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October 28, 2018

41. The Hand

All that is transitory is but a metaphor.
—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe


I had a dream. I was in a beautiful green field. Lush grass waved silently in a friendly breeze. There were no trees of obstruction of the beauty as far as the eye could see. Clouds were enormously tall and a lazy brook meandered through the landscape. A shallow bed of rocks feed the water into a slightly larger pool of placid, perfectly still water. I spun fully around, slowly, to consume to landscape and appreciate the vastness.

Then a hand floated above me. A right hand. Natural in size and form but removed from a full corporeal body. I looked at my own right hand just to be sure—still there. It was at the same level of an intact hand and arm. It pointed and guided from this position. Never did it startle me—it felt appropriate in this dream. The hand prompted me forward.

I walked along and looked up into the clouds. Their forms were massive and towering. I looked downward and at the same arial scene but within the mirror of the lake. I became aware of the reflection as a metaphor. The clouds below were a facsimile of the clouds above. Nature established a simulacrum of itself. The reflection was identical but the clouds were different.
As I looked upward and walked I was unaware as I stepped lightly into the water’s edge. The clouds in the water rippled and distorted, becoming almost unrecognizable. Other things became different after my feet touched the water. I became a different person after the water washed my feet. I was fully aware of the change.

The hand came near and prompted my hand to open. It came forward and touched my palm. A burn seared through my own hand and up my elbow and shoulder. From the touch was a mark, a fingerprint forever marked on my palm. A promise. The hand opened itself and suggested I touch its palm. And so I did and left a mark of my own fingerprint on the flesh of the hand. A promise, mutual. A covenant. Time stood still and I simply reflected on the episode. The hand waited for me to regain composure and as my own understanding slowly caught up to reality.

Another man then appeared. As if the air was torn open he simply stepped through nothing and then became real before me. In this perfect world, his presence was a violation. His face—his furrowed brow—shown that he knew exactly where he was and his intention. He sprinted and lunged at the floating hand. The hand quickly moved aside. Once more the man chased and leapt for the hand. Another terrible miss. His steps took him closer to the babbling brook. As the third attempt was made the man’s foot caught a rock. He fell face down in the water as his head struck another stone. The meandering water quickly turned red and the man remained motionless. Soon the still water of the lake became tinted with the man’s presence. He remained unmoving. The reflection of the clouds became a new and stained facsimile of the clouds above.

The hand lifted high and disappeared into the clouds. Trumpets sounded and I awoke.

I just finished Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami and tried to plug a little influence.

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