Last night I dreamt that I was flying through the air, high above the world, tangled and bound  in a wrapping of shredded sheet music. Black chords, long stave’s and striped bars tripped off the pages left behind me like a ladder to nowhere;  folded flying melodies unsung  in  the wake of my passing.

The Earth below always looks the same to me when I fly my nocturnal flights,   bold greens, a yellow palette knifes edge of perfect fields and round rolling hills topped with tousle headed trees that stand alone on each hillock like solitary sentries. I  see a  a tapestry demarcated with sinewy black serpentine rivers  like sparkling eels  slithering over the meandering landscape where gravity has no reign. I have seen this same landscape since I accidentally discovered astral travel as a child. Something about it has called me ever since.

I have a feeling that it may be a vision of an ancestral land  my body yearns to return to,  the creation place where I will  plant my bones. I wonder sometimes if it is an image of Valhalla, the Nordic spirit land of my sky-fathers hovering above my lost tribe of Viking warriors,  appearing only in the minds of those who have been chosen. My spirit world manifests as uninhabited by those of the original flesh, I am alone among the spirits. Wherever it may be, it is an unwavering  archetype  from deep within in my genetic configuration that rests fixed and unchanging inside my ancient amygdala, my lizard brain .

When I fly this way the sun is neither risen nor setting against an endless cloudless sky. I  inhabit a world of perpetual twilight. The Earth is always the focus of my flight-sight when  astral -traveling takes me  to this alternate plane. Perhaps my unconscious soul seeks something not found among the stars and why they hold no interest. In my heart and mind I am temporal, earth bound and restless. In this ethereal world I am  martial and fit, in my dreams I am fearless. In my dreams I cast no shadow as I pass overhead, my energy originates on the surface of the sun, forming only as falling rain and primary colours against a featureless sky.

I heard a regular trilling. I  imagined  fingers stretching along the wide mouth of a concert piano in perfect scale. The two halves of myself passing into one another created a moment of temporary flux, where I paused between  worlds, and I rested. My eyes fluttered open , first one, then the other, the dream world disappeared and re-emerged as something more familiar, except for the tactile residue of fleeting impressions left behind by the night-travel.

A cool breeze wafted through my bedroom window, the air slipping under the gauze drapery like a sultry intruder who lifted her skirt to tantalize me as it passed beneath the folds.  Piano music floated out into the air from the apartment of the concert pianist  living next door. She had begun practicing, stretching , reminding her hands that they were skilled beyond blessing. It was her time.

It was  ten o’clock on a Monday morning. I had overslept and languished in bed. I  gathered myself, letting the spirit of the day enter and fill me until I was satisfied. My lower body was loosely wrapped in  silky soft  maroon sheets which after their last use had been tightly packed  in Bangkok.  Trisha had only laid them on the bed the night before. They had released their exotic essence into the night and into my heart.

The cloth smelled of the jasmine and dust of our old apartment, of everything so familiar.  I lay there and drifted in and out of sweet memories, the kind that set your mind and body on disonant courses. For a time I remained in a floating world, relishing that state of living on both sides of a dream, and listened to the music.

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