I woke to a dream of damask landscapes atangle on protrusions from behind the curtain. Jagged things in the shape of a thousandfold different blades I had seen before now making as if to split cerulean hills and violet waterfalls at the seams. A pinhole brought itself into existence, folding out from itself ten thousand times until it filled the width of my vision.

That morning the sun was alive and well. In a waking haze I swatted at it and drew aside my pallet’s gauze sheet. The east wall was not a wall at all, rather a free-standing thing of four thin wood pillars carved with simple water reptiles and a small multitude of other flourishes. Past those and the sloped lip of the green tile roof hung the veranda, adorned with little else but the simple rhomboid table at which I conducted most of my duties that were not of a classified nature (many of them indeed).

The rattan rolls that deployed between those pillars were the sturdiest walls I needed towards the east until the typhoon season returned. I had left them rolled up throughout the evening, wishing for a measure more of cooling wind from the adjacent ocean. In the suffusion of morning sunlight I was then tempted to draw them back down.

Instead I pulled up the hem of the mosquito tent and set my feet on the floor. The polished mahogany was still sharp with a hint of evening chill. As per my morning pattern at the time, I drained myself into the unadorned tubular that led into the town’s new simplistic cloacae system. Dawn Master said, “no patterns but the Inevitable,” but at moment as in moments to follow they provided me with a grounded solace towards most things.

My personal room featured a rather complex home shrine on the one wall to the north. I did not care for it, but in such a town as River Origin, it would be very much improbable for any man, no matter his merits, to hold a public office without any sort of visible appreciation towards the logos. Finishing the water remaining in my table pitcher, I remember examining the thing in an idle fashion. The scrimshaws and the hermits from Snow Breadth Mountain had designed and carved it, a frankly gaudy thing rife with more articulation and facades than the rest of my home. Ensconced at the center (with a token offering of a limp kiwi and cup of raw rice) was Blue Light, the warrior/arbiter representative of the Castellan’s (vast) retinue. A ceramic flurry of shifting blue chiton, scarves and kaffiyeh he was, green eyes set in a divine fury and yanyue dao held in a one-handed stance of port-arms that would realistically require upper body strength of an impossible proportion.

– California, 2007

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