begin to aim projectiles at his face, and sketch his Lilly liver, and shrunken head and tears, because he is a very sad and wounded soul, and yes, I hate him. I am tired of him entering my psyche and tormenting me in my nightmares.
But this time it was different. I was in charge, I was creating the drama, not fighting or running or surviving his madness, I was exorcising him, the demon that he is.
After the bath, I doused the little sketch in alcohol and watched his face swell and bloat, and struck a match.... and said a few choice words. . .
Last night, in order to get to my love (who in the physical world sleeps next to me)
Above fields and people and buildings and hills
I wave my arms as if swimming the breast stroke.
I am in an upright position and I lift up high into the air
saying to myself out loud
I can fly.