Sweet Jane, Vibrant (in a) Forrest...

Dear Jane,


How are your sheets made of Paris? Do they wrap you in blue, kiss you in white, and leave your lips red? Will you be held snug, comfortable, dreaming of Grandmother's infront of houses in the woods, with treetops for skies, and wonder why your legs are sore? Maybe they were inspired to explore your subconscious, but there was too far to roam. I hope your dreams tonight are calm and cautious, and you wake like a baby, fresh and enthused, then you'd be Bala; child-like.


It was really your feet that introduced us. Two small young platforms for an upright structure of stretched skin, like a canvas, over a glass interior; precious. It's sad how much punishment feet take. I wonder the exact amount of time they've been supporting and walking, most likely many lifetimes. I'm glad we got to talking more, the most we ever have. We have things in common which is exciting. I like your mind, it's a pretty machine within a rusted out, grinding, filth ridden planetary movement of a much bigger machine. Maybe our minds are like tiny cogs working together, fighting the earth's internal violent temper. The atmosphere is the casing, and the universe is an analytic, far-out radical futuristic diagnostic computer keeping a watchful eye...waiting to malfunction. The universe scares me. So does the ocean, only recently. What scares you Jane? What worries your pretty head covered in golden threads? What are your doubts and dreams? What are your plans for an unplannable life? Forget about time, it doesn't exist, this is just a never ending moment- ya dig? You can dot points on this line, but this line cannot be measured. 
So...What are you going to do about it? 
Jane you're unchained, do what you like, go where you want, you're only living for yourself. 
What's your favourite colour? Can we apply Cherokee war-paint to our faces and dance around fires while listening to music I choose for the mood, approved by you of course? I'm going to think of an Indian name for you. 
I've been thinking about California and my hands in the sky. To get away from my two Mother's so I can get lost, maybe find a tribe. It's just what I need. I imagine a palm tree fronted, stunted lady with a perm and mustache, falling wooden quarter walls with wallpaper of boats and ocean reception of a cheap motel, where I'll spend my time with red wine, writing, drawing, playing guitar, eating, sleeping, and leaving from- my base of operations, a sometime cave of desperation's. I'll need a nocturnal city for a night-dweller like I. I'll wait in Anaheim for you to arrive, then we'll invite ourselves to borderlines, bridges over rivers, to New York state and back. Do you want to see the Rockies? Mount Rushmore and Crazy Horse? Deadwood? Lets be cowboys. Cradle Lake? Yellowstone? Monument Valley? Antelope Canyon? Mesa Verde? Rainbow Bridge? Lets rent a boat on Lake Powell. Do you want to see sunsets on the sun pyramid of  Teotihuacán in Mexico? Will you go further, to the coast, to Chichén-Itzá? Then you need to see Egypt. So many places to absorb, we'll be voluminous sponges left soaking in a bath of natural beauty and raindrops. In lakes cradled in the arms of mountains rocking us to sleep in mellow sunlight witnessed through wolves eyes. I think Alaska will turn on the Northern Lights for your arrival, I think that you'll see waters the colour of your bedroom, and that snow will recede when you walk by. Do you want to kayak out amongst icebergs and whales? Floating on the top of a world beneath us. Do you want to jump on beds with a bottle of wine and throw pillows while listening to Motörhead and The Stooges? I'll take photos of you in doorways of ghost towns, where we are connected to the dead and gone by stealing all their air. They'll be angry but they can't do a thing about it. I can picture you in a diner wearing Wayfarers and flowers in your hair, we'll get coffee refills by a lady named Martha, and stare at the hairy backs of truckers in cowboy hats with quiet muffled laughter. We'll attract eyes with our ripped and dirty pants, my dirty buckle boots, our mysterious sunglasses, your denim vest, my leather jacket, me bumming cigarettes. We'll read about mystics, natives, space, history, psychology, music and girly things. We'll keep each other from sadness, and you won't be lonely. 


My imagination is too vivid and eccentric, I might not even get to cruise highways with you, but if I do this is what I envision..possibly a slight exaggeration, maybe I should say 'dreamt up'?
I hope that your sleep was gentle like the footsteps of spirits on carpeted floors, like a hair brush made of feathers. I hope this is worth waiting 'til tomorrow for.


Sweet sleeps & dreams, of the architecture of all things.

Calvera  x x