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Pooch’s dream

May 28, 2011

I’m dressed in jogging shorts and tank-top, standing at the top of a peak. Everybody is there; Noreen, Pops, scuffle, moms, Lois, Slats, all of ’em watching me, waiting, and many encouraging me. They want me to jump. Some look sure, others don’t care, yet others in the crowd look apprehensive. I jump and I’m flying. The ground below is not really the ground, but a layer of smoke, trapped in a trim of neon piping that follows the contours of what should be the earth. A big psychedelic blanket, with alternating lines of color that wash and undulate and fold and flow, never getting too far from the surface that is obscured beneath it. I soar and flap and dip downward in a dive, all of it beyond what might or might not be my conscious controls.
Then the peripheral sides of my path of flight draw in and become benevolent walls of tint and hue that don’t so much enclose me but free me to find a frame of reference and a way to go. My leonine head is beautiful and my hair has become a lustrous mane of butterscotch. It gives me the exhilarated feeling that all things are possible and that I can perform them beautifully. I begin a steep descent which frightens me with it’s suddenness and, even though terrified, there is a steel-hard awareness that the worst is never as bad as I expect. I give in to the terror and fall.

From → imagination

  1. I really dig this.

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