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the wolves of isengard are here
Jan. 21st, 2003 12:09 pmSirens. Fire trucks and police and an ambulance. I have learned to tell them apart over time, and there are a great many of them out on McNeil road right now. I always wonder about that. Logic states that on any given day, there will be accidents, deaths, and the things that might warrant three seconds of a local newscaster's voice in passing. I wonder what they are, which lives are changing, who is riding in the back of the ambulance, is she like me, is it my father, is it someone I know?
It's something of the same feeling I had as a kid, riding in the back seat of the suburban and watching the other cars on the road. I wondered who they all were, if they really existed, what lives were spun off in directions that I couldn't see.
I dreamed about walking on the fence line of a farm, and there were wolves. Enormous, snow colored wolves. I collected my knives from the grass, some with plain steel hilts, others elaborate silver. Throwing them, cutting throats, slipping in the damp grass, and screaming for my friend to help me while I held the wolf by the forelegs and tried to kick it off me.
It was all strange. I don't think I've ever learned how to throw a knife like that in the waking world.
Perhaps it just stems from anxiety, ad the casual mention of the end of the world.
The sirens are gone. It's like spring outside, warm. Perhaps I'll go walking to shake some of the dream away.
It's something of the same feeling I had as a kid, riding in the back seat of the suburban and watching the other cars on the road. I wondered who they all were, if they really existed, what lives were spun off in directions that I couldn't see.
I dreamed about walking on the fence line of a farm, and there were wolves. Enormous, snow colored wolves. I collected my knives from the grass, some with plain steel hilts, others elaborate silver. Throwing them, cutting throats, slipping in the damp grass, and screaming for my friend to help me while I held the wolf by the forelegs and tried to kick it off me.
It was all strange. I don't think I've ever learned how to throw a knife like that in the waking world.
Perhaps it just stems from anxiety, ad the casual mention of the end of the world.
The sirens are gone. It's like spring outside, warm. Perhaps I'll go walking to shake some of the dream away.