smooth

GRAVEL

16.  There's no real logic to it; it's more like being in contact with a force. Dream fragments seem to be its language. It started last night, just as I was about to fall asleep, with a whisper voice, "// ../. /.. //. ../.. /./.. ./ ./ ./. .. ./ . The one that isn't buried. // ... ././ /../ // /.. //. ./ /. .// .. /." Then waking up this morning, a Friday, I'm certain, I see Whitney in a (Dream) David Daniels is teaching her something. He has her wait a moment, then go outside. I'm watching. The logic is wrong. (Fin) Falling back asleep, again, the (Dream) He's secreted away the keys to her car and all her identification papers, and has her go outside again. There's no way she can get away once she's out there! (Fin) A third (Dream) Sure enough, she comes back in. Something is still wrong, upside-down, or backward. (Fin) A whisper voice says, "/. .... /// ../ //.. ./// ../ // ../ // .. I used to but I don't anymore. /. ./ .// / .... // ... /./ ./ ../ ... / /." Back in a (Dream) I see Whitney dressed as a General in front of the White House. She's all happy and trim. (Fin) Waking up, I hear yet another whisper voice saying, "//. ../. /.. ./.. .// /.. ./.. /.. ../. She made me into a real person. // ... ../ //. ../ /.. .//.. ./ // ... .. /" I gaze into some sort of imperfect transparency, or translucence, and have an impression, really, and in the (Vision) see flying elephants, maybe three of them, in the fine mist. (Fin) A few moments later, in yet another (Vision) It's me that's flying. I see the Golden Gate Bridge, not too far below, just coming out from fragments of fog. (Fin) Yesterday morning, driving across the Oakland Bay Bridge, I wondered what in hell that dream about stringing a wire across Veterans' Boulevard had been all about, and just as I thought about it, a strong sensation settled in the right side back of my neck. I bowed my head slightly, still keeping my eyes on the road, and suddenly the sensation leapt across to the left side back of my neck, then continued down to the back of my left shoulder blade and into my left elbow, then around the corner, with its fine sensation shooting all the way down into my left palm and fingers. I remembered trying to keep the Lionel train my parents had given me in Colorado Springs from running off the track and find myself pushing the lever of the electrical transformer forward again, while once again the model train shoots off the tracks in a shower of sparks onto the rough carpet. I hear someone say, "He's too young," and watch as they pack up the train and dismantle the tracks. This morning, waking up from these twists of logic, dream fragments, whisper voices and visions, I feel a soft pool of sensation deep in my belly, directly connected to my genitals. An even softer whisper voice throws in, "// .... ./. //. ..... // .../ ... ./ ./ ../ ./ . I feel safe. ../ ./ /.. ./ /.. .// /. /../ .// ./ /. .. ... /."