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: E twists, e twirls, e rides the flames of conscious dreams. And the worst part is that while e can see everything, e rarely knows what to say or what to do or how to go about responding, let alone tell anyone else.
: It welled up, that surge. Took em from the deeps of the Earth through the soles of eir bare feet, from the great underwaves beneath the beach sand through em from sole to soul to eir tippy-toppest hair and up to the Sun. That surge, that pulse, that beat. Every once in a blue moon, the Earth surges up to meet the caresses of her parent the Sun. And no one but oracles even suspect. In fact, it is during these surges of love no one understands that you can spot oracles. No one else ever feels that particular surge of affection. No one else gets swept up. No one else blushes like that for no reason.
: Spring sprung. A flowers’ rainbow, deep green, fresh, new. Again a cycle – so many superimposed in eir sight. This year’s first squirrel paused and was snatched up by a red tailed hawk. Early this year. Earlier than next year. E is aware that eir language is affected by these visions. No one else epxresses certainty about the future, only the solid past.
: The dream was gold and red. E worked and toiled, wracked. The sand was just unstoppable, ineffable, not ever giving in, filling what e’d cleared, flowing back into the holes. A never ending, hot, squalid vision, Sysiphean. It was as much about language, about culture as it was about earth, about wind. We are forever wheeling, e thought, forever working hard at nothing.
: Last week it was just too intense to bear. The oak was sighing about its old lightning wound. The cats were organizing a town meeting. The mice, a rebellion. Everyone was doing something, and the topper was the worms, creaking through old widower Tom’s kitchen garden. They wanted smaller rocks, and e couldn’t give them any solace.
: While playing a war game, e became aware of hexes and how well they fit together, how on a sphere, the occasional pentagon is required for proper fit. Wondered what it was like to play a game on a soccer ball. Like anyone else, e often has epiphanies that seem obvious after you’ve had them. Maybe moreso.
: Just now, a package of Andy Capp’s Hot Fries just told em not to eat that one. A mouse had chewn on it in the giant corn/potato extrusion facilities. Hot industrial edible lubricants and sterile gears and metal dyes. What a let-down. But oracles gotta eat; snackishness strikes even the blessed or the cursed.
: Yesterday the world told em to wear a dress. Today a kilt. Tomorrow it will tell em to wear a sarong. Next week it’ll be a macabi. What the heck is that?
: E took her up, swept her up. She was standing on the beach that day, grinning watts to outshine the sun, blushing, thrilled. Perhaps it was her first surge felt fully bare footed. E did not know, but she was marvelous. E had to hold her hand. Could not resist that urge. They danced that day through the surge, danced on and among the waves, danced with borrowed energy and love, in each other’s arms and have since never parted hearts. They read the universe together now, oracles both.