In my dream I was swimming effortlessly downriver in thick, still, warm, black water. I've had water dreams all my life, most of them nightmares, but this was different. There was no fear, no dread of drowning, no anxiety about what awful dream thing lay ahead.
The river terminated in a small, dim, brick, chapel-like building, somewhat like a boathouse. Again, in the dream twilight, usually so pregnant with menace, there was no fear. And when, aground and lost, I had to ask the beautiful, blond carnival ticket-taker how to get back to the river, she, though fierce and imperious, said she would lead me back there herself.
The dream river was opaque. The river dream was opaque. They were bottomless. With what eyes do we see, do we see in dreams ? No eyes, in fact. No light, no lenses. Just flesh and flux; anions, cations. But eyes were involved, once. Lenses, light. The sun. The big bang. The flash of lux. The dream is like a book. An embellished history, revisionist to the max. There's a pudgy six year old with pincurls and bangs in my head. I wish she'd leave.
I went out walking yesterday in snowlight. I had to recalibrate. The landscape, the lightscape had all changed. My eyes hurt. Tears welled, crocodile tears, from sheer bio mechanics. I could feel my irises stopping down to pinpoint. I saw lenses everywhere.
The brain is a lens. A big blood lens.
It's full of holes, and sometime photosynthesizes. It makes its own light and its own darkness.
There was thin glass
and thick glass
and thick and thin glass.
There even was wet glass.
And glass, as in Man, look at that dude's GLASS !
Pssst. Try handholding that monster stopped down to f/25 at a shutter speed of 1/25. I hear it works wonders with seagulls !