The Factory

This dream was not lucid, but I remember the feeling as if it was. Once (upon a time) I found myself in a setting that resembled the interior of a factory, only that all the colors in this one were all shades of pink and white. The walls and tall roof seemed as if they were made of bubble-gum and cotton-candy. And there was an atmosphere of movement, a feeling of vibration, as if one were watching blood flow from the inside of a vein or artery.

Here was a production line, and there were a lot of people, just like me, in their workstations, or cublicles, or sculpting tables. The workspaces were placed to the right of a long & endless corridor, and to the left of this corridor was a deep canal. On the other side of the canal another endless corridor and a little further another succession of cubicles. I was working on a medium-sized sculpture of a house, somewhat of a ginger-bread house, except this one was pink. Pink wax, and I was very happy with the progress I had made, because I had never worked with this material in the first place.

So there I was, working/playing, enjoying my work/game, and the product of it. Now, on the last sentence of the previous paragraph, I wrote in the first place instead of before, for the sake of form, but that stunt should not be allowed to get in the way of meaning. The dream is very sharply defined to waste it with unnecessary risks.

Ok, so there I was still, looking at my sculpture in progress. At some point during the day, my boss comes around to tell me I have been promoted, and that he is here to take me to my new studio. I barely noticed him, being very much concentrated on my piece of art. I had invested a lot of time working on it, but I was almost finished. I just needed a little more time for the last details, so I told him to wait just a second. The second turned into seconds which turned into minutes, and the minutes into hours, but he stood still all the time, watching me work, without saying a word. The hours turned into a couple of days.

Finally I was finished. I had made a beautiful little house full of intricate little features. Shiny white brocade window and door fractal frames, persian rose Gaudínian chimneys. Rose, ruby and amaranth flower boxes. A fuchsia doorbell button. etc.

My boss, which seemed completely awake all the time, came out of some kind of stupor, as if he had been in sleep mode, and when I announced that I was ready, he retook the conversation where he had left it. He congratulated me for the promotion and told me to get ready to move to the new studio. He then took the little (medium) pink and white wax ginger-bread rococoan house and tossed it into the canal. I had never before bothered to look at what was the deal with that canal.

It was a river of molten pink wax flowing perennially forward.

-R

Perhaps it is the river of artistic inspiration from which all artists are connected.

No, it's the other. The river of inspiration flows towards artists.

This river was floating outwards, after dissolving the art-object.

It was more like a sewage that takes all the dead ideas to the sea, from where the wind takes the air upwards to the great mountain where the river you're talking about is born.

Maybe...