Through weavings of bramble and hedge,shaded from the blue and sun, play salamander, fairies, good and bad alike ( this,determined byinterpreters of Dream); these are mossy, dust,limber - hidden. Their common elementis fire, sparked by magic, glimmered flakesof mayfly wing, bubbling soup of phosphor. I am scion of a line of druid priests. We were angels once, beings of the golden chord, til, thrown to earth for drowning in the cup of pride. Some of us repented here. Othershave mutated into demon skin. I amelven, airy brother to a scattered band of wanderers.All who live here touch their limbs to sod,walk in footsteps, pounded rhythm of erratic pulse,heartbeat, energy in bone and clay - a temporary life( everything material is only here for nowto play some whimsy's partand then, we all return ).So, I live amongst Diaspora of Abraham,rub my shoulders with these menand women, haggard denizens ofsubway car and cafeteria. I, the strangerno one wants to sit beside, watching for the sparkbehind the scowl, looking for the special ones.I recognize these ancient soulscacooned in human sheaths. Most of themforget the nature of the Dream: weavings of electric wireand aqueduct, networks of computer pathwaysbinding up a global mind.Once, today in fact,I walked a littered pavement througha gloomy scene of urban blight, saw a winopropped against a shopping cartpillowed by a wad of New York Times. He was elven,I could tell; there were tattooed runes across his wrist.I was certain, as our eyes connected,that he knew me for his kin. He was drunk,had drooping lids of yellow tearsand grit, together hardened in the slant."What's the point?" he asked. "Everything is gone.Cities are no place for faerie folk. I haven't seen a tree in weeks. Drunk as drunk can beand nothing else is real. Nothing else is real.""Who are you?" he asked again,in language that began to swim with Celtic poetry."Who are you, in corduroy and super cut?""You have light," I said. "It's just a feeble flicker,yet, it's still alive. You are meant for better things,meant to cross the sky in chariot of rainbow,meant for dance, and fantasy, and elemental lustiness.""No!" he argued back. "This is not a speechI need to hear. None on earth desireour dance of light. Times have changed,and Thomas Edison has put an end to us."ButI could not let it go. Could not ignorethe truth of who we wereand what it was insidethat drew me towards the sunthat, even in that moment, strained to cut its waythrough clouds above our heads. So,I bent, and lifted him, bore him in my armsacross a dozen crowded avenues, walked for hoursuntil we came to Central Parkwhere we rested in a clearingringed by giant rocks, sat against a treeto watch, as children sailed their model sailboatson the pond. "See," I told my brother."There are sparkles on the water,light in children's eyes. There is still a chancethat we might call the magic forth. Light is lightwherever it may shine. We are made from lightand - could it be that,here and now, our race will find a working way- some way to mingle with that human spark?"Then, he looked me in the eyewith hungry, searing confidence. "Let us make a circle in this place, form a faerie ring of pebbles and of bottle caps.Yes, we'll call the brethren hereand raise a different song,forge another magic,cast this age of shadow outfrom dixielandto Disneyland,from Chinato the glaciers of Antarctica...Now begins the Time of Light.I can feel it in my bones.Our magic will return. "tueitis.blogspot.com
