Weave 6

Its at the townhouse, my old house, the house with the view out back to my dad’s old house from a different time. I learned to swim out there a million years ago. There’s just a few of us, mainly two lights and a purple haze, and gold stars dissolve on paper in our mouths. Things become very musical. The haze vanishes, as hazes are wont to do, and guitars, always guitars, start up their supple song. We sing with our fingers and complex rhythms form shapes and patterns in ears and noses. Very strange, very familiar, ever changing and yet cyclical song constantly vanishing from its current place and returning to somewhere you had long forgotten, only to remember again as you are forgetting again. The music is boiling, rotating. People come in and out, watch for a while, speak words, and leave again, and still the song continues. It’s getting too big for the house, so we place the sounds on our feet and gravitate our ambulatory patterns to the dark and patient concrete out there in the night. The song continues on the shoes and in our mouths, words, numbers, and percussive laughter weaving an example for the atmospheric conditions before us. At a parking lot on a hill beset by crosses, someones says they would like to make the music that god listens to when he goes to sleep. A brilliant idea but how to accomplish it? I can see small scatterings of its pattern but it’s too big for my mind to hold alone. Maybe all the lights together could do it, but just me? forget it. Nice dream, though.