I went to a séance once…just to see if they could hear me. Try to get noticed. They never do. I go all over the place. All over the world. Séances, toll booths, the backs of ambulances, corporate sales meetings, dancing through the ethers, a wild tether to something other. (pause) Not that I advocate such involvement in arcane practices of the occult. And it does help to have something of some heft to say. But everything so far has proved so pointless, heedless, reckless and unnecessary, the ways of life, drifting and coiling through…avoiding the rough patches, shedding some skin on the bits you do happen to rub against. Madness. Silence. The deafening noise. Serenity. More silence. Anonymity and oblivion.
I had a dream, there was darkness everywhere. I was the color blue, a thin line of cerulean on a Wassily Kandinsky painting, hanging on an empty wall of a long empty hall of a dark deserted museum. And I was moving. I went careening around the canvas, bending around smears of gold and blending in and out of crimson triangles and tangles, weaving up and down the black dotted spine. The sound of my traffic over the picture was similar to voices, voices singing, instruments playing, folk music. I would go whipping right up to the edges but suddenly I would turn and lurch back down the sides and shot into the center and start outward again. Nothing was holding me back and I had both the speed and power to jump right over the side and spill like blue spray all over the empty white wall and go shooting out into freedom. There was no boundary. There was no sentry. No fences and no obstructions. I could have easily done this thing but I got the sense that I didn’t desire it. (pause) The loneliness of the dream doesn’t surprise me. The anamorphic nature of it is no shock. But the apprehension of autonomy, the trepidation and lack of desire for bursting out, no passion whatsoever for freedom, I find that to be a most startling aspect. I think about the dream often.