Here, I say, we can get out here. It's a military base of a most meandering sort. I'm actually looking for a bathroom. (This is the most constant proof that your unconscious interacts with your physical realm; when I need one actually, I dream of searching for a bathroom, and there is always some barrier to using it in my dreams which keeps my waketime bed dry.)
I go through a lot of paths and buildings, finding nothing, until I wake.
Now here I am again. We have created quite a broadside. It will be most effective. I can imagine folks reading it and running out growling into the street.
We've done well, my partners and I. They don't have any identity other than my partners. The one with me now, my second, we are inspecting
the manifesto as it comes out of the weave. There is a machine which will embroider our message into a sweater. It is very unique. We'll have pretty women wearing our message and an angry mob rushing out into the street, looking to right the wrong we point out.A hitch in our stitch.
The first line is ready for inspection, a sample. It is utterly illegible. Oh, dear.
What to do? We are too clever by half. The medium mucks up the message. What good is the most brilliant design if no one knows what we're saying? It may as well be the most arcane surrealism, or the old sixties art deco posters advertising bands playing where you better know where `cause you'd never learn it from the poster.
Maybe, I say, we can do up the sweater anyway and send it down to LA and they can fix it? When it's broke, we reason, you send it to LA, where the prime fixers are.
Our other partner is sad. There he is in the next room, lying on the couch. He has thrown up something black. I understand it's the result of partner two reading him off about another project. But we need him now. I try and ignore his sadness and the black muck.
"Can you ship this sweater down to LA? I mean, after we have it complete?"
No answer.
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