The path reveals itself almost mystically – a faint exposed tear as I turn the corner of E 15th onto Walnut. Where the rusty wrought iron meets its concrete base loosens, as if someone poked a finger through. In my short time here, this corner house possesses a particular peculiarity; something I am not able to place details to. The building has been painted into existence over a period of time, each brush stroke representing a year now lost to history’s whimsy. Brush stroke strations like tiny threads of roundworms slowly escaping an organism: it trudges with great intransigence atop the tiny hole torn canvas. Does the tiny tear lead in, or, does it lead out?
I walk and the clouds conjure stairs of themselves and unfurl with deliberate delicacy, like melting marshmallows descending a mountain. I will go see my friends now.
A shell upon my back – so I am always home. Never too far is the slumber I crave on most days to keep me safe from the new world’s vacillant restructuring: technological, societal strata, fiscal denial, holes in the Earth deepening each day, the sun grown larger and brighter, and a fog so dense I cannot see myself. That is why I must rise to visit my spiritually evolved loved ones of prior years, but it is only a defined time that has taken them, no actual travel or dismissal – an unfathomable concept with a charlatan’s explanation.
I want to ask them about tiredness: the tiredness they felt while in physical form, and if they still have the capacity to experience tiredness, and lastly, if those tirednesses are comparable. Of course I will not lead with such inquiry, but I am not certain, almost certainly, that an agreed upon (or intuit) modality of communication will be necessary.
From the tear wafts an odor of fresh baked sourdough bread and honeysuckle myrrh. The structure lines behind the wrought iron fence bend in auditory pitches of a bouncing wall scale in decent – its dark matter has yawned. The striations are darker from the older brush strokes, but the gradual run of colors does not present as applied pigmentation of light: some flat, sparse satin, mostly matte, and long glossy threads of burnt glass. No one is ever home, but the plant in the window is thriving.
My hands grasp in a way only dreams of dreams have held, and my dream within dream cannot clear itself as a non-nightmare. Like a porcelain Asain doll, cherry blossom cheeks, toes made of buttered popcorn. In my dream-in-dream our bodies enwrap each other, an Akira’n swizzle, a meadow below a sunflower hillside, the most verdant and delicate mosses inhale the most fragrant and pleasant aromas. And I know I am not here: No one is. But we laugh nonetheless in our enwrapment like an inside joke of two five year old friends – a symbiotic visitation of soulmate vacations.
I turn and tilt my head in confusion. My eyes squint and attempt to focus on the area where the radiance of your beautiful face once was – someone has erased it with a pink rubber smudge. No voice. A low, deep, hum (barely audible) a sound bowl vibration that will arrive in two weeks time. The room adorned with long, heart and cow tongue shaped plants, all the rooms’ surfaces are bright white; I lay there and take this in. I am cognizant enough to capture the smell. It is not pleasant; it is not offensive; it is the smell of non-smell. It is the life of non-life. It is the smell of misplaced, manufactured willful delusion.
The perpetuous shell is a grateful home: sleep, safe, free from the ailment of outside.