Awake Asleep Dreaming Dead (17 page)

There’s no . . . sound! Then, as he thought of the sounds of nature, he could hear them. The world came to life. Birds chirped, the wind blew, and a moment later everything was back to normal.

That was a mind-blower. It must be a side effect from almost crashing, he whispered in a low uneasy tone. Some sort of delayed shock—

He aimed his camera back in the direction of the rolling hills and horizon, panning, shooting in bursts. He turned to the car to get some shots of it, but stopped taking pictures, and slowly lowered the camera.

Now—that—is . . . weird!

He slid his hand across the hood of the car, and caressed the top of the front fender.

How can that be?

It looks okay under here, too, he said, crouched on one knee. He got up, opened the trunk, and as he looked inside thought, The same as when I packed it, then muttered, Why aren’t there any scratches or dents on the car? The fence posts clobbered it.

The driver heard his cell phone, and it rang again. He listened, and followed the sound, then found it under the seat, but too late, and read one new message.

Trip going okay? Tired? You didn’t sleep at all. I’m getting ready for work, talk later.

Should I tell her about almost having an accident, and the freaky thing about the car not getting smashed after driving through a fence, the driver muttered. Why worry her? he said, and sent a reply.

You’re right—I’m tired—stopped—eating the sandwiches you made. I’m okay.

He dropped the phone on the passenger seat, opened the cooler, and grabbed a sandwich when the phone buzzed with another message.

Call you later :-)

He set the phone down, and grabbed an old highway atlas from under the front seat.

Now, let’s see. Where am I.

He traced the map with his fingers searching the twisted lines and printed figures.

Here’s the road, and Fort McRoy, and there’s Wild Cat Mountain State Park.

He sat back and ate the sandwich.

This is a good sandwich, he thought, and she’s a good cook, then washed it down with a slug of water.

As he watched and looked around in wonder, nature’s breath caressed the trees and stroked the tall grass.

This place feels so . . . tranquil.

Well I guess I’d better get back on the road, then looking around at the scenery the driver said, This place looks so familar; I seem to know it. He started the engine, pushed in the clutch, and put the car in gear. Why does it look so familar?

He let out the clutch, and slammed the accelerator to the floor. A cloud of smoke from the rear tires floated up to the sky like an offering to God. He shifted into second, third, then fourth gear.

I feel free.

SILENCE

 

In the rear-view the hidden sun emerged from behind a hillock. It climbed, bled warmth across the horizon, then touched and penetrated the flora, feeding the rousing world. The broad, circular, burning glow braced slowly, stirred the day, and like a mother gripping a child, surrounded and embraced every living and lifeless thing to its bosom. The warmth fell leisurely, floated downward on a dancing mist, caressed the sleeping, and released a welcoming breath on all things.

Birds warbled on the largest open stage ever known to man, then scores of other creatures joined this natural performance. Squirrels scurried up and down trees, frogs croaked on lily pads and jumped into ponds. High above, ducks in arrowhead formation called as they flew across a blue backdrop mottled with pallid bulging clouds. With a little help from the breeze, ringlets of midnight dew dropped from the moist leaves. To show they were awake, creatures appeared giving praise with their own voices, and their scent of life was carried on the wind. This invitation spread across the valley, bending grass and trees, moving earth, and waking the living world.

The driver scanned the left and right boundaries of the road. He was on the lookout for animals that might jump into his path as he made his way down the twisting valley trail and out of the trees. He turned the radio on and checked the airwaves for a station. He looked ahead at an intersection where the road forward no longer continued: He hit the breaks, and screeched to a halt. No sign, so which way do I go? He thought. After looking in both directions, he turned left, and headed down a straight flat highway.

Glad to get out of the trees, maybe I’ll find something worthwhile to photograph around here.

Below the wide gleaming sapphire sky the driver followed a river of asphalt that seemingly had no end. On one side of the road, broad level fields of corn stood head-high, and across the road, golden wheat waved in the breeze. In the distance, sketches; outlines of farms, barns, and silos. Cattle grazing in pastures on rolling side hills made him wonder if he ought to stop and snap a few shots. As he drove farther down the trail he saw some ragged cars parked in the tall grass next to a giant sign with a quart basket of strawberries painted on it. At the top it said, “PICK YOUR OWN IF YOU LIKE”. Every so often he saw heads bobbed between the rows of the patch. On the right next to a clump of trees was an apiary. A guy stood amidst a cloud of bees that were buzzing around the net that dangled from the hat he wore. Occasionally he waved a smoker around to tame the riled ones. Beyond that was a lonely dull gray rectangular corrugated metal building with a couple of small square windows in back. The structure rested near an open field, and in front what looked like a fairway on a golf course, the grass cut tight to the ground.

I wonder what that building’s used for, the driver thought, then realized it was an airplane hanger. Just then a plane swooped down from nowhere, and soared over the car. It climbed into a landing pattern, made a final turn, dropped on a grass strip, then coasted and stopped in front of the hanger.

As the driver watched the plane, he thought, Maybe I can get him to fly me over Alan Roger’s school. Some aerial shots might good for the magazine layout. There’s the road, he said, and turned onto a bumpy trail chased by a cloud of dust. The dirt road had a tight, straight barbed-wire fence on both sides, and it zigzagged at ninety degree angles. The driver finally pulled up next to the hanger and parked. He watched the plane stop, the pilot get out, and go into the hanger. He came out and ran his hands over the wings of the red and white bi-plane. He moved the ailerons, and pushed on the tires with his boot. I wonder if he’s getting ready to take off again. I’m going to ask him to fly me around, the driver, thought, waved to the pilot, then walked over.

Hi. Nice day to fly.

The pilot looked over, and nodded. Yeah, sure is a great day.

He was average height, looked about fifty, dressed in jeans, and cowboy boots.

You live around here? the driver asked.

Yes I do. You?

I’m from Four Corners. I’m on my way to Ellsworth. Is this your plane?

Yup! You fly?

No, no, I can’t, but I’ve taken pictures from planes. I was wondering if you could take me up to get some aerial shots for a magazine article I’m covering.

You a photographer?

Yeah, and when I saw you land, I got the idea that it would be nice to get some aerial shots. I don’t know if they’ll be used in the article, but you never know, might if they look good.

What kind of shots?

Shots of Alan Roger’s architectural school. Heard of him?

Sure, he’s famous in these parts. Lot’s of people visit that place. They think it’s interesting.

Can you take me up, and fly me around? And what would you charge me for that?

I can fly you there, but won’t charge anything. I don’t need the money.

But I can pay. You need to cover the fuel charge.

It’s okay, don’t worry. It’s a short flight, and I like flying.

That’s great, but don’t think it’s right letting you do it for free, though. When would you be ready to go?

I’ll fill the tanks, check the plane, and we will be on our way. Go get your gear.

Okay, and my name’s Sam. I really appreciate you doing this for me.

Call me Al. I think you’ll get some great shots today.

I hope so.

Ever fly in a small plane before?

Like I said, I’ve had a few jobs shooting from planes, flew a little, but no real solo flight time.

Then this’ll be a piece of cake for you. If you like, once we’re up, I’ll let you take the controls.

Okay, sounds fun. This is turning out better than I imagined.

Put this head-set on, and we’ll be able to talk without screaming at each other. It gets noisy in here.

Okay, ready? Here we go! Tally-ho!

The pilot pushed in the throttle, and the plane cruised forward down the bumpy field, bouncing and jerking as it picked up speed. He pushed in the throttle more, pulled back on the yoke, and the plane was airborne. They climbed slow and straight, then banked left.

The school’s not far from here, so it won’t take long to get there. Better get your camera ready to shoot. Open the window, the draft will keep it up, so you don’t have to hold it open.

Yeah, I know.

Do you want to be a famous photographer?

I’ve thought about it, and it would be nice, I guess.

What do you think happens when a person becomes famous?

They make a lot of money?

Well, maybe, but one thing is sure to happen, people who you know, and don’t know, begin to ask you for things.

Like what?

Money is one of the requests, but also for your support, and time. They hang around like bees, buzzing, stinging, always wanting more and more. There’s no more free time alone. And that’s the one thing you have before becoming famous. People talk as if they’re your best friend, and you won’t even know their names. Some famous people love the attention, and others hate it.

Some think that being famous is destiny. Some think it’s hard work, Sam said. What do you think?

Both. If you’re from a royal family it’s fate, and if you inherit a fortune, it’s fate. If you work hard, it’s both, with a little luck tossed in. If you make the right decisions when the time comes, you’ll fulfill you’re destiny. If you make the wrong decisions, you’ll fulfill your destiny. Then there’s the piece of the puzzle you have no control over, and your fate is decided by someone else. There’s the school up ahead. Get your camera ready. I’ll circle the whole place a few times. Let me know if you want to get a certain angle or lower.

Okay. I can’t believe how my luck turned out, running into you. I guess it’s fate.

Well, whatever it is, you’ll understand soon.

What will I understand soon?

Why you’re here, and why I’m here, and what’s going to happen to you.

Happen to me?

Yes, happen to you. You take the controls? Just keep the same heading and altitude. You’ll be fine. I’m going now.

Going? Going where?

Bye Sam Young. Nice meeting you. That’s my school down there. Take some nice pictures!

The pilot opened the door, and gave one last smile. It’s your choice, Sam. You can do anything you want. It’s all up to you, he said, and jumped out of the plane. Sam watched the pilot change into a young boy as he slowly fell, and disappeared into the puffy white clouds.

What the hell! Sam yelled, and grabbed the controls. He jumped out of the plane. Shit! He . . . jumped out of the . . . plane. I’ve got to get this thing on the ground.

Sam circled around and around just like the hawk he’d seen through the trees, floating between earth and sky.

DISCOVERY

 

Sometimes, during times of excessive velocity, events coincide, and the result is miraculous, devastating, or left un-explainable. Some of these actions may never be repeated, but are talked about, and passed on to children and kin. Who in turn tell their grandchildren—on and on—and perhaps the episode is celebrated, commemorated, and becomes a natural occurrence, or tradition, kept by family, generation after generation.

Almost everything told to us is shared and reinforced, but only bits and pieces are retained, then the information is eventually handed down. Memories deep within the soul are stored in cavernous honeycombs waiting for the right moment or time of necessity. Stacks of information upon piles of thoughts heaped to incredible heights, buried in a grotto of memories. A hollow warehouse of masked thoughts slowly escaping, wanting to injure or aid in times of consequence.

What’s your earliest memory? Why do you remember it? How old were you? Think back as far back as possible. Was it painful, joyful? Did you scream, cry, laugh? How do you feel when it scratches the surface, and bubbles into your thoughts? Does it bring you joy or sadness? Would you like to forget this experience, or re-live it again and again? Think of it now. How do you feel? Does a smile appear, or a tear fall? Do you raise your arms in victory, or clasp your hands about your face, and clench your fists as they burst with energy, ready to battle the shadows that follow you? What’s the silent notion that you pass on, guard, or hold secret? Is it a reoccurring dream, an old story, unforgettable memory or deed?

Memories are pinned in our mind like post-a-notes, baggage we carry triggered by an event, word, feeling or sense. Sometimes they just pop into our head at curious times for no reason. The earliest memory for most is usually falling, and hitting your face is a hard lesson. It’s a lesson that has two parts: first, try not to fall, and second, if you do, get back up. Eventually this evolves into an automatic reflex like breathing, or raising your hands to stop an object from hitting you in the face. In these early stages the first intention after falling is to struggle to your feet and stand, because nothing will happen unless you do. Pretty much all you need to know at the beginning of life is based on that simple action. And—success or failure depends on getting up. It may come early for a few, later for many, and for some—never. In life the concept is always the same; only the situations change.

Needs and desires mix as we grow and learn. Hope emerges; it transforms with time, and brings boundaries into view. Limitations are suggested by parents, grandparents, family, teachers, employers, and friends. And sooner or later a government, once invisible, appears waving a laundry list in our face. A catalog of what to-do, and what not-to-do, have to . . . don’t have to do . . . can do . . . can’t do . . . should do . . . shouldn’t do . . . must do, mustn’t do. Most everyone reacts in a negative manner to the conventions. We protest passionately, holding a copy of this set of laws in our hand. Rebel, is the thought, I’m going to do things my way! Go against the grain. With imagination, they begin to create a new paradigm, and a new way of thinking. The goal, to revolutionize the world into the thing we see in our mind.