dream — (02.24.2006)
text by Austin Pick
In a dream I see from the wideview of a helicoptered cinema-shot a medieval warrior, tank-bodied & heavily armored, running the jagged and fractured terrain of a high mountain range under brooding skies... my view follows and closes in, he heaves against the rock stopping to catch his breath and turns, wide-eyed backwards — he is being pursued, face hidden by helmet & hair, darkness & blood, left shoulder also wounded, armor and leather torn. Stands again, heavily, continues on, running the narrow path along a razor of rock and void, until beyond a collapsed tower of mountain finds a wide ledge... He has arrived, I have arrived, I see as over his shoulder, or am him, or become him... and there is a flying ship waiting, and a mother-father archetype couple who seem superimposed on the scene, standing in generic benevolence, arms around, narrators made visible, speaking solemnly about the gravity of these moments... flying ship lowers its boarding ramp or stairs, an elderly asian woman descends, aglow with kindness and the wisdom of her age — she is known to me, connected in a flash of memory to a time when I couldn't have guessed we'd meet again, and now her sudden solemnity affirms that a critical hour is at hand — the woman, reaching up and gripping her face in mute agony, begins to melt, her face flowing thru her cupped hands, running down into the earth, a slow globular fleshed plastic between fingers — and following, the whole manifest world begins to melt with her, eddying in odd vortex drawing in and downward thru her cupped hands, her hands holding all the imagery of the world sifting and mixing like so much paint and distilling into a chalice of blood formed by her cupped hands in simultaneous gesture of offering and receiving — everything perceivable is condensing and closing slowly inward, and there is no emptiness or blackspace beyond, only the dissolution of all distinction, all color and texture simplifying in the long brown tongue of red blood pouring, and her body continues to melt, pitching over into its own dissolving hands, my body must be melting but I feel only the sensation of what I see, the single scintillation of the siphon, and my perception remains fixed as I watch as everything, the greater orb of the liquid world, distills and flows in the bloodshape of this chalice until the chalice flows thru its own neck and draws my perception entirely into its draining circumference. Now disembodied, only observer, what I see next is the closed room of a small cave, the walls angularly hewn in the suggestion of a molded foam amusement park pastiche, as if intentionally false-feeling, around the inside of which there runs an unbroken metal bar, like a handrail... There are hummingbirds perched on the bar with eyes like fouled-jewels, and they intermittently dart across the cave and savagely attack one another with rapid beak-stabbings in the head, and each time I witness this over and over again my perception is cut by frenetic scenes of trunk-fisted men smashing each other's faces with incredible explosive splattering violence, accompanied for a moment by the narrators, perhaps in a single over-laid androgynous voice, explaining that this is the real truth of the world, distilled into a simplified image-set: that we are all concentrations or packets of intensely focused energy buzzing around in an enclosed space and contriving to destroy each other with unrelenting savagery, without meaning, without purpose, endlessly. And as it continues I cannot understand how this insight, if that's what it is, can be of any use to me at all, even if I can somehow bear the awful weight of the continuous barrage upon my mind, because the images themselves assault me...