Blissful Impact


dream_about_falling_down1

Song in my head right now – Primus’s My Name is Mud. Reminds me of my brown-stained boots as I trudged through our high school football field, taking pictures of random shit. Last picture I took were of those once shiny black boots. It’s a beautiful black and white lying around somewhere in my stack of paper. This little diddy makes me wanna knock mailboxes off their rickety wooden poles… but us Suburban Connecticut kids just didn’t do that sort of thing.

I’ve been falling so deep in my dreams recently, that I ignore the conscious state of reality when I shouldn’t. Like the other day, when I was midway through falling… What was it that I was falling from? In most of my dreams, it’s usually a decayed piece of foundation, crumbling under my feet. My first falling dream was a fantastic scene in Harlem, long before I actually found a home there. I was overlooking the gray neighborhood through a window of a brownstone. On the very top floor is where I stood, overlooking other brownstones surrounding me. My account of this dream has been tainted by time and other memories, but you best be certain that I remember the sound, that palpable sweet sound that still chills me. Imagine hearing a building deteriorate around you, the rip and tear of the steel veins that pulsed heavy through an once sturdy frame. There’s a snap, the whistle of the wind slipping through the cracks as they run through those offwhite walls. Then, the rumble, like an earthquake in a container. Right beneath my feet. Suddenly, I see the entire thing go, the unraveling of brick and cement and rock. And I feel the gravity slip under my feet. And I fall, plummet, drop down from the third floor of the brownstone. I fucking fall and land on my ass, my ass landed right on top of the pile. The pile of slate gray and white cement. And I look around to realize that the rest of the world-all those pretty brownstones-fell with me too. Harlem was a fucking mess.

In this dream, though, I’m not in Harlem. I’m even further up now. Higher up on some building or bridge. There’s that rumble… that beautiful earthquake. But, from what I recall, I do not wait for the shit to hit the fan. I dive right into the air. There’s no floating, no elegant flying. Just a fucking nose dive to the floor – a cold stab of stone. I feel my heart explode with this gracious anxiety. The trip down is fast, but feels like a lifetime. Air pushes my fleshy face upward, forcing my lips to smile and my eyes to slant.

Give meeeeeeee…
…All the peace…
…And the joy in your miiind…

Further, further, take me down with you. Take me down with you… Wait. The floor is just inches from my face. I don’t land like always. That’s actually the most fun-the impact. The impact I’m used to is violent and quick. It’s a sledgehammer that frightens me awake, one that has me clinging to the edges of the bed. Instead, I sit there… just sit there. And so I force the fall to end, and I drill my head straight through the ground… I can feel the buzz from the tip of my head straight down my spine. My tits shake. My ears ring. My toes wiggle uncontrollably.

Suddenly my eyes are open and I’m staring into daylight. It’s Monday morning. I’m not supposed to see the sun… I was supposed to see the sky bluing at the edges, streetlights still sparkling below that weird semi-sunrise I’m used to. I check my clock… it’s 9:24. I was supposed to wake up at 4:30. According to the alarm mechanism, it was on an indefinite snooze. Someone had to switch it to snooze… did I? I must have – no one else was home. Hm. Is this the first phase for sleepwalkers, I asked myself. Then, I wondered what other strange adventures my body will experience while I’m flinging myself off of buildings and bridges.

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