She’s slept for a couple of years, nearly, but the woman with a beard has asked to return, and I have obliged her and the toad whose garden she sometimes tends. They can be most insistent. If you have not read some of her history, you can search the blog (see the side-bar to your right) for “woman with a beard” to learn more about her. The toad has his own thread, so you might search for him separately if he piques your curiosity.
The woman with a beard dreams constantly of death. Stone shadows stretch to luminous horizons held at bay by bestiaries embroidered into tapestries tap-dancing tangents to King Carol’s ballad ballast. She would sink rather than throw over the weightiness of such formative songs sung blue, everybody knows that, except the dream weaver whose catcher’s net fell on the bed one sultry-sex night. Whether death comes for her or her mother, she could not say, but so far no lover has died and her mother forgets her way forward in the timeline left her.
Who would blame her this anxiety balanced on the beam of a toad’s leverage, the fulcrum of the reflecting pool calculated somehow using pi, imaginary numbers, and theoretical physics? She wakes, shudders off the spider webs of Thanatos and lights the fires of libido, id, and ego. Bee supers buzz around her head as she tries to avoid the traps of dull songs numbing the inside of her brain, stuck in frenzied repetition.
She lived among many lovers, each fallen by the shore of the Fisher King. Galahad never existed except in legend, and even then only as a flawed reflection of ideal gender expectations. So philosophies flower in the hedgerows alongside the tawny rose petals preserved in the summer heat.
The toad calls her to the garden and she would rather join him than linger in linguistic memories that try but fail to recover the essential oils of moments long gone. She steps into her cotton skin, drinks coffee cold-brewed.
When she goes outdoors, she finds blue sun and yellow sky splendor, a reversal of color a gift of imagery from the toad. Another day unfolds, and this day she chooses to let the sabbath arrest her, to drink wine and eat bread on the porch. She thinks, dear Saturday, let me rest with you.
Thus she enters the court of the Fishers, trying to wake them from their somnolence. The land dries out, the people cry out, the blood flows out from the wounds of war.
Wake, Fishers, wake! She thinks. But they do not.