"Yes. Good. You will notice . . . "
He walked to the shore easily as walking a painted lake. But when his feet touched the ground, the sand and grass at the edge, he began to sink, until with a few slow steps he was up to his shoulders in earth and grass. It was as though the pond had suddenly become an island, and the land about had turned to sea. He swam for a moment in the pasture, splashing it about him in dark loam drops, then floated on top of it, then rose and walked on it. It was suddenly miraculous to see a man walking on the ground!
I stood on the pond and applauded his performance. He bowed, and applauded mine.
I walked to the edge of the pond, thought the earth to liquid and touched it with my toe. Ripples spread into the grass in rings. How deep is the ground ? I nearly asked aloud. The ground will be as deep as I think it will be. Two feet deep, I thought, it will be two feet deep, and I'll wade.
I stepped confidently into the shore and sank over my head, an instant drop off. It was black underground, scary, and I fought to the surface, holding my breath, flailing out for some solid water, for the edge of the pond to hold on to.
He sat on the grass and laughed.
"You are a remarkable student, do you know that?"
"I ain't no student at all! Get me out of here!"
"Get yourself out."
I stopped struggling. I see it. solid and I can climb right out. I see it solid...and I climbed out, caked and crusted in black dirt.
"Man you really get dirty doing this!"
His own blue shirt and jeans were without spot or mote of dust.
"Aaaa!" I shook the dirt out of my hair, flapped it out of my ears. Finally I put my wallet on the grass, walked into the liquid water and cleaned myself the traditional wet way.
"I know there's a better way to get clean than this. "
"There's a faster way, yes."
"Don't tell me, of course. Just sit there and laugh and let me figure it all out for myself."
"OK "
I finally had to walk squishing back to the Fleet and change clothes, hanging the wet stuff on the flying wires to dry.
"Richard, don't forget what you did today. It is easy to forget our times of knowing, to think they've been dreams or old miracles, one time. Nothing good is a miracle, nothing lovely is a dream. "
"The world is a dream, you say, and it's lovely, sometimes. Sunset. Clouds. Sky."
"No. The image is a dream. The beauty is real. Can you see the difference ?"
I nodded, almost understanding. Later I sneaked a look in the handbook.
The world
is your exercise-book, the pages
on which you do your sums.
It is not reality,
although you can express reality
there if you wish.
You are also
free to write nonsense,