Friday, April 1, 2011

Trans-stylistic dream trace.

Overwarm from the metabolic directives of his own slight alcohol intoxication and that of his wife's beside him, the man awoke carrying a marvelous and peaceful dream, and was surprised that he carried it. He could not decide immediately what was more fascinating about it, the architectural features, the music, the subtle pan-ethnicity, pan-genderedness, the colors, the smell, the botanical elements, the simplicity, the theology...

In a dark, yet luminous, and perfectly square, perhaps forty foot by forty foot stone walled room whose each wall bears four horizontal rectangular windows with no membrane of any kind, and in which are also built 3 vertical niches in which musicians sit, there is another cuboid enclosure in whose corners are cut large circular holes through which may be seen a simple but enchanting fountain. Through the glassless windows lay a wide savannah of grasses at dusk. Here and there in the distance might be Baobab, or better yet, Dracaena drago, dragon tree. The musicians play the music of ancient Greece.

A common plant covers the walls of the inner cuboid. Could it be something like sweet potato vine? And is there not bougainvillea as well? In the lights from the fountain the foliage reads as red and gold, not as magenta and yellow green. The fountain appears both ancient and Modernist. A large, white, stylized head of Pan sits atop a truncated obelisk of black stone, separated from the lower half by an unseen structuring through which water comes constantly burbling, like a neck wound, oddly. The catchment is of a low parapet covered in a mosaic of small pastel colored square tiles of travertine filled with tiny remnants of sea beings. The head of Pan is itself pan-ethnic, and pan-gendered. Its contours seem to fluctuate as its carving is of an optically challenging nature. Multiple lines upon every surface transect the image and are created so as to catch the light from the catchment's flickering light which constantly rises up through the water. And if one watches, one begins to have an epiphany, one is taught something old and ancient, that all lines remember all other lines, as all lines are one, and that all the memories of all times are stored in any objective line just waiting to be recalled. For instance, if one watches the side of the face near the corner of the eye, suddenly one sees a woman with her child in the field, a fall day eons ago, the hair is rushing through her limbs, her hair is like a shock of silver bells, and then there are thirty other images right on top of that one, a man tipping his hat on a warm spring eve, and kite trapped in a tree, a hand threading a needle, a small girl holding a cup over a mouse, etc.

Suddenly, a young negress mermaid pops out of the fountain, an inky sprite! All glittering and young, her eyes wide, but the whites are pale green. Suddenly, again, she is gone, and one is left only with the thought, "How wild a flute is the foot?" The human foot is a mermaid, a glittery flute. What wild shocks I felt as I watched that foot fall onto the trail to do its work. What marvels descended and what piercing flute calls are the wet foot, a mermaid, a mermaid foot flute. What mysteries does a hand or a foot contain?

There are people inside the cuboid fountain room sitting up next to the warm stone walls enjoying it all too mixed in with the foliage, and beyond that the cubical room is a restaurant of sorts, but one where people singing float through like shades or dapples to the air, and on the whole, all these people seem to know that the fountain is the body, and for long periods of time we all just sit and listen to the endless burbling of the water, the light and the shadow, the song, and above all, motion, tumult and stillness joined together as a whole, in the shimmering of Pan's head, a flexing of near infinite lines upon the surface.