When eyes close for sleep, the mind reassembles.
As the rolling hills of Michigan are my witness, great heaps of hay blew into town, bowling over sky scrapers like tumble weed. In the subways, eyes of profit squinched into snow slits. The dog sled overturned.
The war for Independence has been rekindled this year of exceptional drought, near dry grass. And the rocket's red glare could force evacuations. Leaving rampant weather for later on, Safe and Sane fire works have been designed by experts. They know just where the sparks will land. Ancient arguments are getting settled.
Stoned age days of illegal dope enshrined a great discovery. A good mood can be turned on, as one would a light switch. It works, over and over. Thus had I escaped the straight game. But ah, just offstage was a chorus.
Obviously, it hummed, what goes up must come down. Oh, and the return trip is mined with spies and penalties, sociological enforcements already in place. After being hip got legal, the paranoia reasonably deflated. Row, row, row your boat . . . until from a deeper level of mind came the next realization.
Mood is not a big deal. Turns out it's an interpretation. Patterns of lived events form models for resumption, bringing along associated moods which are literally reincarnated. Never mind from which lifetime, events leave traces in flesh and blood memories. Even events lacking physical counterparts do this. It's the re part that deserves serious attention.
From the get go, an event that succeeds another is deemed later in time. There is a well worn term for this:the arrow of time. It goes:past-> present-> future-> one way only. And this is valid for familiar situations. As such, it is incorporated in living beings as memory. It is also replicated in the machines humans have devised. It works, over and over until it doesn't, when precognition happens.
I can say there is no arrow. Time is a working theory, relative. Temporal experiences are referred to some regular, cyclic benchmark, such as the orbit of the earth around the sun, or the beating of a heart. From time to time (pardon the delicious pun), the cyclic reference is ignored for some reason, and now shifts with regard to a given place. An experience of this, unknown to nonhuman devices, can be traumatic, albeit informative.
A legitimate question at this point, bringing all of this to a coda, or perhaps a turn around, and seeming absurd now, is whether or not it's legal.
Then: Dope is dumb. And also, at graduation you get to toss your hat into the air.
In great company all flags are aflutter, as though glory at the summit, and the words of it tumbling in a wine barrel. With such a fanfare, what might be expected? Well, it matters little. In the backyard, a bumblebee visiting the passion flower matters. One might hear the clash of metal caterpillar tracks, or a trombone sliding off to heaven. Purple doves sitting on the fence. A knitting contest.
Where it all goes is of no concern. Only that it is, much as a strike of lightning, beyond prediction. No, a kite is not free. But as it flies that's forgotten. Ben Franklin's key on a kite string must have been shocking, indeed! But not fatal. He collected electricity in a Leyden jar. Had he gotten lightning, he would have been killed. An event that doesn't happen can be as diffident to history as one that happens without regard to the illusion of time.
The way these things go together is like the recent collapse of an apartment building, through sheer incompetence and neglect, and then rescue and recovery efforts were put on hold due to unseasonable lightning.
One might prefer a bumbling bumble bee, or that the weather would stay home. Like a chaotic attractor is the lightning rod, upright and blameless. You can practice the piano until the cows come home, if they will, but talent is not acquired. In amongst the sand on a well traveled beach, occasionally, will be found a bit of polished glass. Probably it will be blue. There is no explanation to be found in stacking rocks, however death defying.. It will be found, when blowing out candles on a birthday cake, that there is a reason. However brief.
No sooner have I made up my mind than later it gets remade. Before criticizing this, consider taking a nap. The return to wakefulness will pass through dreams not quite finished. Not – which will it be? But – what is it now? What is now? Often it's defined by a specific action, but what action is there in a nap?
So a limitation of words here discloses an unexpected role, that of corralling a fluidity of possibilities that were galloping around. The dream world turns out to be a two-way street. Immaterial whatevers bump into each other, changing places before even a possibility of being defined. Fluidity the ill defined word, entirely useful, having no borders, remaking reality as it goes.
Next, consider remaking your bed. And why? Why not just leave it in a pile? The question assumes you're fortunate enough to have one, and it will stay there, and you will return. When you get back, where are the dreams just there before? Perhaps it was a busy day and they're out there still, somewhere, just lost. So maybe, if you're lucky, you can get them interested in visiting again. A mind running at full speed all the time has no room for dreams. Stuff piles up.
Once the decks are cleared, the eyes shut. This is when the mind gets remade. It expands into dream time on its own terms. There are no explanations to bridge the gap over what it relegates to waking reality, though some attempts may be made. Dream books are written. Totems are built. Temples tower.
The dreaming dreamer is either one step ahead or one behind, depending on where the line of wakefulness is drawn. Upon waking it vanishes.
Where?
.
