From somewhere off stage left an enormous man falls into step at my left side. He is a great dark mountain of furs and hides with a vast black beard and eyes that glitter like polished pewter under bushy black brows.

We walk together in silence on the hard crust of snow. My feet are warm in my mukluks with the in-turned fur. A black form in the distance becomes a cabin as we approach it. The outer walls are thick living chunks of bark from which lichens grow like fur, brown-black webby strands and protective green networks of plant matter. The roof is covered in a deep sod where grasses struggle against the cold.

The large man forces open the heavy door with his left arm and stands against it as I enter in front of him.

A warm, close interior, a fire already laid and blazing in a large square stove. I sit at a small table against the left wall. The bearded man removes his hides and furs and sits across from me. We never speak. Only gaze at one another. He is the King of Disks of my Tarot spreads, he tells me without speaking. He sees to it that I am safe and provided for. I know this, I say silently; thank you.

His eyes peer out of his dark kind face like shiny dimes.

I need words, I say without speaking. He stands and lifts a small square door in the floor. We descend steep wooden steps. Now we stand in a root cellar perhaps 6 feet square. The scent of living earth is powerful. He holds up a lantern. I look around to see what is stored there, images in my mind from root cellars I've seen before, shelves of dusty jars and barrels of whatnot. These fail to materialize--I can't bring an object into focus--because that's not what this root cellar is about; those are my own constructs, not true to the experience unfolding. This is about roots. The walls are raw, moist, crumbly earth with root fibers visibly protruding.

The man reaches forward and opens two heavy cupboard doors of unworked wood, built into the wall of soil. Behind them--a TV screen (?), and black-and-white display. It reminds me of the RCA Victor console of my childhood in my grandmother's house, and I lapse into nostalgic images until I find myself back in the cellar with the patient, bemused man. I am in error again. Quietly he waits for me to understand. Now I find myself climbing into the screen. I am in the TV set. I am the TV set. I stare out through the open doors into the little dirt cellar and at the approving face of the large man with the lantern. I close my eyes and try to bring in a clear signal.

Just like that, we're back walking in the snow. A raven stands out blue-black on the blank expanse ahead, the empty white ground. Beyond it a magenta glow spreads at the bottom of the cloud cover along the flat far edge. As we approach, the clouds lift further, revealing a brilliant sliver of enormous moon, with its silver star, up just ahead of the sun.

The raven was my idea. I put it there. I'm pretty sure.

1:43:54 PM    comment []