With the dulling of the colors and light, I know we’ve slipped again. There are kinks and knots like this morning, as I tried to start my car, the key melted in my hand. There is no making sense of that; I had to walk, 15 miles, and by the time I got to work, my shift had been over for a half an hour. But with time a bit wonky, no one can be sure. One more time and they will let me go, but i’ve heard that before. I showed Larry, the car magician, the metallic stains on my palm – he shrugged and made his go to goggly face for every emotion he receives.
I want you to know where I am coming from – what time – what world. I sense you are entering from an earlier time, for the looks of bliss on your face can be overcome with confusion at times, and you slip out so often. Our snatches of conversations are stolen phrases in a plunging elevator, short, intense; you are hanging on here by a thread – Amazing you found your way in at all from where you must be traveling from.
The way things have gone for us will be your future, unless you can slip into the dream time early. Or some other safe pocket. Can I give you some impressions of how it has come to be? Would that help, you think? or confuse?
Last week, I think it was, the veil lifted and suddenly the whole world looked like an asian garden. There were little blossoms lining up and down the once empty branches, pinks and whites. I took out the garbage and suddenly there were stars, crisp, not a twinkle in sight – just solid brilliant points of light. I could see my breath, feel a chill, but not a shiver. It was blessed. It was velvet. I drank the absinthe of the sky; my stomach warmed and soothed me from within.
Now this week, the veil slammed down again. Most around here forget from day to day what was before. I used to be like that – but now I remember the forgetting, now I can’t get that day and night of embrace out of my head.
I used to live alone, but now they’ve given me two roommates, who say it’s all on me, so I continue to do not only the work of one, but I’m also picking up their slack, washing up their spills. I cannot help but serve those in my field. The green girl hardly speaks, but she does have the room with no heat. The other one talks, but her words are foreign and she reverts to grunts. I know the content of their thoughts regardless. We make the best of it – I lock my door at night.
The polarity increase has thrown such odd groupings together here at the end. The axis would shift entirely if you got too many pluses on one side without balancing it out. Some same we will meet in the middle, but I think the negs. are staying the same and I am shifting down, but just a bit. No one really knows – they seem to be making it up by the day. They have the old books from Giza some say, and of course they are not sharing any knowledge with us.
Funny that they think that what they have is the only source. We never let on that just biding our time for now, and staying in our shared dreaming spaces for longer and longer, will shift us more than they can imagine. They are not in the dreaming spot, they cannot access there, don’t even know it exists, until they give up the ghost selves that they let run the show of the body.
We had found each other and gathered into the actual same vicinity shortly before the shifts made it easy for them to stir confusion into the pot along with the Anomalies. The name Anomalies became a misnomer, little slips of time and space and material became more common, our bodies at times couldn’t keep up and with our sleeping most of the days away to cope, they were able to shift us around. The tunnels we built to each other seemed solid, but I am now unable to see or hear the ones I knew – who were they? All I can pull up is M, M, N, S, D, A, E, G.
I call to them from the shared space and I can feel them there – the sensation of that is like the back side of a cat as it pushes up against you to get warm while you are sleeping. They register to me at different times. I know they’ve probably stepped beyond the old ways – but they are still able to give me that gentle body awareness, anyway, that they are still incarnate. L and F and Sp were all pulled into a negative soup – and I don’t feel them anymore.
Keeping faith after all I have seen should be easy, but there are the wrist cutting weeks that drag on – and insomnia has visited, which leaves me desperate for other worlds, crying to be cut off so. The work assigned to me was meant to bring me down, and I can certainly see why they would imagine that would work, but luckily, I remember a bit more each day that what I see is not really what is there. When I can really know that, the fog clears and the people coming in to get slurp pies, hostess cupcakes, the rare banana sale, suddenly are transparently radiant. I see through and then the love lifts me up. I can see the plasma love flowing through me to the spaces around me, and suddenly a gas station is the holy temple that it was meant to be. In these high times, I could drink pure poison and be refreshed – It is true.
Piecing it together myself these days has left me unsure when I verbalize. I feel sure their methods are not going to stop it, but they can make it uncomfortable for a little while. What is discomfort? When I am in my knowing, there is no such thing. All flows according to the moment and memories are just dreams I had once.
There are cursed objects all around, stolen, damned by the envy, greed, witness to the raw and brutal sex that started occurring in full view of the innocent. These things, seem normal, like cups and books and pens, domestic material items, but around them sits a fuzz of grey or black. I’ve come to see the energy – but also, just as this sight came in came also the ease of blessing. I enjoy watching the dark pieces gather and swirl into upside down tornado – a pinpoint of pure radiance as they go. So many objects to turn these days.
The shared dream seems progressive. Each night the structures are shifting, coloring in. It has gone from an Escher-like environment to an Bedouin tent full of colorful silk and lavish interiors – my hips have grown into a wide and saucy shape for the shows I’ve been giving, twirling and shimmying. My body shifts with each scene; I enjoy the creation of such flesh.
You have come in since we have been spinning out a dance in the scarves which turn into liquid that we splash within at the end – you watch as we eat scuppernongs without those dreaded seeds, as we write poetry with the end of our fingers on each other’s backs, and hear the voices of the singing serpents reciting those words right back to us.
You sit among the pillows, enraptured, and fading in and out, trying to learn how to hold yourself here. We are so new that we cannot do it for you as we wish we could.
You see how we all cannot stop smiling and shining the light of our eyes into each others’ so much that the warm glow of my chest oven has me returning in the morning to my solid having thrown off blankets in the frightful chill – I think I am not in either place for sure, but back and forth, invisibly so – nightly, I am growing less and less dense.
I do not know how the negs. keep going. What is there to look forward to for them? They are sleeping like the dead, dreaming of forgotten deadlines, thieves getting their grains, but they are supplied their vices for free, and many think this has made the world a better place. Their bodies are showing the wear faster. Or perhaps the days are spinning them into cocoons, to be sucked dry by the shadows, lurking still, afraid of the sun’s growing girth.
I’m not sure what is real, but sleep pulls me now. Stop by our table and we will dance for you, while you scoop your hummus on warmed pita bread; we’ll drop scuppernongs in your open mouth. It won’t be long now.
Life as Improv 