Dirt

Chapter 3

When Galen woke it was dark. The house silent. The time of peace. The way he wished the world could be. No people.

He had to shake his arm to get it to wake up. He flushed the toilet and brushed his teeth. Then he walked barefoot down the stairs, stepping as softly as possible, trying to walk with no weight. His body lifted in the air, gravity gone. This world a dream, the house made of memory. His mother as a child walking these same steps.

Out through the pantry, he walked beneath the enormous leaves of the fig tree, could smell its fruit, let his jeans and underwear and shirt slip to the ground, stood naked. The moon nearly full, and as he stepped around the farm shed into the walnut orchard, he saw the array of bones. Long rows of white trunks and branches all turned to bone in this light. Every branch hollow and too large, luminous. The leaves as shadows too insubstantial to cover.

Galen ran as he had read in the Carlos Castaneda books, let his bare feet find their way in the night, their own path, closed his eyes and held his arms out to the sides, palms up. The clods of dirt crumbling beneath his feet, rocks hard, small branches, leaves. All of it hurt and made him slow down, but he wanted to be lifted free. He wanted to drift over the ground without sound or feel, his feet held just above the surface by a kind of magnetism. Instead, his feet sank deep into furrows, stumbled and jolted, and he never knew what was coming next. He opened his eyes and slowed to a walk, put his arms down.

The moon the brightest of bones. Dark patches forming the open mouth of a snake, a small man sitting below, meditating. Always the same moon. It never revolved, never changed. Always this snake head and small man etched on a disc of bone.

The trees arrayed in obedience to the moon, lined up, reaching upward. Even the furrows responding to the pull. All of the earth extending, trying to close the gap. The air so thin, what was keeping the earth and moon apart?

Galen sat cross-legged, his lower back braced by a furrow, and stared up into the moon. His palms open on his knees. Long exhale, and breathe in deep. Exhale again. No thought, only this shining disc, this mirror.

But then he was thinking of his cousin, of the inside of her thigh, of her lips, of her foot pressed against his crotch. Samsara always there, always intruding. But perhaps it could be used. Perhaps it could provide some power.

Galen rose and put his hand on his boner. He stroked it a bit and then tried to run like that down the furrow, stroking with his right hand, his left hand held outward to the side, palm upward, a meditative pose, his eyes closed. He tried to let his legs guide him, tried to let the boner guide him, lift him above the furrows toward the moon. And his feet did feel lighter. He was gaining speed, the dirt falling away farther below, the air gaining a presence, and maybe that was the key. Not some sort of magnetism from the earth but a pulling from the air itself. The air was the medium, not the earth.

He tried to leave his body, tried to place his consciousness outside, to see himself from far away. White bone-legs running, like the tree trunks come alive.

But his breath was ragged, holding him to the world, pinning him here when he wanted to lift free. Tall weeds ripping at him, lashing him, a snag between his toes and he almost went down. He had to open his eyes and jog to the side to get around the worst patch. And this was the problem. Always an interruption. Whenever he was getting close to something.

So he stopped. Stopped running, stopped stroking. He tried to never come, because he’d read that a man lost his power when he came. But he really wanted to come. And he was tired of just his hand.

Galen lay down in the hollow between two furrows, curled on his side. Breathing heavily, wet with sweat, the air cool now on his skin. His forehead in the dirt. The world only an illusion. This orchard, the long rows of trees, only a psychic space to hold the illusion of self and memory. His grandfather giving him rides on the old green tractor, the putting sound of the engine. His grandfather’s Panama hat, brown shirt, smell of wine on his breath, Riesling. The feel of the tractor tugging forward, the lurch as the front wheels crossed over a furrow. All of that a training to feel the margins of things, the slipping, none of it real. The only problem was how to slip now beyond the edges of the dream. The dirt really felt like dirt.

Galen woke many times in the night, shivering. The moon a traveler, crabbing sideways through the stars. Galen on the surface of the earth. The planet not to be believed, spinning at thousands of miles per hour. There should be some sound to that if it were true. Some thrumming or vibration. But the dirt was soundless, and it felt too light, as if the earth’s crust were only a few feet deep. What Galen wanted was for the crust to crack so that he could fall through, fall thousands of miles flipping through empty space toward the center of gravity, accelerating, and then fall past the center toward the crust on the other side and feel himself slowing as gravity took hold. Until he’d reach the underside of the other side of the world and touch it lightly with his fingertips, then fall backward again. His feet would never touch ground, and that would be good.

Galen was so cold his teeth were chattering. But he didn’t get up. He fell back into sleep over and over, and the night was an endless thing. Each night a lifetime, including the wait for the end.

And when the end came, finally, when the sky lightened, the black become blue, Galen was not yet ready. Too quickly the air would bake, the earth would bake, and the day would repeat itself. There’d be tea with his mother and the visit with his grandmother and the visit from his aunt and cousin. Galen didn’t feel he could do it again.

He had to pee so badly he finally rose, sent an arc of piss toward a tree, then hooked his thumbs under his armpits and crowed a cockadoodledoo loud into the dawn. He strutted around naked, flapping his arms, warming up, calling in the day. His stomach an empty cavern, a pit shrinking him from the center. But he kept strutting, broke into a low run through the trees, then over to the main house. Stood beneath his mother’s window, crowed as loudly as he could and stomped his feet in the grass.

Damn it, Galen, he finally heard. I’m up now, and you know I won’t be able to fall back asleep.

Galen felt a smile, the real thing, happen across his face, his cheeks pulling themselves up. No stunted thing, his face not broken. He stopped crowing, walked over to grab his clothes from under the fig tree, and went in through the pantry. Quiet up the steps to his room, and he closed the door, took a shower to be clean finally, then buried himself under the covers, a warm nest, and fell deeply into sleep.