The Dream

As told by Hillard Graves, 38:

As a boy I had a recurring dream. I had the ability to fly, but if I went too high I would lose control and some force would pull me ever upwards into the stars and deep space. It was like my soul was being lifted from my body and I felt nothing but black, existential terror. I could no longer control my body and was being pulled toward some appetite I neither understood nor saw. Everything I knew and loved was gone, and as I was pulled further and further away I felt more and more transparent, and then I would see a dim, terrifying red glow in the distance and I knew it was for me, and it was always at this point in the dream that I woke up screaming.

And then one time, just as the red glow was starting to appear, a powerful man’s voice, one that I was sure was exterior to me in every conceivable way, said COBRA STRIKE. It was a divine command. I know of no other way to put it. It was my only way out. And so I started to yell COBRA STRIKE and point my fingers in the direction of obstacles and threats, and each time I did so they burst into flames and exploded, and my dream became a video game, one in which I was in control. Strange, though, to have that terrifying dream 25 times or more, and then to have that voice break through my consciousness and offer me the key to salvation. Not a day goes by that I do no think about that voice and the mysterious providence it provided me.

A crowded patio at night.

The man has sturdy legs and broad shoulders. He’s handsome and looks comfortable in his own skin, like he’s very good at whatever it is he does for a living and is used to moving fluidly through the world. Behind him, holding his one hand with her two, is a blind woman. She is stunning in her beauty, radiant, even. Looking at her it feels possible that a mountain stream had assumed the form and flesh of a woman and appeared amidst us like a miracle. Those of us who are watching her have no conscious choice in the matter. There is something that pure and commanding about her beauty.

She’s blinking awkwardly into the lights above the bar as the man explains the topography of the patio she is trying to navigate through.

“There’s some uneven ground here, and then a slight step up. You okay?”

She nods wordlessly.

As they pass through the thicket of tables and chairs and people, every set of eyes are upon her. Conversations are falling silent, heads are turning and imaginations are sparking. Everybody is watching, trying to enter into the mystery of her life, trying to understand the uncanny sense of relief– of hope, even– we all felt in seeing a person so unable to apprehend her own powerful beauty, a person so unsullied. She moves through us like a saint through fire, and maybe she feels our eyes upon her, feels the hunger and predation that haunt a bar like this, but maybe, perfect in her own wilderness, she feels nothing. She moves closer to the man as the level of spatial complexity increases, dropping one hand from his and letting it idle in the back pocket of his jeans.

And just beyond them a red traffic light sways above the intersection while a bat swoops down through the night and across the clear, crisp moon. Each person there wanting to tell her about the moon, the beautiful moon, and how hopefully we’d throw ourselves into that unknowable night, just to touch it’s face.

Although it wasn’t total in Toronto, there was about 75% coverage and a friend of ours decided to invite some people over for a picnic and watch it from a blanket spread on the grass.

I never much thought about it, but I suppose eclipses have always made me a little nervous. Beyond the typical anxiety about accidentally looking up at the sun and having your sight destroyed forever (as if a punishment for seeing a Goddess disrobe),

or the fear of suddenly being seized by a compulsion to look up at the sun and having your vision destroyed forever, there is also the certainty that somebody is going to draw an apocalyptic line from the prophecies of Nostradamus to the activities of Donald Trump, always leaving you to wonder, “Is this going to be it, are these my last moments on earth?”

And so there was a slight unease in the city, as if something in our organized, convenient and mechanized lives had been thrown just a bit off kilter. What we had always relied on, what had always remained fixed in our lives, was about to shift out of place.

Looking up through the glasses at the retreating sun was weird. It seemed like clockwork, the perfection of the orbs, the synchronicity, all suggesting something made by design rather than accident, and I found that I could not watch for too long. I suppose I was worried about my eyes, but I think there was something larger to it, as well—I had to look away. It was all too big and mysterious, boundless in all directions.

And on the street passing by were people we’d call over to have a look, and they did. Cars stopped, strangers smiled and people gathered around our little blanket.

It reminded me of a city-wide power failure. Released from the secure and known, people were at a kind of liberty, uninhibited and accessible in ways that Tuesday afternoon Torontonians typically are not.

And as the eclipse reached it’s full extent, you could see that the light in the city had changed. It had grown thinner, like somebody had started to turn the dimmer down, and the air felt cooler and lower to the ground, as if a fog was rolling over the streets. I noticed that I didn’t hear any birds at all, and the recognition of this secondary vanishing made me feel like I was on the edge of something.

And so it was that we watched.

All gathered together, by chance and design, each one having traveled through bad weather and heartbreak, each one certain there would be more to come. And at this spot we took comfort in one another. Each one of us so small– our lives precarious, vulnerable and now,  in the midst of something that reached so far beyond us, so very much the same.

It’s been well over a week now since Ammon Bundy and his militia men took over the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge headquarters in Oregon.

As the harsh winter falls like ash around them, neither the Federal Government nor The Citizens for Constitutional Freedom have shown even a hint of quit.

****************************

The Citizens for Constitutional Freedom Press Conference, January 14th, 2016

Ammon Bundy: Once again, our intelligence gathering services have had to bring us some very bad news.

On the heels of the death of our great teacher and brother, David Bowie, another true patriot and giant amongst men has been taken from us. Our comrade, Alan Rickman, star of stage and screen, has fallen.

Ryan Bundy: This is bullcrap, man!! Bullcrap!!

Ammon Bundy: Easy brother, easy.

Ryan Bundy: By the hammer of Grabthar, we shall be avenged!!

Ammon Bundy: Rickman died as he lived, with his boots on.

While carrying out an assault on a government facility in Northern California, Rickman was struck down by a hail of gunfire from CIA operatives posing as paramedics. It was a cowardly and treacherous act and….What? Well, where did you hear that? Really? Really? Did TMZ report that, too? Well, geez. Cancer, hunh? Do they think it was planted in his body by the government. Inconclusive, eh? Okay. Okay. Give me a moment. Just bear with me! This is a very stressful time, okay? Don’t forget, I’m fighting tyranny here, for you and your children, so just cut me some slack! I’m doing God’s will, not yours, okay!?

(Conference is interrupted for five minutes)

Ammon Bundy: Okay, thanks for your patience. Sometimes constitutional freedom take a little bit of time.

Our intelligence department has just confirmed that Alan Rickman died under very mysterious circumstances late last night. Naturally, many of my men– myself included–have been shaken to the core by this devastating news. I’m not going to lie to you, it’s not my style, but there were more than a few tears shed last night. Three more of our men, devastated by grief, just like when Ziggy Stardust took his final bow, left the encampment and returned home this morning, and as always we wish them Godspeed.

Ryan Bundy: May our comrades ride as swiftly and surely to their families as Alan Rickman to Kate Winslet, in his portrayal of noble Colonel Brandon in Sense and Sensibility!

Ammon Bundy: As always, we will continue the battle, to be the tip of the spear, just as Professor Severus Snape would have wanted. If he were here right now, he would cast a spell on the government and we would all be enjoying the land that is rightfully ours to profit from.

It is hard to imagine, but it was only a few short weeks ago that my family and I sat around enjoying Rickman’s brilliant work in that modern Christmas classic, Love Actually. Yeah, I can see more than a few smiles in the press gallery, there. Rickman spoke to us all, even godless, liberal media, and he had the truly unique ability to tap into the soul of the white, middle-aged man and speak directly to us.

Ryan Bundy: Lord, I related, I related so hard, for who amongst our clan hasn’t made the mistake of giving our wives a Joni Mitchell CD for Christmas!?

Ammon Bundy: Hallelujah, brother, don’t I know it!

Alan Rickman told the difficult truths. His portrayal of complex antagonists is what made me want to get into the business of fighting for the Constitution and taking over government buildings. I had always hoped to find an adversary as strong and charismatic as Rickman– a Hans Gruber to my John McClane.

We will miss him truly, madly and deeply. May a flight of angels carry you home, brave soldier.

]]> http://michaelmurray.ca/militia-men-on-alan-rickman/feed 0 http://michaelmurray.ca/constellation-jones http://michaelmurray.ca/constellation-jones#comments Sun, 26 Apr 2015 01:48:20 +0000
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http://michaelmurray.ca/?p=5308 It feels like being swept along in a surging river. I reach out for rocks, pieces of information, something I can cling to, but I’m yanked from them almost immediately, submerged and spinning, swallowing water, and then for a moment my head pops up and I gasp for air, hoping to get my bearings and grab hold of a branch or something certain, but then I’m pulled along again, spiralling downstream….

This whole thing, this trek through the land of illness, has the definitive feel of an ancient Greek Odyssey, and I’ve come to believe that I’m on a hero’s quest.

Quietly, at dawn, as I’m wheeled down through the subterranean tunnels that connect the university hospitals, the porters serve as my guides.

Their various languages flock overhead, the mysterious syllables disperse above me and it’s like they’re communicating a kind of weather instead of words. Descending into this unexplored dimension we pass creatures and topography as strange and wonderful as mythology, my porter/guides taking me on obscure missions where I must slay monsters, solve riddles and exhibit great feats of strength and determination in order to inch closer to my destiny, to my ultimate goal.

And somewhere past imagination, our son Jones pours through space. Laid bare to mystery, he carries messages and lessons from beyond. He hurtles through the firmament now, our meteor, cresting planets with a fierce, unstoppable purpose– he’s everywhere at once, multivalent. He’s assembling in slow wonder inside my wife, while I, caught in a terrestrial and mortal struggle, battle to be present, hurrying to be there to catch him, when like some sort of impossible star descending, he falls into our life.