Alpine Queen

While the Alpine Queen found it disquieting, there was nothing that could be pointed to that was quintessentially 'wrong', so she continued on her way - which was nothing more than staying put. Being a particularly large and volume-displacing sea-going vessel, this was entirely appropriate.

I, on the other hand, was not ship like, and _also_ noted a disquietude in the air. She was gone and forgotten quickly, apart from the tracer association lay quietly in my neural network.

The rest of the inlet commute was forgettable; docked and hopped ashore with little fanfare, and walked into the terminbus quickly to get out of the cold.

Second tracer: the termnibus was all but empty. Unusual, given the commuting day of Monday, the day where chiseled intellects and egos streaked through leaving their pyschic scents like an updated version of Hansel's bread crumbs through the labyrithine passageways that connected them to their burrows which brought them home to work.

I stepped aside from myself for a moment, getting as close the nonlocal as was possible - there was a need to think here, and while surrender would have been pleasing, it was not practical at this point. The main point pressing on the pineal was whether or not this was a dream, and the answer was not as straightforward as it seemed.

There was the no-people thing, which was freaking me out a little; this would be hard to explain outside the context of a dream. And there was this ability pull myself into different parts of the termnibus with nothing but eye contact and a little will. Still, there was a subtle sheath here, a _something_ that was containing the freedom I knew from lucid dreaming.

Tracer three: The ability to sit stand half in and out of the nonlocal; felt like the point where lightness and darkness met on the moon. From here, I was able to point, pinch, and grab parts of the scene before me and move them like a magic nine squre sliding puzzle. Surely a dream!

But no, this toffee reality had smudges and blurs that were clearly attached to the sheath, there was no breaking through to another plane.

I moved up through my head, careful to latch my toes on the front of my crown center - gods knew where I would end up if I slipped up and out. I wasn't sure that this place was even on the gods' roadmap.

Final tracer as my head popped through the sheath and looked around at ... the not finite. Sparkler connectors bounced the protganists out away from the gelatinous bubble like bait on god's fishing rod, attracting others who were connected to their own rods into their own bubbles.

A strange bearded fellow bounced happily from orb to orb, latching my eye contact, pulling me with him; out of the crown and spread eagled into the not-finite;

which became the Alpine Queen

which was outside the train

where it all began.

Tracers path registered, and the day

continued

Rich Paulsy is a Coward

Cold morning. Rain sheeting the windshield, but the ignition is off now. Just the radio and the fan to keep the steam off the inside of the windows while I wait for my train.

Early? No - false alarm, that's just a freight that rides a parallel line with mine.

They can be noisy bastards - come and watch the platform and see how many people have their hands over their ears as the screech of metal on metal gives the second and final notice that the train is HERE, get ready, all aboard kids.

But when they keep moving, all good, just a thumble runder of wheels on steel, load shifting as one two ten 100 cars go past, metal snake making its way left to right past to present to future. Lot of writing on the side, me thinks as I watch the beast trundle by.

And THAT's when the strange shite starts. Rich Paulsy is a coward. Straight and narrow script, stick letters, and as it moves from my present to the future (to my left, in front of me, to my right). And out of the periphery of my vision -(you know the space where ghosts and intuition tease you and flirt with each other) I see movement. Careful now so as not to derail the happenings - no pun intended. Peripheral vision happenings are very cat like - you know, the little feline coming down the hall, you approach with clippers and intent, and if that intent is borne of your headlight vision preceding you, the cat will pick up on it and take off. Same with the peripheral vision - if the happenings in that space even suspect you are about to focus full attention front and center on them, well, they just return to form and the shows over.

So I'm careful. Mood supports my intention, grace I guess, you can't control these things - sometimes it either works or it doesn't - but out of the side of my vision I can see the words start to peel off the side of the train - like one of those kids tattoos coming off of its backing and now its completely off, fluttering like a leaf towards than away from me and now

I can't help it, I've got to have me a look-see. And what I see is the words wrapping themselves into a running form - not exactly human, but close to, and running. Full out sprint now and I've been made. Rich Paulsy is a Coward makes eye contact with me (it's two 'i's lighting up and tracking me like a laser pointer) then disconnect and it runs as fast and as hard as it can into a building and

fuka

It's now up there. Same script, different location.

Train hasn't stopped moving throughout this whole event, I squint to see the container car it came from and it looks like the writing is gone there...

But this is one of those things that lives in the spaces, that can only be acknowledged by grace or luck (maybe luck IS just grace) and doesn't need to be quantified or verified - I just KNOW.

But, as if to underscore it, there's another performance. And another.

Letters are flying off of the train now, Heisenberg's graffiti cleaning service front and center and now they don't seem to give a rats ass if I watch or not.

It's a strange dance now, kids. The alphabet is out in front of me in a tornado whirl, a carnival merry go round of fantastic proportions, words forming and dissolving, a linguistic trinity creating sustaining and destroying (but never really destroyed, just back in the soup) and the colours are there, and the Sounds. The sounds of the mechanics of creation, a deep hum that is marching band and solitary voice and terrible thunder and falsetto cry of a bird on the wind all threaded together in a fantastic cacophony that finally

Explodes

And the letters with it. They DO know they've been made. By me and a couple of others with the i's to see. They explode and cascade down in the city, splattering against building sides and sidewalks and bins and cars.

I close my eyes to hold the vision and the bright burning after image is collapsing on itself into a single three lettered word that ties the city together north to south east to west

aum.