I began the day in a cocoon of cotton sheets, duly immersed in the Dream at Hand, trying to find a means by which to transplant the Tome of Mental Wondr with some more inhabitable microbiome. I watched time elapse slowly as a great flock of swallows passed my window, eliminating possibilities of where I might be, geographically, for I wasn’t home anymore. Recently it’s felt as though I haven’t been anywhere—not specifically: Nowhere Specific. I woke from the dream at hand to find my feet the shape of starfish, to see that I was morphing into the creature of unknown origin I’d known in the Dream That Had Been at Hand. If I were left like that, my marionette strings cut from each joint to which they’d been tasseled, I might just go clinically insane from the lack of outer control. But here I was, focusing in on my feet: suction cups on the bottoms of my splayed toes, electric-pink matter of flesh, etc. I put on my glasses. There was a song playing. It was the song of the man to whom I’d given my basket of pears. The man originating from my dream. The faceless man. I recall quite clearly his musings on what he referred to as “The Song of the Space Pegasus,” a canon akin to those of Bach’s, something like choruses of many voices rising and falling in unison, merging toward something like a True Center of Things. I recall as he told me these things in the dream the way he’d move his head, which was veiled on all sides and atop by black bowl-hats, thus the facelessness. That I recalled yet clearer the degrees of references he made to the significance of the individual pears of the dream’s fruit basket, but that now—beyond the state of awareness of the Dream at Hand—it (the significance) eludes me.
Would we ever come to a more satisfying conclusion to the story of the Dream at Hand? Would that we would, I would say. But I haven’t (said). I’ve left the rest of my belongings in a storage unit my Other Half is now inhabiting. I have never met him or her, but I hope he/she is taking good care of the many terrariums, that he-/she’s spritzing the land-corals with their corresponding Liquid Vitamins. I left my Other Half a short note about which vitamins to give to which vitamin-deficient corals, labeled per terrarium. I hope he or she speaks English, that he or she can read the note, and enjoy the Paid-Programming of the box TV-set which shows only antiquated British dramas at .75-times their original speed. The set is slightly broken, so the uncommon static might unnerve him or her. I had a nightmare my imagined Other Half was growing Salvia divinorum in the land-corals’ artificial habitats’ apparatuses, rolling cigarette papers and clouding the storage unit with Salvia smoke, killing the corals. I woke from the nightmare dampened by perspiration, cocoon of sheets splotched in sweat and my own countenance temporarily horrified.
When we wake and see through our windows these great flocks of swallows, when we assess the status of our dreamstates, come to terms with what we truly believe we are inhabiting—whether it be a cage for us or a cage for Them—I think there is at last some hiccup in vision of our Immediate Surroundings: some hallucinatory stop in the unspoken conversation of thoughts we’re constantly having on an internal level. I hope that, should I wake again, before I go to sleep, I find some respite in the blue of my wallpaper, or the next color of the wallpaper of the next room. I hope that, when the sun finally goes down, I am actually there to assess the beauty of the clouds’ many-colored coats. Be well and well-read. I am coming home again.