10 June 2014
Excerpt Intended for "The Abstract Wall": Lamron's Recurring Dream
"It's daytime, probably a weekday, and I'm just there in the middle of that crosswalk off Abalene 41st and Daremill, between lights, pointing my finger like a stick at the sun. It's pointed pointedly like a small but proportionately long, straight wooden-but-not twigish limb at the radiant god of daylight. And then, suddenly, the people walking around me begin standing very still beside themselves. One of them, a little pale-white girl in a long yellow floral-motif dress with orange cloth pedals that oscillate irregularly in movement along its bottom hem (but otherwise are still as can be), begins to look increasingly like a short stalk of wheat. I don't know how, but she does; the dress begins lacerating itself into thousands of tan wheat stems, and her entire pig-tailed head ripples into a flurry of swaying spikelets--the thing a bunch of little things. The blond hair grows into a sea of individually ciliated awns that shine golden in the sunlight mirrored from the angled facades of the buildings overhead. She's completely and one-hundred percent a stalk of wheat rooted to the crosswalk. But it's then I notice that everyone's a stalk of wheat rooted to the intersection. And every intersection visible in every direction from that one has all crossers now wheat stalks--all drivers sagging cylinders of wheat unkempt inside their still cars' seat-belts--as far as the eyes can see for, until the eyes look down and see, too, that their body's own lower portion is lacerating into stems and nothing is any longer visible at all because the air of the whole wide tangible world is numbing up and seeping into the divided insides to blow the eyes' head's thoughts away with the breeze before we are all of us cut down and harvested blindly--only feeling. Then I wake up sometime after or before."