involuntary memory vi

We decide to take a seat on a promontory reminiscent of the White Cliffs of Dover, to celebrate the cerebral conversion from archipelago to peninsula. I tell the Buddhist fox that the least we can demand of this world is a ladder and nodding in silent agreement he paws me a return ticket: it's strange though, our itinerary is spelled out in mirror-coloured ink and the specifics of its issuance doesn't read at all, it simply plays as a melody. I pause as I try to read the reflection and stumble trying to orchestrate the name of the travel company. Meanwhile the forest exhales in a deep bass and its breath darts frantically out of the canopy to stamp our tickets only to evaporate in a steely blue howl: 'We're on the pulpit of an ancient tundra' the fox says simply, 'we're pilgrims' I add. The first rung of the ladder is a bridge nearly submerged by an overflowing stream, or maybe it's a shallow stream violated by the kiss of an offensive bridge. Maybe the stream never wanted bridging, maybe it wants to peacefully enjoy the caress of seaweed and the flavour of water mint. My soul head dives into the gentle conduit raising a chalice with its foaming waters as my body swears an oath to the other side of the banks: "Do thou cross all waters as we cross this stream today and cross them the more as thou art greater and stronger?". The fox is pouncing on the bridge in a shrieking affirmation as the ground before us is transformed into flint and a red, strangely acoustic hue reminiscent of Jupiter's great red spot settles on the horizon. Justice is exerted in a canine grin with a lur fished from a nearby bog immediately producing the tonal frequency by which we finally perceive the judgement included in our oath. Vulpes vulpes is a great dialectician of course, destined never to be caught, even while blowing a hunting horn to attract its own detractors. And so, raised to our hindlegs, we pass two huntsmen, fowling pieces at the ready, only to be greeted by their doffing hats and coiled dogs. From here on music starts playing beyond the north wind, which is sweeping in from across the marshlands, and an eternal, arctic light shimmers forth through the dense fog. 'Every piece of grass is a compass and all the dunes are fossils' I stutter. The fox has taken all the appearances of an ostridge and is head deep in a bush of seabuckthorn, munching away happily, grunting all along. The music is reminiscent of Ravel's Bolero, inherently sexual, but otherworldly in depth, and it's not the kind of music you idly listen to, it's the kind you play by existing, it's that thing in itself which is greater than itself. On this platform of absolution we turn in unison to see the heavenly loom weave the wind and canopy together.