The geometrical apparatus holds the sleepers who warp its architecture with an uplift so tremendous that it breaks into a distant shoreline. And this occurs in only a brief moment of the half-sleep allowed. The microquake of a nap ceases as soon as it begins by the pitter-patter of birds (varies from sleeper to sleeper – plovers, seagulls, sandpipers, egrets, herons, and so on) across their sandy brows. One sleeper reports a cassowary darting over her dune-laden forehead before she can fear for her life! When the sleepers abruptly awake from their slumber, it is imperative that they ignore their tectonic activity simulations or else the tasks at hand might wash away the added benefits of transitional states contributing to enhanced productivity desires.
Down by the concrete river, the spirits arise from patches of datura where the spiral that became a pinwheel stretches itself again to take on the form of ghostly plant emanations pollinated by the consciousness of any wanderer who lingers long enough for the vegetal spirits to unfurl their psychoactive shapeshifting tendrils and guide the awareness toward the unity of all things through the merging of forms and the collective existence of iterative semblances.
I’m going where
I know I’ve been
when I was older
than I am now
I used to chew
on milk cartons
now I chew
on my pens
around my neck
used to be
an umbilical cord
I had to go to the mainland for an errand and was returning to the main ship on the ferries. We dock and rather than jockeying for position I look at the view until I end up at the back of the line without a care about it. There is something I loathe about being in a hurry in a crowd. Sooner or later, everyone gets off so why bother feeling an ounce of stress over it? But as I walk up the ramp, the hydraulics start operating and it begins to elevate the ramp closer to the ceiling. I have to crawl to try and make it before it closes. And then I start rolling toward the narrow opening but get stuck. It holds me there with my face pressed between the ramp and the ceiling. The others board on the other side and we return to the mainland while I watch the main ship take off and recede toward the horizon. And I see my squished face from a bird’s eye view trailing the boat and I look so ridiculous. Like some foolish clown or comedian stuck in a pinch. I wonder if I should’ve cared about being first off the ferry in the first place. Because now I’m paying an absurdly heavy price for being so nonchalant. But at least the ramp didn’t crush my head so I’m lucky in some respect. Finally we dock and the ramp releases me. Abandoned, I wander through the streets wondering what to do and where to go until I hear people screaming around the corner. Something is happening and it sounds terrible. A major flood of water rushes and swings from around the corner. Waves smash into the streets. I’m running as fast as I can. Many people are running up some stairs. I follow them to a third story balcony of some corporate building and we watch the city float by as if we were back on the main ship.
Here are some images I put together based on this dream of monoliths floating down the old archetypal river.
As memories sink into the subconscious, light bends the appearance of a log on its return to the soft wet earth. Into the waters of time, the slow slide of experience is transformed into the rich material from which myths arise. The still pond dreams of craggy ramparts overrun by a verdant army.
In the dark sea of the desert, there was an island. As we sailed by in our car, I snapped this shot. The sight matched an image inscribed in me decades ago when I saw Arnold Böcklin’s painting Die Toteninsel in Berlin.
How strange to be driving in the Southwest decades later and suddenly think of someone else’s dream. And to feel the tone of that dream image materialized to such a scale that it stretched entirely around our car. For a brief absurd moment, it felt as if I were suspended in that dream visiting a cemetery of shadows from the window of our moving coffin.