Dream #289: All-Weather Running Track Labyrinth

01.21.2012 § Leave a comment

I’m at Xenharmonic Praxis Summer Camp, and everyone is deferring to me on microtonal instructions in romanized Japanese: mmmmmfnnhhhh, u o nuo ono unou, etc.

I’m jogging around a labyrinth of six-lane, charcoal-colored all-weather running track. This labyrinth is not much of a puzzle, though, as its walls are merely chain link fence, which I can hop over as I please, and can also see the labyrinth’s layout right through. Moreover, that layout is not a maze to begin with; rather, it is laid out as if an abstract impressionist with four hundred child’s toy train sets scrambled all the straight pieces, corner pieces, and junction pieces into a dense arrangement that bore more aesthetic than transportal meaning, then converted the tile set to track and field stadium, and filled in his negative space with chopped up chunks of football field. This nonsense is contained within an arena one hundred times larger than a normal one, styled something like a modern college stadium attempting to evoke a Roman coliseum; it’s hard to be sure, though, since the arena walls are so far away that the atmospherics begin to obscure detail. The arena walls only surround us on three sides; in one direction I can see a sprawling academic compound, so distant that the haze reduces the buildings to silhouettes. It’s a thinly overcast day, the worst kind, such that looking up anywhere hurts your eyes, since the sunlight has been diffused without being blocked; there are apparently regular cracks in the cloud cover that must correspond to the fast-moving patches of sunlight on the ground, though you’d never be able to find them in the blinding wash of silver lining. It’s late fall, the air is crisp, the grass is a greying yellow, and the greenest things in sight are the weeds growing up the fences.

I’ve accidentally jogged by the same place twice, a tiny mortar-less red brick shack inexplicably plopped amidst this maze. It’s a media center. The last time I went by, I jogged right in and just kept right on jogging around its single loop of hallway, which looked like something straight out of a high school, with rows of grey lockers connecting the speckled beige linoleum tiled floor to the equally characterless dropped ceiling, except that the fluorescent light seemed dimmer than it should have been, and the classrooms and even the occasional locker overflowed with black cables and outdated video equipment, which was all fun to dart around and hop over. A friendly guy in his 50’s with John Lennon glasses and a neatly trimmed goatee ran the place, and had popped out of his office to politely greet me and ask me what sort of media I was interested in. I hadn’t answered him. His yellow shirt had had some writing on it in the same color as the lockers and the track outside, but I was going too fast to be able to read what it said as I passed him. This time around I hope to get a better look. However, as things turn out, he doesn’t notice me until I’m already past him. Also, I kind of lose interest since he’s so pathetic that he chases me all the way out the door, plaintively repeating his question the whole time.

I’m trying to get everyone to appreciate how beautiful the Bay Bridge is, in all its white marble Corinthian arched resplendence, framing an overgrown waterfall, and spanning a garden of pink gladioli, yellow freesias and white lilies surrounding a body of water that somehow <a href=”cmloegcmluin.wordpress.com/2011/10/02/sameltimeously/”>sameltimeously</a> looks as tiny as a pond and huge as a lake. The sun glares off its face, and the agitated surface of the water sparkles like a galaxy.

I’m inside the tunnel of the bridge now, but it is made of umber stained oak now, rough and porous after decades of weathering. The wall of the tunnel facing into the waterfall is not solid; the planks of wood are as if they were rotated about twenty degrees, then compressed to be nearly touching again, but not quite, so that if you look at the wall at a certain angle you can see through it. On the other side where the waterfall should be is an old residential neighborhood, in perpetual shade from canopy cover and overgrown with lush, deep green ivy and moss breaking the forsaken sidewalk further apart. I can see some dog poop in the grass.

In the farmhouse bathroom, a tribunal is being held for Vivica, since she is obviously smitten with me despite knowing that I have a girlfriend, and it’s begun to disturb the flow of the camp. Larry accompanies the proceedings on his cello with two saws: he controls one, bowing the strings across their front as is normal, while his assistant bows their sides, directly toward and away from the cello. There are panes of glass floating in the toilet.

Karin has dyed her hair pink and cropped it really short. Also, the surgical scar just to the left of her vulvar cleft has gotten larger since last I saw it. It had been a tiny square on her skin, three times as deep as it was wide or tall, with cauterized walls, and stitches in its base; now it’s rectangular at the surface, as tall as it is deep. She had gotten a mole removed. I’m concerned about her burgeoning interest in cosmetic surgery, but she dismisses my concern. When I fuck her, I imagine her with her old hair instead of this pink stuff.

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