..rows of women – all the same woman – in a toilet stall with trailing electrode-type wires streaming down from their bodies. Draining the so-called toxins from them. But it wasn’t working. The same row of women – all the same woman – walking towards me, frowning. Whatever it was they were being treated for, it was not working at all.
A warehouse, and people. A piano, and a man in a green sequined waistcoat to play it.
Black silk overshirts and floral skirts. Too many clothes. There’s my son, over there.
Taking a young woman by the shoulders, saying “Look at me. I am 50 years old” , trying to convince her I meant no harm.
After the geomagnetic storm, the dreams were queued.
And before that, head on my hands, smoking, looking out of the back door at threadbare trees and a clean evening sky: feeling my soul become the soul of the world. Myself in every form of life- every human, good and evil and indifferent; every bird exalting that god is not dead upon the sky; every blind worm, every diatom crusting the ocean, every dying whale, each carbon molecule….darting, now burrowing, now linking and reforming the flesh of the All.
And turning the inward glance – a quiescent cinnabar ocean, just barely remembering that I was once a woman.
The coronal mass ejection – the same solar upheaval responsible for Northern Lights and Coronae Australis – crackles across the Earth’s magnetic field, effectively stopping all dreams, all intuitions.
Until it passes, and those images which have lain in wait for hours come streaming through.