[ thisconnect ]
I had this dream... where I could teleport... sort of. All I had to do was close my eyes, spin the nearest pinwheel, think of the place I wanted to be, and... without any sort of onomatopoeia, I was there. I just opened my eyes and things came alive-- no poofs, zams, zips, thunks needed. But there's coarseness of course: doubt and you're dead. If I didn't know where I was going or if I let that slippery question -- can I really do this -- get asked... then nothing... really... and no amount of thunking, zipping, zamming, or poofing on my part could change-o that stale-y stuckness.
... Then there was the plot. The teacher, robed and pretty useless, but happy-happed in that deranged mystic sort of way. The masked man who I keep trying to kill. The old man frowning at me in that he's-a-deranged-mystic sort of way, and telling his grandson that at my age people should not, under any circumstances, be playing with pinwheels. And then the giant windmill that I'm circling around, where every lap brings something new and completely unknown. And then the ritual. The ceremony. Carved in stone. Changing as I look at it. What's meaningful now, Nasca? What's written on the wall other than your google-able name? Hisatsinom? Crazy Horse, my 4th-grade-project-of-a-warrior? Shamana-nana-banana fee-fi-monana? Where's the myth?... except in my goddamn dreams. Where is the living religion? Where's the bloody hair, baba? Here, all I'm bloody hearing is "then it gets philosophical". |
