Shaking without Purpose
I have a snow globe of the Eiffel Tower. It sits on a
Green table like a wish in a green room, ready to
Be escorted onstage to the sound of applause, an audience
Ready to hear the tales and adventures I float through
In my dreams. Because that’s what Paris is for me now, a
Dream. It’s a recurring one, in and out of consciousness,
My dreams cleverly making each night’s trip to Paris
More real, more detailed than the last. When I’m in my
Room with the snow globe, a room I’ve done
Francophile style, with Fleur-de-lis, Eiffel Towers on walls,
Pictures of Paris, all done in green and gold, I feel compelled to
Shake the globe. I want to see the fictional snow, glittering in its
Cascade as it flurries through the orb holding my dream trip
That remains elusive. Without me to shake it, the snow globe is
Simply a ball of glass holding water. Just like my room is decorated top to
Bottom with monuments I will never see. Just like I finally have the
Means to go to Paris, but my body and mind have stopped me with a
Realty shake; forever in a green room, watching an audience
Who will never see or hear me tell of a great adventure. The
Producer came in, told me my appearance had been cut,
Shaken from the line-up. My body, shaken awake from a
Dream, by limbs that do not rest.
Shaken, like with hands on my shoulders, telling me,
Wake up, wake up, it was only a dream. And I want to
Ask what I had been calling out, what I had called out in my
Repose that my whole body must shake me to consciousness.
But there’s no one to ask.
A snow globe needs to be shaken — Purpose.
That’s its purpose: to allow an illusion of sparkling
Life to float around the globe’s tiny World. And so I visit my
French room often, wondering why I must be freed of my
Illusion that perhaps one day, I can leave my house, get on a
Plane and fly across the sea. I would look up at the Parisian
Sky and wait for the glitter-silvery-white flakes to fall on my
Head, a head sporting a French beret. I would savor how the
Glitter is not cold. I would believe that my shaking limbs are
Allowing me just a few minutes more repose; the purpose, of course,
To enjoy it until all the tiny, glittering hopes
Tumble to the ground and I am once again in my bed, body
Writhing, telling me it’s time to wake, time to face another
Mourning, and a morning I must imbue with purpose,
Like shaking a snow globe,
Imagining what the air smells like
From underneath that wondrous
Tower of iron.
— J.A. Carter-Winward
