Hi Russ,
Tonight I was scrolling through a folder of old writings and came across this piece I wrote years ago in response to something you had written based on a dream of yours. You called your piece "Mr. Pillar Man’s Visit."
I was really struck by it, and Mr. Corn Man came to me back then as a spontaneous response.
As I recall, you published Mr. Pillar Man in Dream Network Journal (DNJ). So also, I sent Mr. Corn Man to DNJ. I found the date for your piece, by the way—Christmas 2013.
But tonight, as I re-read A Question for Mr. Corn Man, I suddenly realized that Mr. Corn Man—all irascible three feet of him—resonated strongly with Xhactu.
Mr. Corn Man derived from a dream I had had maybe twenty years earlier. That dream was simple and brief, but profound. It presented the strange, alien figure of a hairy, wiry, 3-foot-tall figure, along with the caption: “This is the Corn Spirit. It’s all that matters.” It was obvious that the Corn Spirit dream was presenting the figure of an old fertility god, almost like a garden priapus.
Xhactu is the same size, just as cranky, and just as priapic (witness how he and Irma got it on that first night in her Diner in Seattle).
I felt like the comparison between Xhactu and Mr. Corn Man was just, which suggests that Xhactu is beginning to take on the qualities of a pagan divinity.
Like so much else, this is an unexpected turn of events, and I feel it resonates as well with everything we’ve been writing.
I’ve wanted to place Mr. Pillar Man and Mr. Corn Man together, but DNJ was the only readily available venue at the time, and we were busy with other things. I just found the document for Mr. Pillar Man (2013). It’s still moving to me—as you were suggesting in your note today, about how things come to us so spontaneously that we continue to be surprised by them, and how they continue to be “fresh,” even years later. Remarkable!
So, now that Xhactu is taking on further dimensions, I wonder if you think there’s a place for both stories in the FC website. Maybe even somewhere else. There’s lots of shifting movement at the moment. Creative “cracks" opening up.
Let me know what you think.
Paco
Well, let's put both pieces together here. As I was posting this, I recalled this.
Conversation with a Blind, One-armed Dwarf
The dwarf was no taller than an ordinary desk, but this was
no ordinary dwarf. First, there is only one arm. Second,
wearing sunglasses and moving gingerly suggests at least
partial blindness.
“May I know your name,” I asked.
“Si.”
“Oh, you are a Spanish dwarf then.”
“No. That is my name.”
“That is unusual. What’s your last name?”
“Si. My name is Si Si. I have no middle name.”
“I see.”
“I don’t.”
“Do you always appear out of the blue like this?”
“Of course. Otherwise, everyone would avoid me.”
“Well then, what’s the purpose of your visit?”
“To deliver a message from The Committee.”
“The Committee? I don’t know what you are referring to.”
“No matter.”
“What’s the message?”
“Dwarfs are dedicated to seeing tasks through to completion.”
“That’s it?”
“It’s enough.”
Mr. Pillar Man's Visit
Tall and straight he stands
looking me over after walking
into my dream without knocking,
without invitation or permission.
"No need," he asserts.
"That I am here is enough; that's
the important thing after all."
He tells me he comes and goes
in dreams of mine and others.
"Very few know me, even
fewer know my name. Tell
the others I will be along soon.
I've some work to do. But don't
tell them my name."
For now, let's call him Mr. Pillar Man.
I'm sure you will recognize him
when he comes to your dream.
Then, sipping latte, in some cafe,
we can compare hints he has dropped.
From notes on a Christmas Dream, 2013.
A Question for Mr. Corn Man
by
Paco Mitchell
[This was written spontaneously, in response to Russell Lockhart’s dream-based poem about “Mr. Pillar Man,” printed in the last issue of DNJ. The figure of “Mr. Corn Man” comes from a dream I had about thirty years ago. In my dream he was called “The Corn Spirit.”]
In the remote garden where the Corn Man worked amidst green leaves, I walked quietly along the soft path until I stood a few feet away from where he toiled. He was sweating freely, his hairy body matted and streaked with rivulets. He was so intent on his work—stripping, binding, grafting—that I think he did not notice me at first. I stepped on a dry leaf to make a sound, having already learned that he did not enjoy being surprised by the sudden rudeness, the threat, of a human voice
"Who goes there?" he snarled.
"It is I," I said, "only I."
"Oh, you again. What do you want now?"
Several weeks had passed since I had discovered Mr. Corn Man and his hidden garden while out walking, and by now I was accustomed to his fierce, aggressive manner, and what seemed like his feral disdain for me. But this time I was not intimidated.
"I have come to ask you a question," I said.
"You have, have you? Well, I'm busy." His hands continued their swift magic. "You and your questions," he said as if to himself, and he muttered something unintelligible.
"Yes, and I think you know the answer."
At this he smirked, but he didn't seem to mind my impertinence.
"Well, then, out with it! I told you I'm busy! These plants don't grow by themselves, you know."
“Yes, I'll be brief. I just want to ask—ah—whether you happen to know Mr. Pillar Man. You know, the one who is tall and straight?"
Mr. Corn Man stopped momentarily and looked up from the dirt where he crouched. Then he cocked his head and looked at me sideways, like a bird, and snapped, "Who told you about Mr. Pillar Man?" He had regained the old brusqueness, and the uncanny air of menace that dripped from his naked body in waves.
"Does it matter who? It was just a friend, someone I know," I said, making bold. "He says that Mr. Pillar Man gets around, that he even paid a visit recently, and they talked. This isn't the only garden around, you know." Now I was almost taunting him, surprised at my own rudeness.
"Around? And just where is 'around' supposed to be, where Mr. Pillar Man just shows up?" he said mockingly, not rising to my bait. He continued working, as if racing the sun.
"Oh, you know," I said, having decided to go for broke. "Around. As in . . . dreams." I chewed my lip, waiting for his reply.
"Humph!" the Corn Man snorted. "Who dreams of Mr. Pillar Man any more? Few can see him these days. Oh, they may claim to dream of someone who resembles Mr. Pillar Man, but I'd wager they're only seeing their own reflections in a tin can."
But then Corn Man got a distant look in his eyes. "Was a time," he began . . .
"Yes?" I prompted.
He hesitated, then resumed, as if he'd made a decision.
"Was a time he and I, between us"—and he said this next part slowly and with emphasis—"ruled the world." He spit to the side and grafted a green stem onto a woody stalk.
"What do you mean, 'ruled the world'?" I wanted to keep him talking.
"The world! This! Here! Open your eyes! Look around! The Garden! Where else?" Mr. Corn Man was clearly annoyed. "Mr. Pillar Man and I. Together. He, with his feet in the ground and head in the air, straight as an arrow, and tall. And me, all three feet of me, crooked and twisted like these vines I'm growing. He swept the four corners and held the center while I—I—"
At this point he faltered, at a loss for words.
"Do you mean—" I began.
"Shut up, fool!" he yelled. "Let me think. Let me remember"—he paused, then said, almost affectionately, longingly—"how it was."
I held my tongue and waited. A breeze stirred the leaves around him and he seemed to swell—his entire body—as if pulsing with tumescence. I would swear he gained several inches in height, though he was still crouched and the sun was bright. Then he stood, and I saw it was so. He had grown six inches, maybe twelve. I stepped back, unsure of what was happening. Then he spoke again, this time as if from a distance.
"I was . . . everything. I was life itself. Together, Mr. Pillar Man and I marked the boundaries of the possible. Nothing came into being, except through us. We were"—his voice grew hoarse—"recognized then."
Now the only sound was the slight chafing of the leaves as he worked. I scarcely moved or breathed, hoping he would speak again. But he did not.
Finally I said, "Did you . . . always look like this?"
"No, of course not. Neither did Mr. Pillar Man. He was a stone, needless to say, but snap your fingers and he could disappear in a gust of wind. Yes, together we were invincible. I was the fruit, he was the pollen. He was everywhere. We both were."
"Is he very old?" I asked.
At first he began to laugh almost convulsively at my stupidity, but when he calmed down he said, "Ha! Old? Is he old? You mean these so-called years of yours?" Then, shifting to what sounded like a low animal growl he said, "You don't measure us, bub. We measure you!"
At that he took up a runner and said, "Look at this." And with his shears he snipped six inches off the growing tip of the vine, the delicate leaves and tendrils tinted yellow and green. "This is you," he said. Next he shoved the stem and leaves into his mouth, chewing and swallowing until they were gone. Then he gazed directly at me, grinning broadly. In the bright sunlight, the irises of his eyes seemed yellow, and a small, leftover fleck of green leaf shone on one of his gleaming teeth. I couldn't say, even now, what was in the look he gave me in that moment. Was it evil? Was it beatific? It was both, really. I shuddered and turned away.
As I walked from the garden he called after me, once again with mockery in his voice, saying, "Don't you have any more questions about Mr. Pillar Man's visit?"