POPPY LOVE

(Continuing)

The character awaits you, his life lives in every thought of the writer, right here before your eyes, how could it be any simpler to understand? Oh you treasures of God who keep reading, take what is here and fill it with life. Maybe later beside the pool you will have a curiosity about a question posed or something silly that was raised here in the midst of these few simple lines of words. Maybe at the grocery store or just lying down for a nap. Recollection comes reminding with memories as a free crow flies overhead toward the end of the afternoon. Now, where is our Zoe?

She could hardly wake him. She even broke into English although she knew he was still asleep.

The poppy, the poppy… The words were hardly formed as he wiped the drool from his mouth and struggled to awaken. The late morning sun filtered through the blinds as Zoe now resorted to several boxing style blows to his face, three or four furry little right hooks to the nose in hopes of getting some damned breakfast.

Things had gotten strange the night before. He got up later than he had wished. He made himself a pot of coffee, two pieces of toast and some scrambled eggs and sat down near the patio but still inside as it was too cool to be outside for breakfast. After a few sips of coffee he told Zoe what a strange night it had been.

I remember opening the picture. I remember sitting in front of it on the floor with it resting back on the couch. I looked at that thing for what it seemed were years of time… It really felt like forever Zoe. I gazed into the center of the fresh poppy there gleaming red with its bright and glistening center wet to its lilted ridges, red pressing velvet out and away engorged to an edge sprung warm in a beatific burst of spring which whispered at first, then swelled to dew drops on my tongue… I gazed into the poppy and drank endlessly. Oh Zoe, the quenching… I had a whole lifetime with horses… I was the conductor of symphonies… It gave and gave like music pouring through me… And the more I played and played…

I just. I just cannot describe it.

He hopped up from breakfast, through his dishes in the sink and flopped over on the couch with his spiral-bound notebook and he spent the better part of that day lying on his back writing out everything, word by word he unfolded as much of the events and their significance as he could keep up with from the epic dream he had upon opening the poppy. 

At present it was hanging over a bookcase he had parked in the living room. There was a potted plant across to the other corner of the room, a small coffee table and a few lamps so the place was fairly posh. Comfortable. Stylish.

He would've spent the entire weekend scribbling down his notes, filling out page after page all from that one single strange night he opened the photo of the poppy. All he knew when he awoke was that he was very much like the poppy and the poppy was very much like him. He felt astonishment at how it lived its dripping life on the verge of its blessing, again and again. It was the healing gaze of God he prayed within himself, the heart of ALMIGHTY LOVE pulsing in this most tender flower. Now and always.

Things were warming up in town, people were out on their bikes and taking their walks with their dogs. For some reason there were several corgis in this neighborhood, he never would understand why. But it felt good to get out and walk. 

You get in your stride, you put your music on and just walk yourself down the street, maybe start with a goal of getting to the corner. Feels good to get moving. I like to move my arms a lot when I'm walking. Right up to the point before I start to look like a real dork, I'm always real careful not to push the limit. But it feels good to move the arms and legs at the same time. And we have this great hill that goes down toward the library and once I get going in that direction I usually stop over and put my nose in a book or two. I get a kick out of locating one of my old favorite novels and then I sit down on their comfy leather couches and read a chapter or two of my favorites. I love Murakami, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Kurt Vonnegut… Charles Frazier.

On his way to a dinner party that evening he had a thought about writing some new recipes for whitefish. There were potatoes in his cupboards and he thought maybe to stop at the market on his way home, that is if he wasn't going to be staying too late. We'll see.

It was a nice bunch of people he'd known from school and it would be fun to catch up. But it would be strange for him to see the very friend who had just given him the poppy photograph. When he read that it was from this particular artist he was surprised and flattered and happy and grateful all at once. Now everybody was going to hang out and he would have to find a way to thank them for the gift. It didn't take much time for him to decide not to share anything about the crazy dream he had upon gazing into it however. There was absolutely no way he was going to go down that road, not until he had figured some more things out for himself, his recollections from the night of the poppy dreams would continue to return. He would do his best to enjoy himself that night. 

Maybe some Chardonnay, some ABBA for the gang to help us all unwind.