Hypnagogic The Bundy's (MWC) eating off the floor like dogs Dots like lazy snowflakes drifting in and out of view Culvert A country too crowded, soaked in a hurried sunset. Try to escape. They have walled all paths. Two planes dance wild. They crash. Their death spark reveals all in the dark. Sky is streams of planes. Distance booms like death. Take cover in a culvert. Cut off from starlight. Misplaced from the moon. We've only the earth for protection. We hope she loves us still. Sing songs from sacred days. Boxed A big city. A big building. A big party. Suddenly locked. Streets are a surge zombie warriors with wings of fire and eyes of guns. Screaming metal and humming drones keep us in our boxes. Gather water. Gather food. Gather what wits are left. Hope rolls to us by way of winding tubes and message marbles. We will survive. Notes: Fasted for 24 hours to see if my dreams would change or I might possibly become lucid. Attack came in every dream I recalled but there was no life or death fear attached so I can't call them frightening or even nightmares.
Back Man He lays on pavement, scooting on his back. Two men orbit him, yowling in nonsense. What is happening? Some strange attack? Social media prank? Eventually curiosity wilts. There's work to do. We leave the trio and reclaim our way. Harry He revives Harry. It's a one man show. He performs his role like a raving clown. But there is no Floyd. It's only Harry. Bizarrely it works. Our vigilant brains fill in the spaces where Floyds words would be. And I, for the life of me, can't comprehend if the show garbage or genius.
Hood He fashions a hood from scraps of human flesh. But it is okay, he says, because his scraps were soul-less, seeded in the secrecy of a lab. Star Shifts Riddled with fearful anticipation we plot our paths either into the mysterious birth or the ever stretching fringe of the known. Red stars or blue stars are guiding lights.
Wonderful to be back. I was lost in a sea of hypnagogic imagery as pain pulled me in and out of dreams. An imploding compound eyeball. A braid of light wisps. Police pushing through my door. Up a steeply inclined string. A vibrating tangle of spectral shapes that nearly was a dream. Imladris? Whispers of moonlight slip through carven beams of a hallway unending. Drifting fluff of soul, aimless and ailing, I amble along. He calls a name that is mine and yet, not. I am a river. Voices are echoes, sacred harmonies so gently easing all the harm in me. A path of new moons and ritual fasts, of magic mantras and dream woven tasks is assigned to me. I agree. Finally there is rest beneath the stars, beside cascades, beyond dim and damned ever reaching hands.