Project

Skywale Exodus
Porcelain city walls. Man woman man. The Pan Project. Venus Envy. Another walk-way above the stars. The cosmic dream of living reality. Fair of faith. Can’t beat without sticks. The brain of freedom in the social grinder. The murky depths of heaven. My mind is prone to ‘guttering’. The bottom of Santa’s bag. Drone the dreamer. Bags claim parties. Last junction of Jerusalem. Blades for babies. I sleep the sleep of dead monkeys. The Thor Project. Let Lewis love large ladies. Trips to other planets. More for the money, all for the money.

With the essence of forgetfulness embraced, with the glitter of mind-be-gone sprinkled upon your two lobes you are able to finally sleep, finally slip away from reality and allow your subconscious out of its pen to romp and reel. With no more ties to the real world, no more than a faint induction of passing senses that filters sound and light into angelic song and cresting moon beams.

What is your destination tonight? Another unassisted flight? Another great fall to a feathery pillow? Perhaps mother will join you and eat father alive like a monstrous black window, or the faceless boys and girls of Nowhere middle school will taunt you as you litigate a finely crafted essay on boiler repair whist garbed in your BVDs? There is always the man with the hatchet that always seems everywhere at once and the super heroes that hide in your linen basket and leap forth at the exact second you pass by. You might wake up and find you can’t breath or talk or that you are wedged between mom and dad in the back of a station wagon at a truck stop off route 12.

There are also endless cityscapes of miss-matched houses and theaters, mills and factories and post offices, all crammed together like some crazy 1000 piece puzzle worlds with interesting caricatures doing funny interesting things but you don’t laugh because you're lost with no destination calling out to guardians with no names, meeting arch-types that look like someone you know but you can’t remember their names or you know their names but they wearing the wrong faces. They act with no reason, they choose with no logic. Every choice they make, everything seems destined to fail and just when you realize it didn’t, that their act defied everything you know to be true about nature and physics and social behavior your forget where you are and you find yourself somewhere else.

Dream, silly child. Dream. Don’t stop breathing. Just dream.

If I could give you any advice it would be to keep dreaming. I don’t mean ‘follow your dreams’ although I suppose that might be inspirational blather that makes you feel good about your decision to pursue a career as a professional crossword puzzle solver. No, I mean dream, actually dream. Lie in your bed or on your couch or in a ditch if that is all you have, and dream. Because no matter how real your life is, no matter how wonderful or horrible or boring life may be, your dreams are not.

Where your dreams reside there you will find the true world, the true purpose for which man was created. You see, children, we are all dreamers and our dreams are building worlds, universes that others dwell in. Call them alternate-universes, pocket dimensions, heaven, hell, Iowa, I don’t care. They are dream worlds and they are the true reality. You are just gods of happenstance, randomly chosen to process information through a lens of uncontrollable chaos, painting a world for the real human beings to dwell in, make homes in, walk, talk and live their lives in. Mule. Dream mule. Get to sleep and go back to work.

But wait a minute! Let’s not be hasty. There is something there for you. A journey, a war, a love, a prepubescent sexual encounter complete with nocturnal emissions, a ‘soaring through the skies’ adventure. Do your dreams enrich your life? Do they bring you pain or sadness? Is your entire work day effected by your dreams? Can you read dreams to determine the future? No. Can you read dreams to determine the health and stability of your unconscious? Maybe you need a hobby. Dream readers, those who interpret dreams, have one agenda; to sell books.

Mish-mash monkey smash, beat around the bush. If you fall down just roll around. Hop up, hop down, scrub your copper penny. Wait for it or go for it. Take a chance, wear pleather pants and screw a roman donkey, because Buddha did and Jesus did it better than a smoldering Ferris wheel of multicolored moccasins. Peel back a turtle sack of mutilated French fries and take your time while sipping wine. Don’t, DO NOT eat the yellow snow. Lemon flavored snow-cones.

I am beginning to see why you are so afraid of falling asleep, Grave. You cannot find your way out of the maze! You get in there and you are lost. Turn left or right? Go up or down? How many times do you think the blaster semicolon will find us? Comma? Comma! Where are you? No……

Semicolons are just commas with hats, period.

So, here we go. The pillow is fluffed, the comforter is cleaned with fabric softener and pulled back, capped with a white sheet. The fan is clean and working. Your mouth is minty fresh and your face tingles with tightness from the ‘one-hair’ soap. You lie in bed and flex your ankles. It’s been a long day and you can feel the muscles in your lower back loosen and smile as you stretch out, cheek kissing the 300 thread count pillow case. You no longer care about the worries of the day or those that may come tomorrow. All that matters is that you are going to sleep. You are going to visit the worlds you have helped to create, visit the arch-typical humanoids that were born from the womb of your subconscious. Dream. Dream.


--Nosmo