xxeSound see-er. Forget the words I want to sing to you. Life
on the open road is the essence of freedom, you plead with
me. You pull Rimbaud from one pocket and Kerouac from
the other. Roads rambling, highways loop-di-loo-ing
through the craters. Our song now is the sweetness of the
air. The delectable flavor of solitary freedom. Taste the
intricacies as they unfold the longer they roll around in the
mouth.
Bubbling up from the magic, dreams manifest their real-
lifeness. At home everywhere. Filled with an omnipotent:
Yes, we’ve arrived. The torturing need to know and see for
oneself what is there, beyond the mysterious blue wall of
the horizon. The red river. A labyrinth of fuzzy mossy
stone lined streets. Lakes reflecting red rooftops, new sea
creatures hoping to break through the tight surface of the
murky waters. The white road leading off into the
unknown distance… feeling the imperious necessity of
giving in to it and following it obediently across
mountains and valleys.
Penciled Notes of a pilgrimage, soaked in spiritual
synesthesia. Clonking marimbas out of context sway in
rhythm with the seabirds of black and white skies. Old
movie clips hint of future dreams. Tunes of hand-inked
notes blown dry by fans of fuchsia incense popping
through the fields. A color destination covering the whole
vast earth… ends only at the nonexistent horizon.
I want to know, is vagrancy deliverance? Or is vagrancy
where the dream unfolds from the journey? Is it the place,
the time, where the dream wakes up onto the stage of the
97streets of Hanoi? Because I dreamed I was in Hanoi,
flitting around in the streets; then I awoke.
Now I wonder:
Am I a woman who dreamt of being in Hanoi,
or am I in Hanoi dreaming that I am a woman.
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