A Visit to Holland

03/09/17

The family that occasionally lived there was asleep. An old goat was dancing in the
newly remodeled recreational area. He was not drinking a Pink Mimosa because he was
the designated driver.
Finally one of the children said, “I hear music.” One of the other children said, “I
hear music too,” and they continued sleeping. “Let us continue sleeping,” they should
have said.
“What can that be?” asked the father, who lived in Holland and therefore did not
feel out of place in their dreams.
Answer: That could be the familiar bodies of family members engirthing and
caressing the legendary wildness of the dark forest. (They often did this in their sleep.)
Perhaps you would like to go with them and respond to them and love them.
Perhaps you would like to eat them.
Did they dream of the corruption of children and government officials correlating
the incidence of teen pregnancy to the ratio of missing bread crumbs? Who was minding
the ovens?
Hardly any needles at all had fallen off the Christmas tree. Hardly any needles at
all.
One of the children, whose name was Hat, was tying robins to sticks in his dream.
It made a fine demonstration of inappropriate aeronautical principals.
The designated driver had fallen asleep. He was dreaming of yellow-eyed children
forced to sing Christmas carols in crab traps anchored in underwater caves near exotic
tropical islands. Each child had one white hair growing from the center of its forehead.
Several family members were whistling. Sleep induced nasal vibration or ancestral
memories of the faeries’ hornpipe?
“What fun!” thought the children in the designated driver’s dream. Then they tried
to breathe.
Hat was handing out robins tied to sticks like popsicles. Hat was twittering. Hat
was writing his personal history on the head of a pin while standing on it.
One of the children, whose name was Mimosa, woke up trying to invent a red day,
a very very red day.
Hat fell off.
Several nocturnal insects began eliciting testimonials from the familiar bodies of
family members. Perhaps you would like to respond to them.
Hardly any blood was arriving at all. Hardly any.
Susan and Jonathan asked their mother to tell them all about it. Mimosa was
drifting into a deep fog. She chuckled in her sleep and wheezed loudly.
If you put seven donkeys and a crown of gold on the head of a pin, how many wise
men are left?
The house listened and listened.
What fun!
The sleepers that occasionally lived there awoke just then. It was a ritual they understood well, frequently referred to as preparing to eat breakfast, but the red father
was in Holland and the telephone was no longer ringing.
“Who can that be?” asked the father. “Who can that be?”


Fiction. Modern Abstract Fables.

(First edition, hardcover with dustjacket, 524 pages, $36.50 USD.)



Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days draws from fairy tales, a condescending of a 1938 Social Studies reader for 6th grade, an 1890 handbook on marital compatibility, numerous annoying educational advancement studies, the myths and legends of third-world countries and minority peoples, pulp fiction, a history of carnival side shows, folktales, frequent conversations with Crows, Owls and a wide variety of underground inhabitants, insects and the people who collect them, Joseph Cornell, Günter Eich, Russell Edson, the French Surrealist poets, the Quay Brothers, letterpress printing, and the author’s inability to channel his imagination linearly.

Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.