Dream logic is uncannily appealing to me.
The night, a mountain, stars of literal diamond rolling up and down the length of something that looks between a river, and a field; the time is gelid, limpid, and pellucid. A shade of green that you don’t associate with air; the textures are all wrong.
You see the light at the end of the navy darkness across the way, and it calls to you. The swaying water takes on the quality of grass, and light fluctuates lux in the in-between.
Figures of egg and sveglia and pain collide on the edges of your periphery. A swooping eagle wings outspread watches you from afar. It has legs of a baby, and its eyes see beyond.
The night air swirls around you and the moon calls its demon red into the place between those two thoughts as wide as ginnungagap. Creatures lurk in those dark shadows with eyes the color of blood.
The eagle is inconsistent in its devotion. Its legs become familiar and a Raven joins its flight, judging it’s love for logic. The wind around them is just the sound of hope.
Three men watch them from below, in a wilderness of swirling darkness. But they are lit by rubies, sapphires, garnets, and guilt. The guilt is flame incarnate, burnished orange and regretful mauve play off their faces.
They know the eagle is a herald of order. But the Raven, well, that’s something else.
The Raven is the familiar that whispers in your ears about the seductive truths of beyond. It’s the subtle curvature of the earth that you seem to fall into from the horizon line. It sings a song of savory sorrow; but its song’s sweet sultriness is too much to bear.
Below the Raven, the men argue about god, life, and violence. They each assume their position is the correct one. They are men of learning, the turbans that sprout on their heads grow successively with the mounting arguments. Their rhetoric builds escher stair ways from the soft-silk and muslin of their turbans.
Suddenly, a loud bang. The smell of patchouli ruins the effect. Then the smell of sulfur.
Brimstone leads the men into a cavern of gravity-less meanderings. They continue arguing, each walking past the other through lopsided right angles. They don’t know what they know to be true; and their too smart to acknowledge what they feel to be right.
The eagle perches silently on the top stage left, just under the lights.
–Where are we?
–It’s imperative that we figure out where we are
–Why can’t we just walk, and let it take us
–Your metaphors are too on the nose
–I’m not in control here.
–Control is an illusion
–There are plenty of illusions, but control is not one.
–Control is the ultimate illusion; it preys on the belief that we hold the wheels of destiny. We are ever a passenger.
Sprouting blossoms of crystal fall out of the person’s mouth. The indeterminate sex of his existence is no crime. The Raven’s eye is a black hole. Dali doesn’t know how he ended up in some mad modernist raving about nothing, and promptly leaves the scene
–Great, now I’ve included Dali, as if I wasn’t being obvious enough.
–I could have done Bunuel, I guess.
And then, a rumbling
The world becomes a singular point on the horizon. The Eagle Bursts into Flame, the Raven screams at the light, and all of the insignificance is pulled into focus.
Just as the dream is about to get good.
I wake up.
And there is nothing more disappointing than that.