‘Sonata 4 a Dying Loser’ by Walker Storz

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This afternoon, I passed by a man on a ladder who was working on the box store, cutting the rock with a machine.  The rock was screaming, splitting the air while it was being split–it sounded like grey-stacked neurons crying out of their own dryness.  My head was full of that same dryness and I couldn’t sleep.  I was contemplating suicide for reasons far more pragmatic than I had ever hoped.  I would rather exit than die of this thirst.  I couldn’t breathe, and my head was full of this suffocation–it permeated my entire body and consciousness.

My mind has become a wet, ragged cloth.  Time is power I can’t access.  I am a slow drowner.  I keep lagging–hope always comes to a different time zone.  Remember that time the USPS sent you a love letter I wrote before I died, three years late?  We have had quite a journey.  I remember when I died and was denied entry to my own funeral, it was because I had forgot my glasses.

A stratocaster is like an ak-47, an appropriate technology.  The way she smiles creates a glow–synthesized like had to be–no angel, subterranean, constant, chthonic.  It’s good the way rubber is good.  I read everything wrong and if you take this pill you can come into this other space.

 

The “art world” is a paper tiger.  The art world is made up of bodies, some lithe, some fat, brains, with wiring amenities and such.  The bodies can make things or go in things.  They are in buildings.  We can tear down these buildings.  It’s about unleashing something on the world that comes from the neglected mother.  Every night that you don’t sleep, fully, this barrier is eroded.  The veil becomes thinner, the way technology prepares us for this by means of desensitization, is just making our heads naked and stripped raw for a little bit, hearts raw and overworked for a little bit, only to fall into the dreams waiting in the center of the earth, to fall and have it be a good and a soft fall and have it work and replenish the brain’s thirst for sleep.  If that gap were ever sealed, the gods of sleep (all kinds, nymphs, demons, larger and more contemporary ones) would unleash themselves on the waking world.  People will spasm in smaller circles.   People will remember less, and people will do things that they don’t understand why they are doing.  They will be in one of the unhappy stratas that occurs when one breaks down the natural territories of dreams and sleep.  They will be anxious but tired, always coming or going.  And not remembering! And not remembering!

The sleeper must return to his mother once every cycle.  The cycles are based on organic, low rhythms.  This particular cycle, this particular sleeper is returning to the bowels of the green earth, the soft caves.     He will awaken at an appropriate time, that is to say, when his body wakes.

See another sleeper, Artemis this time, crystallized and suspended in a forest.  To glance at her is a sin, so to protect the public, the ministry has covered Artemis’ face with a sleep mask.  Visitors to the clearing are still exposed to danger, but they will or have signed liability releases.

Everything is moving so fast, my brain is buzzing acerbically, on a high frequency. I’m at the mall and they won’t let me out, I’m lost and every time I go down a level someone asks me what top they look best in, or where the nearest bathroom is.  A woman is hanging from the girders of the dome in the middle of the mall, when I look at her face closely to try and identify her, it starts to pixellate.  Underneath the mall is a parking garage, and I know the last sleeper is under the concrete on the lowest level.  Things move so fast, dissolve and ossify at record speed, but this sleeper is on another timescale.  The rumblings happen once every two centuries.  This sleeper will awaken, but I have to get to it first.  I have become aware that I’m in a dream and I’m racing to the bottom of the parking garage as if it’s a funnel.  I have a gun.  About half the times that I have a gun in my dream it’s a handgun and I have an accident with it or try and kill myself or am worried about killing myself with it, and the other half it’s an ar-15 variant that has plastic parts that break or jams.  But this is different.  This feels beatific, as if the gun was a gift, from an entity that was made out of violent yellow love and knew that love wasn’t passivity.  Love can be wrenching.  It’s a shotgun, and I point it at a car and shoot out the back windshield–I mean I’m in a dream, right?  I get to do stuff like this and start over, I think. The alarm goes off, however, and I know I just squandered some time.

Despite the fact that I know I’m dreaming (what’s sometimes called a lucid dream) I also suddenly have a feeling that this dream is important, that it has bearing on reality, that it’s vital not to fuck up.  Usually I’m on autopilot, but if I am to awaken fully this time, and not just into an adjacent waking dream, I will need to do this right.

I feel the concrete shift.  I am armed.  I am loved.  Tears of silver are running out of the corners of my eyes.  I am ready.

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