In my dream, I'm leading a tour of the book I'm editing. It's a living thing, hovering and throbbing and shifting its shape, revolving a few feet above a stroboscopic dancefloor pentagram. The tour is made up of potential investors. We're all wearing wetsuits that are filigreed with fiberoptic tattoos and designed for deep immersion and interface with sentient narrative tulpa-clusters.
There's a feedback loop that comes on when you do lots of diving. I'm always embedded in some kind of narrative, wherein I usually go diving into a deeper degree of narrative and feel a strange metabolic nostalgia for the diver I was in the level above. I feel like I know what I'm doing, but I may have sketchy description and blurry details on the part of my narrator to thank for my expertise. The storytelling instinct is, in some ways, superficial. You don't know everything your characters know. You don't need a PhD to write a physicist. You pick the details that vibrate, the nuances that sound good and speak volumes. You fake the rest and somehow the music fills in all the blanks and the fictoplasmic beast in question accrues an intensity that competes with and maybe supplants "reality".
That's what I'm telling the investors.
It's my standard prologue.
I always say it like I'm making it up as I go.
Into fleshscapes soaked and coated by cascading latex, into dubstepped Escherplexes and prismatic, chittering elf-holes and tattooed skinstorms that explode into perfume. My suit grows big scissors at the wrists, like garden-shears with glo-in-the-dark glyphs engraved on the blades. Faucets in my codpiece release a luminous glue. Luminous and endless. Rapture achieved and sustained.
Fragments of feeling and mis-en-scene careen towards us like rogue galaxies, enveloping us utterly, and we're lost in Her life for just a moment or a year and then my Hypnovision kicks in. The scissorbirds sing. Then the myth is in pieces. The erotics of collage. The investors get lost from time to time as we go deeper, as we enter the static time and mutable space of an artifact, a host of ghosts that hang suspended in everywhen until the reading mind catches fire and the visions kick in.
I sometimes split myself into seven people and go on a rescue binge that seems to take decades. But the key harmonic sings us home and I can hear my client's laughter like a doll does when playtime is about to begin in earnest and the dollhouse cosmos flexes, in a sense, and I see the hot pink heart of all this, of Her, of the Work, regulating the immaterial tides, here at the molten core of everything that isn't. I bask in its atomic truth. My microselves and my macroselves and who I am now are aligned. I feel the big picture in a synaptic sherbet-storm that lesser men might mistake for a seizure.
She's eaten the investors, it seems.
They will pass through Her lyrical complexity
and emerge on the other side of summer as soft serve solid gold.
*photos used without permission and without shame. no one owns a dream.*