What strange thoughts web in this evening's dark spaces?

by: W. Dire Wolff

What strange thoughts web in this evening's dark spaces?

In another mind's eye timespace, I waited in another split fantasy. Where daydreams webbed in neon shadow etched patterns on the white ceiling, now veiled in nighttime. The dark room was lit by winter street lamps of cold windswept corners, that made it’s way through the edges of hanging blinds. If some wayward vagabond pulled his collar against the wisps of blowing snow, my world was void of the knowledge of his actions. The patterns cast of shifting specters wafted from the fragrance of burning Jasmine incense. Even the plain white paper of the darken lampshade, hung from the ceiling in the living colors that whispered memories of his mighty white stallion.

Her cat was blacker than the dark of the room that was now illuminated by dilated vision. As usual her cat had ventured down the winding Victorian staircase, from her secret lair, beckoned by the music of Pink Floyd cascading through the stereo speakers. Her back form cautiously inspected each of the blankets piled about the floor. From some, a casual hand reached out to pet her head. Though closed eyed slumber had not found us, we lay under our blankets listening to the music in silver silence. The cat found us under our blanket, and I reached my hand out into the cold air to stroke her fur.

As in comfort and some moment of surprise, plaster walls and wooden floors creaked in furnace’s thundering entrance. Big domes of quilted patchwork sprang from above the floor’s heating vents, some lucky souls lay inside the envelopes of heated bubbles. Since our wallets could not afford the luxury of prolonged heat, each blast seemed like a fleeting timespace that faded quickly into the cold void.

But the passing circumstance of the darken room, was paid little notice. For each of us was racing through sublime images of our inner wormhole. Where sparks sprang from the lightening glimpses of a journey through corridors of red, blue, green, and shining yellow of the comets’ trails. Train tunnels racing through liquid mandala of purple resin in light and image and sound.

Strange patterns that rise from the neon trails of illumination, hazy, yet familiar. And in some awkward seconds of reflection, I recognize these patterns as unspoken words. Yes, and I remember these familiar unspoken patterns of words to be my thoughts. Yes, upon the excitement of my realization that I am thinking, I begin to ponder. I struggle to formulate these thoughts in some pattern, that I might be able to understand what I am thinking. But these reflections on understanding are shattered by sound.

Sounds that explode from the cold stillness of the dark chasum. Sounds that come alive in the dark shadowland, like sparks on a darkened rail. The train thunders through the tunnel. The tunnel…in Tunnel Town. Yes and the train light appears at the end of the tunnel, we wave to the engineer. We can see him wearing his pinstripe engineer hat, waving his long arm from the train engine’s window. Quickly we scurry back into the guardsman’s alcove. The same alcove where yankee soldiers guarded munitions years before. The train passes and it’s only blackness and the sparks on steel wheels meeting steel rails. Rocks, dust, and branches swirling about as the train passes. Safe in the sentry’s alcove we watched those sparks… But that’s only a fleeting memory projected on my mind’s eye retina. It’s not the sparks that is now leaping from the cold silence.

"More music…put on more music," voices are calling like steel wheels hitting steel rails. First one voice and then another. Calling for none in particular. Just voices for me to hear. And now I paused to enjoy the bits of reverb that echoed about the room, like some great concert hall had formed inside the old farmhouse. For what soul would have wanted to venture from the warmth of dark cocoon blankets, to brave the cold and a bit of light for reading album jacket titles?

Not me, perhaps…yet all know that indeed the music is of importance to me. That is why they all focus like voices of tiny flashlight beams in my eyes. Yes, these were the thoughts I was finding. Put on some music, select some new, get up and change things, then hunker back down into the warm silence of shifting melody. Yet cold as the frosted windows the air nibbles my fingers nibbled my fingers that ventured forth in frigid exploration.

"More music…put on more music," the flashlight voices continued to beckon me.

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Copyright © 1996 to 2015 by W. Dire Wolff


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