Jan. 12th, 2011

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[personal profile] richardbjr
My name is Richard B junior. My journey started far away, five or six blocks I'd say to the sea depending on the route I took. I was well prepared with freshly charged batteries in my camera, a small Moleskine and a pen in case I had a thought worth writing down. I patted Monkey on the head (my stuffed, white Monkey that hangs out on my piano bench), played a few notes on the piano, stumbled one last time to the balcony and looked out to the marvelous sea. It was a beautiful, early morning just after sunrise.

I chose the right cane for my journey and hobbled for the door.

Suddenly the walls across the room turned translucent. Spreading out at the axis of symmetry the angle between them became obtuse. What was beyond the walls was indistinct, iridescent.

Images formed, first symmetrically across the joined surfaces, two dimensional, kaleidoscopic and colorful. The surfaces merged into one giant, techno-colored scene shivering in arabesques of the great outdoors.

A surreal scene, I was standing naked in a field of grass, oaks and persimmons dropping red-brown leaves into a small river where trees floated by and bright colored snakes watched the shore with sad eyes. There were birds and other strange, small animals. I could feel the wind blowing through my hair.

This was no beach. I thought that Monkey might be doing it. He sat up in a tree, golden beams shot out of his eyes.

And then the music started. It was "Let the River Run", as sung by Rosa López.


The scene changed to a desert landscape as seen from a mountain top. Across an expanse of empty desert was the ocean. Looking down I made a declaration. I said, "Tonight when the wind visits I'll leave, no fear, I'll dance and sing and the wind will carry me there."

Shortly after that I fell down the mountain and for most of the night I crawled across the desert. I reached the shore at sunrise with skinned knees and rested.

I know too well what this was all about. I know too well that I would stroll the beach while the wind and I commiserate about the fall of man, the rise of rocks and waves and sand.

Then I blinked and sneezed twice. I hadn't left the room, and there was Monkey on the piano bench as usual, wearing sunglasses. The walls returned to normal walls. It was a clear morning outside.

My head hurt. I was laying on the floor, oh shit. I'd tripped and bumped my head. I have a bad right leg. Some mornings I don't walk very well. I checked and there was no blood, no other injuries. I'd bumped my head before. Nonetheless, I got right up and wrote this vision I had seen.

After I finished the writing I was ready again. I was well prepared for my journey to the sea. The door waited to be opened. I went to the freezer first to get out an ice pack to put on my bumped head. As the cold penetrated my skull I thought that maybe I'd wait and go at sunset instead.

This writer's life can be dangerous on mornings like this. Never know what I'll bump my head on next.

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Pan-Weirdism

March 2011

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