Dirt Read Free Page B

jolted, and he never knew what was coming next. He opened his eyes and slowed to a walk, put his arms down.
    The moon the brightest of bones. Dark patches forming the open mouth of a snake, a small man sitting below, meditating. Always the same moon. It never revolved, never changed. Always this snake head and small man etched on a disc of bone.
    The trees arrayed in obedience to the moon, lined up, reaching upward. Even the furrows responding to the pull. All of the earth extending, trying to close the gap. The air so thin, what was keeping the earth and moon apart?
    Galen sat cross-legged, his lower back braced by a furrow, and stared up into the moon. His palms open on his knees. Long exhale, and breathe in deep. Exhale again. No thought, only this shining disc, this mirror.
    But then he was thinking of his cousin, of the inside of her thigh, of her lips, of her foot pressed against his crotch. Samsara always there, always intruding. But perhaps it could be used. Perhaps it could provide some power.
    Galen rose and put his hand on his boner. He stroked it a bit and then tried to run like that down the furrow, stroking with his right hand, his left hand held outward to the side, palm upward, a meditative pose, his eyes closed. He tried to let his legs guide him, tried to let the boner guide him, lift him above the furrows toward the moon. And his feet did feel lighter. He was gaining speed, the dirt falling away farther below, the air gaining a presence, and maybe that was the key. Not some sort of magnetism from the earth but a pulling from the air itself. The air was the medium, not the earth.
    He tried to leave his body, tried to place his consciousness outside, to see himself from far away. White bone-legs running, like the tree trunks come alive.
    But his breath was ragged, holding him to the world, pinning him here when he wanted to lift free. Tall weeds ripping at him, lashing him, a snag between his toes and he almost went down. He had to open his eyes and jog to the side to get around the worst patch. And this was the problem. Always an interruption. Whenever he was getting close to something.
    So he stopped. Stopped running, stopped stroking. He tried to never come, because he’d read that a man lost his power when he came. But he really wanted to come. And he was tired of just his hand.
    Galen lay down in the hollow between two furrows, curled on his side. Breathing heavily, wet with sweat, the air cool now on his skin. His forehead in the dirt. The world only an illusion. This orchard, the long rows of trees, only a psychic space to hold the illusion of self and memory. His grandfather giving him rides on the old green tractor, the putting sound of the engine. His grandfather’s Panama hat, brown shirt, smell of wine on his breath, Riesling. The feel of the tractor tugging forward, the lurch as the front wheels crossed over a furrow. All of that a training to feel the margins of things, the slipping, none of it real. The only problem was how to slip now beyond the edges of the dream. The dirt really felt like dirt.
    G alen woke many times in the night, shivering. The moon a traveler, crabbing sideways through the stars. Galen on the surface of the earth. The planet not to be believed, spinning at thousands of miles per hour. There should be some sound to that if it were true. Some thrumming or vibration. But the dirt was soundless, and it felt too light, as if the earth’s crust were only a few feet deep. What Galen wanted was for the crust to crack so that he could fall through, fall thousands of miles flipping through empty space toward the center of gravity, accelerating, and then fall past the center toward the crust on the other side and feel himself slowing as gravity took hold. Until he’d reach the underside of the other side of the world and touch it lightly with his fingertips, then fall backward again. His feet would never touch ground, and that would be good.
    Galen was so cold his