More writing by Bruce Taylor
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The Tails of Alleymanderous
and Other Odd Tales
Panther
It is a dreamscape. The clouds are dark gray and roiling over a landscape that is pale gray, monotonous -- like a vast plain that stretches off into the distance. A surprisingly warm wind blows; it also feels like it's rather humid and you wonder how such a landscape that is so bleak, so -- disturbing -- can be so warm and you fancy you can smell the scent of flowers -- lilac, rose, honeysuckle.
You wonder what you are doing here. If it's a dreamscape, then it is a dream. You close your eyes. "I will wake up." You open your eyes. Nothing has changed. You kneel. "How did I get here?" you wonder. "If this is a dream, I can wake up," but you are not waking up. You touch the ground -- it has a smooth, surprisingly smooth, texture and it's warm. You weren't expecting that. The clouds continue to move, roil overhead, like you're beneath the guts of a thunderstorm, and you're waiting for the lighting to flash, the thunder to crash, but nothing happens, just a steady wind. And it's so warm.
You decide to walk. You walk for long time but the landscape remains the same. You stop, look around, look back the way you came and it looks no different. You sit. Out of your shirt pocket you pull out a Snickers bar; you unwrap slowly, munch it thoughtfully. You don't know what to do with the wrapper; you place it on the ground and in seconds, it sprouts little hands and feet. It raises a fist to you, curses, and then runs off screaming. You aren't really frightened. Disoriented, maybe, but not frightened. You just wonder where you are.
Abruptly, there is a vivid flash of lightning, which strikes nearby but holds for a minute, long enough for you to see in the incandescent glow an image of Elvis in his later years. There is no thunder, just Elvis in that burning moment, saying, "Thunk yew, thunk yew, thunk yew ver, ver, much --" and then, gone. Then it begins to rain, but it abruptly turns to large hailstones. You look down only to discover the hailstones are actually miniature Beatle dolls, hopping and jiving about and you hear high pitched snippets of Beatle songs: "Help", "Can't Buy Me Love", "Hey, Jude", "Paperback Writer" and as you sit, the songs vie and merge, vie and merge with each other and you fancy, after a few minutes, you've heard all of them. All around you, for as far as you can see, the little minute Beatle dolls hop, jive about and you hear that weird, high pitched singing. Then slowly, just like hail, it all melts and the songs slowly fade away and you're left with that vast plain again. In the distance, you see something bright. It's a figure running to you, no, toward you, and then it passes by: it's Richard Nixon on fire, screaming, "I'm not a crook. I'm not a crook! I'm not a crook!" and then he disappears off into the distance. You look up and the sky slowly clears; two bright stars reveal themselves and the clearing in the sky takes on a shape. You realize what it is: you see the color of it. Blacker than the sky. A panther. It steps down from the sky, with the stars for the eyes and it looks at you curiously. It paces around you, circles you and finally sits, looking at you with those burning star-eyes. "You're a brave one," it whispers, "hanging around in a dream."
"Can't leave," you say, "can't seem to get out of this dream."
"We all can leave," says the panther. "The question is, what price do we pay."
"For --?"
"Leaving. Staying. Always a price to pay."
The panther finally sits, like The Sphinx, paws outstretched in front of it, looking down on you with those burning eyes.
"Your eyes are very large," you say.
"Suns make large eyes. I could make a pun about enlightenment, but I'd rather chat," it says.
"Who are you?"
"Panther," the panther replies.
"Why are you here?" you ask.
The panther begins purring. "Not the question. Why are you here?"
"I don't know," you say. "It's like I'm in a dream and I can't get out."
"Do you want to get out?" asks the panther. "Do you really want to get out?"
"I want to get back to my life," you say.
"What was your life?" asks the panther. "Tell me about your life."
Funny how, at such times, you think of simple things and the dream changes: you're standing in vast melting fields of different flavors of chocolate, and in the distance, melting mounds of vanilla and chocolate ice cream create molten mountain ranges. But suddenly, you're back, looking at the panther and it says again, "Tell me about your life."
Overhead, the clouds have become low and mean-looking and the wind blows harder and you know you're dealing with something awful. Is it the devil in disguise? Is it death? What is it that you look at? The panther lords above you, looks down at you with those burning stars for eyes, and you say the thing that you know is true. "Compassion," you say, "compassion. It is all that life is; it can be the only thing that matters. Compassion."
The wind has picked up and suddenly the clouds descend and you are enveloped in a thick and dark seething mass of clouds and the blackest fog.
"Compassion," comes the voice. "Tell me of compassion."
With the wind blowing you around and the grit flying in the air, grit from where you cannot guess, you are also aware of how utterly quiet it is and you say, "What else is life but compassion? Compassion for self, compassion for others. What is life without it?"
Suddenly, all is still. You look around, the low clouds are still engulfing you but it's like they are frozen in place. Grit is suspended, not moving. A newspaper has been lifted by the wind and hangs in front of your face; it self-illuminates and you can read the name of the newspaper: Dreamscape Times. You read the lead headlines of the stories on the first page: What Else Matters? Lessons Take Forever to Learn, Buddha Remembered. And as you glance around, abruptly all disappears; the clouds vanish, as does the paper, the winds and -- the panther. You look up to a sky filled, glowing with stars and you hear something whisper to you, the panther? the voice of the Universe? You don't know, but you listen for you cannot help but listen: "If you have learned compassion, then you have learned the only thing that matters."
And off to the east, you see sunlight touching the edge of the world.
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