Still Half Asleep... Dream Of Rhoda...
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There was a time when magic was real. I recall Rhoda saying that if things had gone as they should have she'd have met me in that time. I've often wondered how that might have made things different, and how that might have made things the same. When I say magic i am not talking about supernatural powers, but the magic that existed within the communion of the denizens of decay as we explored the possibilities of language. Communication at higher decibels than were previously thought possible. But that was thirty years ago. Let me shift into today. The reason I am writing this is that I had a dream. I just woke from a dream. Dreaming is free, you know. And it opens doors that no other key can unlock. The dream key. And here was Rhoda before I had known her sitting comfortably in a cafe with DD and Peter and I and our usual pack of simmering wolverines devouring Baudelaire or Camus or Plath. Dreams swerve images out of the realm of possibilities and into something beyond those limits. So here I see Rhoda and she has become an angel replete with standard issue angel garb. She is speaking so sweetly I feel this serene warmth bathe the entire scene. Then out of that sweetness there are hints of devilry caught somewhere between playful and sinister. I gesture to DD a look that says "She's one of us, all right." DD smiles knowingly then goes back to her coffee and reading of Plath poems. Then the dream takes a turn and I am whirling like a dervish dance in trance through the rabbit hole with Alice and all the stars falling with me as I black out into an ecstatic black hole or super nova. I have lost all concept of matter and I am stretching and reaching the boundaries beyond these three dimensions of our day-to-day. I wake up with memories of things that never occurred. Memories of the sessions of effortless communion with Rhoda and our ilk several years before she and I ever first made contact. In waking I am moved to tears at the realization of word as opium/absinthe/myrrh/arsenic/sugar/semen everything sacred tempting us to orgasmic displays of pure expression: the holiest communion of all.
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FCGST (sensory mode iniquitous)
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There was a time when magic was real. I recall Rhoda saying that if things had gone as they should have she'd have met me in that time. I've often wondered how that might have made things different, and how that might have made things the same. When I say magic i am not talking about supernatural powers, but the magic that existed within the communion of the denizens of decay as we explored the possibilities of language. Communication at higher decibels than were previously thought possible. But that was thirty years ago. Let me shift into today. The reason I am writing this is that I had a dream. I just woke from a dream. Dreaming is free, you know. And it opens doors that no other key can unlock. The dream key. And here was Rhoda before I had known her sitting comfortably in a cafe with DD and Peter and I and our usual pack of simmering wolverines devouring Baudelaire or Camus or Plath. Dreams swerve images out of the realm of possibilities and into something beyond those limits. So here I see Rhoda and she has become an angel replete with standard issue angel garb. She is speaking so sweetly I feel this serene warmth bathe the entire scene. Then out of that sweetness there are hints of devilry caught somewhere between playful and sinister. I gesture to DD a look that says "She's one of us, all right." DD smiles knowingly then goes back to her coffee and reading of Plath poems. Then the dream takes a turn and I am whirling like a dervish dance in trance through the rabbit hole with Alice and all the stars falling with me as I black out into an ecstatic black hole or super nova. I have lost all concept of matter and I am stretching and reaching the boundaries beyond these three dimensions of our day-to-day. I wake up with memories of things that never occurred. Memories of the sessions of effortless communion with Rhoda and our ilk several years before she and I ever first made contact. In waking I am moved to tears at the realization of word as opium/absinthe/myrrh/arsenic/sugar/semen everything sacred tempting us to orgasmic displays of pure expression: the holiest communion of all.
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FCGST (sensory mode iniquitous)
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