Beauty Dreams

I have been into writing experiments these days. Last week I posted my notes on The Power of The Dog. And I think it was helpful for me to share that process. My thoughts are evolving, but I do think I am on to something about land and eroticism and the erasure of Indigeneity in that film.

This week I wanted to share something that I’ve been doing over on Twitter.

Basically, every day for the past two weeks, I have been adding one tweet to an ongoing story. I started on Sept. 24, so today is 14 days later. I wasn’t sure where I was going with it at first, and I still don’t. Each day I try to only read the previous tweet and add to that. I guess I just wanted to try out a longer term, consistent writing practice that was a little more creative than my typical fare. I like it. I would certainly edit parts if I were writing this as a story all at once, but then again, I am thinking more about process than outcome here. And it has been fun. I’m going to keep going for perhaps another two weeks, and see where I’m at then. Here is the story:

1. It’s the year 2078. I am a spirit ancestor. The sidewalks crack with wild tobacco and the wind rushes prayers to silent stars. Colonialism is over. The dark earth sighs with relief. And beauty is no longer a dream.

2. But the dreaming has only begun. Dreams sprout, hyacinths emerging, casting their purple light. Dreams that had only been dreamt in secret begin to take shape, amass. These silent dreams deferred, these wonderings, it-can't-possiblies, these futures, shudder and stretch to life.

3. The dreams join in council. There is much to discuss now that the world is healing. They look at each other, the past-dreams, the future-dreams, and they decide on a representative to take their suggestions to the People: Memory. Memory stands, nods in gratitude, ready, fierce.

4. Taking the shape of the Raven, Memory announces their intentions: I will remind the Trees of their silver dreams, so they can whisper their love-songs once more. I will remind the Humans that they are our kin. I will remind the Stones that they are our ancestors. Raven flew.

5. Observing the chaos from above, Raven could not believe it. Such destruction. Raven called to the People and the Stones and the Plants: grow, they said. Grow. And they began to stretch out, unfurl in green stripes across the land. Re-mind. Re-body. Entangle. Love.

6. The growing was fantastic. As if the plants had been waiting for centuries. They had, of course. But this time, at Raven's urging, they really let their greenness expand. Everywhere there was growing, restoring. Roots and stems and leaves and grass. Verdure unending.

7. And the stones, too. Bursting to life in crystalline permutations, volcanic storms, striations and sedimentations. The stones hummed a kinship song in tessellating vibrations. They instructed the humans, the last of all, the youngest, that it was time for them to renew as well.

8. But the humans were scared. They did not know how to relate anymore, only how to reproduce. They had forgotten the most basic lesson: making kin is an act of reciprocity, not sameness, not ego. Relate, Raven said. Relate and you will heal.

9. The humans stood amidst the rubble of a world they had forsaken, but instead of shrugging their shoulders, they asked for help. How? The plants said: you must root like us, entwine. The rocks said: you must vibrate like us, sing the songs of the land.

10. The People, timid, out of practice, opened their mouths to sing. But their voice was weak. The land did not vibrate. So Raven swooped down, puffed out their chest, and showed them how. And in that song was cosmic belief, trust in the possibilities of a future, beauty, love.

11. With Raven’s guidance the voice grew. Little by little, in fits and starts. But then the stones and boulders, the sand, the cement started to vibrate, to harmonize. The whole world was ringing, tuning itself to the voice of a million dreams, the stars, a galactic chord.

12. The sound was galactic and inspired, a future becoming present. And in the ringing, the calling to life, every piece, every sliver of matter was recharged with the fullness of good relations. It was a ringing that related, articulated, each individual to the whole.

13. Grass and bone, rock and bird, the relatives sang in unison. The world was repairing itself. But then, a bolt of lighting. Thunder. A cracking of the sky. The firmament of the heavens opened and the last greedy beings, the hungry, began to descend to earth, a swarm.

14. The sky blackened, a twisting shadow over the land. Raven had seen this before, when the white people cam to Turtle Island. But they thought there were no more of them. They must have been hiding beyond the clouds. Sing now! they exhorted the people. Sing with all your heart!