S P E C I A L   ·   W E A T H E R   ·   A D V I S O R Y


     Dreams. That drug. Contraband thoughts. A simplistic pin hole to mystic interpretation. Blow for a spellbound quasi visionary, sitting in a Technicolor bouncy chair on life’s tarmac. All the while, scoffing down psychedelic cheeseburgers wrong-side up. Watching a girl doing her dance, back and forth, along a highway of sourdough skies. Snared by an intoxicating elixir, cooked-up in soliloquising old sardine tin, stuffed with immured aspirations. Lucid longings whittled out of romantic sonnets plagiarised from sunsets and early morning star-bursting dew drops.

     The broth, a faithful servant to foggy mind sets. Diaphanous concoction of lost metaphors waiting dissertation. Dash of White Rabbit Nebula. Pit of one unwritten love song found clinging to a tattered breeze. Mandarins oranges, peeled, splayed, displayed; each morsel squished between finger and thumb then tossed into the rapturous mash. Crushed sprigs of spacious intimacy; confectionary sugar encrusted. Curried prose chronicles of a freckled faced, sun guzzling darling at play, all stinky sweaty, dangling burnt toes in cool pools of green,blue and turquoise. This dream was Bill’s.

     Dead Bill, his god given name, discovered himself scripted into life on a piece of rag paper. Ripped. Torn. Dispatched from an imaginative colouring book void of lines. Conception and gestation analogous to a musical note expelled to a vast envelope of symphonic sound waves, then mercifully left to his own devices to learn how to fly. A resplendent speck allocated to a flourishing womb, where quite possibly one can only imagine, a harmonious heart once lived and thrived. Gradually and true to form, he came in to existence as that which dreams toil and aspire to become. Vivid. Fantastic. Profoundly real. Flesh, it is noteworthy to mention, not all that important nor even necessary in the realm of being human. In what is best described as a dream.

     Day in and day out. An old man from down the road. Who lives above the salt flats, trundles along on my window sill. Two breaths for every step. Forth, then back. Cane in one hand; his prestege. The other, a grocery bag from the Red & White store. Full in one direction, empty on return. Contents neatly stored behind the blue door of the boat shanty tucked in along the shore. Overgrown with alders. It’s roof and walls in good repair, the paint presumed dead a half century ago. Cherished finds, his love of humanity and the world at large. Of light. Of colour. Of wind. Of rain and snow. From twigs of thoughts on one end of the spectrum. To shards of ligh, that splash off a young girl’s cheek on the other end. An idolater he is most definitely not. Taken out of time, stripped from physicality. A Gatherer of wayward spirits, whom, look for a mindful eye to call as home.

     Laughter amidst the stars. Dancing in silky tidal fog, as it ferrows through the gut, down the basin, pass the narrows of Goat Island. The drama of rust crying incessantly; soundlessly. At decimals only a visionary can hear. Squeals of delight, that never shall fade. The Dancer, dances from eight stories high. Her shadow leading the way, twirling and jumping under her feet. Dead Bill named the child Eleanor, as she was his brightest light, in an otherwise dim world.

Alejandra Ribera's -HIGHER