Arabian Daze

ARABIAN DAZE

                Languishing in halls of splendour wreathed in sapphire and emerald all afire of a day when rapturous maidens clung to hussars and candle dreams. There, on the top of the moon, was a practical aid to dreams. At last a safeguard and pollywog to tune up the saffron images which streamed forth coming bright and golden through the shimmer.  On top of each was an umbrella filled with many hued leaves, mother of pearl and excellent diamonds. Pouring forth on the left was an ancient wrapped circle of garlands and gold, shining with a radiance that shook the forest and hollowed out our minds as does a cannibal after his nectar.

                Poor old man, humbled by years on this river, stumbling through the tree tops and picking up a sweet scent of roses from the branches at the top of the trees which brushed by him. It felt as if the day was a jewel in the eye of a swallow. This man was truly a giant if we were to believe our eyes, a towering apparition to see. He swayed in awesome blackness and grandeur through the topmost branches and tangle. Suddenly without warning there was a gigantic swishing in the sky and a tornado of gleaming crystals and opals showered down on our feet and hair.

                Silently we pressed our lukewarm senses against the air. They ticked. The atmosphere was alive with writhing odours, fragrances of flowers and smokes. Through the tangle was clearly distinguishable a castle made of lavender and cerulean glaze. Through its image shone the moon and the sun. The universe yawns. The sky is everlasting. At a distance is all the past and near at hand a large plant called the future. But it is red and barks like a watermelon. We are clearly no nearer our goal of perfumed water and bliss in the palms. Interject here sad nuptial seeds and a host of other dizzying monuments and the scene has returned to normal with no dust and less ivy.  Truly the forest nears its climactic end somewhere near here. A large red sun sinks into the sea.

                The walls heave and new day dawns on this tent alone in the desert of cloud and waste. Thanks to a friendly zephyr there is still plenty of pink and grey. The sky is a fine yellow with light lemon polka dots. Each cloud lies in a bed of eiderdown on the ground; it is neither down nor up. Neither however matters for we are in free fall here a thousand light years from limbo. The light is an awkward shade of deafness. A gentle rain from time to time falls. Its water is lush and warm like a balmy lagoon in the heat of a fabulous moon tide.

                Contrary to the popular belief it is not to anyone’s discredit to pronounce the word perpendicular as the word schooner. We climbed the masts every day and hoisted marvellous banners from them as if each day were our last and each evening a huge tortoise on the edge of existence. Flying now several feet above even ourselves, it was obvious that no description of the proceedings would be more apt than a factual nothingness.

Gregg Simpson, 1968