Upper plateau of another's dream, with ladders made of veins. It's his dream. Not one in which he invented white-out or scotch tape. He's walking across the classic wind-blown grassy field, but it is somehow different. He realizes the grass is fake. Long plastic blades making rustling sounds. Convenience store black plastic bags are the foliage on squat trees. Their grey branches are slimy and refract weird colors in the sun light.
Higher up now. One significant level up; he keeps climbing. The earth's surface is now made of books. They're torn fat hardback books, coating the scene at odd angles. Pages fanned open to the horizon, wrinkled and puffy from rain and powerful drying heated gusts. Sand mixes in the pages and crevices. It's now in his eyes. He itches. His bare feet crunch across the books. Paper cuts in the webbing of his toes accumulate rapidly, each cut a surprise. They begin to itch. And sting. His eyes squint and he shambles in a pulsing burning darkness. The sand feels heavier and stings. Blood pumping in the darkness of his eyelids radiates and spells letters.
Down below, just a couple levels, there was a sense of comfort and familiarity. Boredom. He wasn't really doing this. He painted pictures from places he had not been. A scene in a many- times-told story from a friend: Adolescent angels sitting on a beach, talking to everything. Hitting on the seagulls as well as the seashells. Couch-potato angels in one cove. Television wires lead out into the ocean and tangle, forming webs that catch a sample of everything. The angels cackle and some of them energetic and beautiful, decide to surf, opening their veins in the water for the fun of drawing sharks. Winging out of reach as the gaping mouths breech.
An angel, a particularly cruel and spiteful one, cocky and talented at all the convenient things, uses a burning sword on one of the sharks. Puncturing the center of its head with a thrust and quickly removing, the shark sinks into the ocean, its body on fire inside, glowing as it descends.
Time sits around. Tree house walkie-talkie style communication across mountain tops. He's up there, with...a bunch of automotive mechanics arguing in front of an overhead projector. "No." That's all they can say. Pulling on half-baked theory, one of the auto mechanics tires and tries to break the din. He tries to explain why brake pads begin to squeal. And why they stop.
Silence grinds into his rotors up here. His means and intents worn thin. Barebones. Who he really is. Who he really is loses interest in the automotive scene and turns himself 180 degrees.
A thorough intricate path lined with careful angles, sharpened and jutting dirty needles and black scary fragments. Everything is black & white. Patience and breathing, as he exhales and walks the sharp objects recede. Colors blend in, and suddenly there it all is. Relaxed and lush living things. He feels a nice silence fill everything.
