In and out of attentiveness, I’m daydreaming, recalling random scenes from my life – tropical islands, desert plains, country scenes of midnight skies, San Francisco, south of Market.
The streets of New York rouse me back to their insistent reality.
Keith is talking about Prehistoric art. We pass one of Jean Michel’s tags on a rusty iron beam supporting an overpass – a pointed crown and the word “Samo” scrawled in haste. He points at it and says “See that tag? Samo is like…the voice of God”.
We arrive at his place.
“OK, man. Thanks for the ride.”
I say goodbye and drive through the Lower East Side up to West 20th. There’s a space open in front of the precinct station – a safe place. I like looking out the window to see the Mustang in one piece down there.
In the loft, reviewing the day before falling off to sleep, I am burdened and inspired. Something is happening – moving me with insistent force.
Naked between gray sheets, I await my descent into the dream cave. The enfolding layers of linen feel like soft echoes of the smooth boulders surrounding that cavern at the bottom of the hill.
Behind my eyelids inner sight continues. Entoptic visions pulse with the regularity of ocean waves. I see phosphenes, staccato flashes, random spots of gold and networked streaks of shiny blue and green. Shape-shifting colors move like protozoan life.
There are spaces between the shapes. I make a conscious effort to send my imagination out to explore this evolving mindscape. Pear-green tubes sprout prickly spikes. Finely detailed rosettes and ultraviolet plumes feather out through a fine mist. I drift toward an incandescent horizon.
As surely as dark cumulonimbus presage thunderstorms, these events bring awareness of approaching dreams.