Kali-Yuga Invites You Home
Propose to me a dream. Anything you want. Get into a car and drive west, point the picture of your dream against the spreading panorama of a space that in time becomes mountains and deserts and mesas, becomes forests and headlands and the impenetrable scrim of the pacific, a horizon line ever retreating. Watch your dream take shape and become form, watch the shapes move and dance and run off the edge of the earth. Chase them. Chase the forms your dreams take, the cold shadow that grows on the slick line of the sand here in the ever lengthening purple of the sunset that never stops setting that never ends setting. Stay here and watch the sunset burn into your skin, carry the sunset in the red light of your skin, the toasted tightness of your California, salt glazed and itching just a little as you lay down to touch up close your dream. Reach it, make a move toward it and finger it lazily, turn it on, make it hard, or wet, or both, or all things rippling and pulsing- out beyond this place you have found to rest here in the dunes at the edge of San Francisco. This place- where we realize this place has no end, it is a loop playing again and again, dreaming itself into mythology, dreaming itself into a fantasy and a nightmare. The day will come when the earth itself will ripple like the contours of your dream, turn wet and hard and pulsing with the plate tectonic supercharged releasing its pent up wet dream into the nightmare of crushing earth, stone, dust, concrete, sand, liquefaction- turned on and turning under this swiftly built city of exploitation and demand.
Is this what we dreamed off when we drove out west, the sky getting bigger every day until it consumed us and we could never return to the idea of the sky we had been given as a child in the stone dark east? Migrant. Explorer, colonizer, demanding, demanding the sky be as big as possible always.
Is this what we dreamed? Moving toward death, the cataclysm of the west, the ideas of freedom which are actually always just an allusion to death, to the Ultimate freedom dreaming of our own death we are twisting and turning under the sheet of the sky, the razor slice dune grass wrapping around our ankles and slicing the soft soles of our feet, the rippling earth the can swallow even the dome of this sky, can swallow space and life and the life of space, the very idea of space that we have constructed here, the idea of infinity, of freedom and infinity, the land of California has the power to eat everything- all that it has made room for it can eat in one shuddering orgasm of its nighttime convulsions, its remaking, reimagining power is so great.
Is this what we dreamed of when we dreamed of the west?
Get in now. Make sure you know what the dream is or you might get lost out there. Get it good and write it down, draw a map and make the boundaries clear, what you are willing to do and what you are unwilling to do, what services you will provide, what you want this story to be about. Look at this thing in the face, don’t let yourself be fooled. This is the power of the dream, it can destroy you with a shrug of the shoulder, it’s apathy, it’s disinterest can grind you down just as surely as its want.
Get in now, smooth the road out in front of you, remove the obstacles, the drug dog in Illinois, the sheriff in Arizona, the guts spilling out from parasitic water in the foothills on the Nevada border, a small arroyo, boulders in striated rose and blood, yellow bands and inky brushstrokes of pinyon.
I am so in love. In love, a state of being, a wanderer finding home. A tenuous experience, so many contingencies to happiness, to pleasure. Love I will not allow with any mortal being- but the land, the earth, I am a fool for this love. I am a fool because even in the most extreme aloofness of my lover I am whole, I am tended, ecstatic. This is the thing- this is the nature of our relationship with the earth, an extremely dependent state, every feature of our being intertwined with the earth’s capacity to give.