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.