art by Peter Zenger

Are writers naïve?

          In the land of vin he lived and traversed the infinite fields of stark green and red in bare feet, for there were no sharp objects there. As far as eyes could reach stretched and twisted incredible stalks, leaves and lime-vines with limitless grapes for food and drink. Bacchus was an older god of the region, and only a small portal was accessible between the human ocean of words and this forest of indefinitely liquid dimension.

     His task: To peel back the layers of improbability through the portal of words and enter the mind of the human dimension in hopes of carrying with him straggling souls back to the land of Vin.

     “Felle the dicantres of imaginaccioun,” he would chant, “and leet the riche redde ouverflough spelle intow these myndes that finde it befetting of thymsylves tow take the sojourne thrott the nexte dimencioun.”

     These words will spill from his eyes to his wife, a noblewoman to Theegledee Hill of the Chablis corridor, before he departed for the next world on his searches. And after departing the corridor, he entered the valley of maroon chianti, where light shafts wedged between the monstrous sky-reaching vines with the force of thunderhead anvils, yet they were gentle and welcoming as aurora borealis. And then across the sea of intenccioun, near Zinfandel where he gathered yet more grapes for energy, before crossing that final horizon through the portal.

     At one time, his travels carried him to what humans call a bookstore, where he would distribute his decanters of the deep red liquid from Vin, in the form of words and paper. And only some had the mused privilege to peer into that portal at the time.

     Yet these days (and I say days, since you humans need a time-frame to understand anything), he merely sits aloft a large leaf in Vin, contemplating the blue sun that illuminates his homeland. The depth of shadows and light-shafts sparkle and contrast, showering through him like crazy water, as stories of an archaic age in an ancient yet thriving order form in his mind. But what are minutes, hours, days, weeks, months in Vin, where time is naught and space is indivisible? It could be ten years, it could be three centuries, but he will traverse the portal again and again, bringing merriment and liquids from the land of Vin to those prepared to explore the far-reaching corners of his imagination.

     And if you’re so lucky enough to place your hands on one of his books, you will always read in the inscription, in Germanic fonts and calligraphy lost in the annals of technology, his opening words:

     “Ye brothres and sistras, shall yow knowe of a place cleped weth the name of Vinne, where I shall take yow, if yow has the time tow investe in a journie.”