Floor of Dreams

Indra Nepal, 13th-14th century. Copper repouss...

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How the whole room sounded. . . .  The shirring, motorized mechanics, music boxes  complemented by the gentler, lovely tumbling sounds of wooden blocks–and suddenly kindergarten comes back into me, these wooden cruelties of building with imagination, dream-building, only to be swiped away with what angry hands?  I can hear the walls falling down, while beyond and above a sweet tinkling music.

And sounds of my boots stepping with care through the gallery, gallery-steps, I’ll call them.  (I wonder what society would be like if everyone always walked as they do in a gallery.)  Sticky-tacky, painted blocks, wood-shop scent of wood finish.  A mirror of photo glass walks by me.  Look in there, so much devastation, decay, murder of a city.  Detroit.  Why, a fear to destroy a city as one destroys a block castle.  It must also be creative, creative to destroy, and that is the shock.  We hold it close and see crows stamped onto a gray paper sky, see a theater crushed into gray flakes.  Some kind of tension between the built and the destroyed, a silent transmission between potential realized and political lost, as with Brahma, Indra, and Shiva, the Destroyer.  I want it for myself, want to re-build, that too.  As a kid with a deity mind.  We’re all kids playing on the floor of dreams.

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