August 21, 2008
THE TOWER
| PAUL JESSUP |
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There, in the distance. That is not your home. Look at it, on the card and on the horizon. They match, they are mirrors. The one in front of us rises high, pierces the lips of the skies. Mother Bone does not like this iron beast, with its crab people living inside of it, crowned with sunfire, crowned aether clouds.
That one is not your home. This one, here, on paper, glued picture, this is your home. Ignore the number. Ignore the astrological signs. Look there, near the ground. Two children playing. You remember, yes? You and her, playing by the water, the lighthouse burning burning, warning boats from far away that here is land, land, land, deadly sharp dangerous land, crowded by crabs and the screams of birds.
You played for hours, building, destroying, running along the beach. When the dusk settled and the lighthouse blared its warning fires you did not know she would disappear. Go there, go under the waves, crawl under. She went through the door in the ocean, the kingdom of stars below.
There, there is your home. It is hard to see the future beyond this point. But she waits. She combs her hair. She sings to you. I take it you still have the key she gave you? You tried to unlock the tower with it, yes? No, it is not a key to the world of men.
It is the key to the door in the ocean. Find it. Use it. She is waiting.
Paul Jessup doesn’t exist.