Sunday, June 27, 2010


In my dream, I was curled up like a feverish child by the window, listening with attention and delight to the lessons and stories of a large hovering orange with a handsome human face and a long red cape.  He was telling me about his adventures, traveling far and wide, helping entities in trouble, injecting the mysterious "Vitamin O" (the benign intelligence behind all designs made manifest and digestible) into every quadrant and culture, on every wavelength of our teeming, screaming Omniverse.  The orange has piercing blue eyes, full of fierce kindness.  Its lips don't move in sync with its narrative.
I wake up and lose the whole moment, then I reach for my morning emergen-C energy confection.  The flavor is Super Orange.  I remember everything.  I contemplate my tutoring as I begin my grooming routines.  I think about strange fruit in general, childhood arguments with neighborhood kids about whether food likes to be eaten or not.  Back then, every object was a cartoon waiting to happen.  Still is, I suppose.
In the shower I think Platonic thoughts about Superman and his many iterations, parallel Supermen and various fractalizations of his Archetype.  I think abut Super Orange, how the cape and the face seemed pasted on, somehow, as if to deliberately "represent" something.  As if they could just fall off to reveal the Ideal Orange, the Platonic Orange, the  Uber Orange, the concept of "orange" incarnate.  Even its texture and color could be sloughed if Super Orange felt the urge or found it necessary.  Then, it would stand revealed at my feverish dreaming window as the Primal Sphere, the idea of "roundness".  I half-remember Super Orange speaking deeply of roundness.
While shaving, I stare ripples into my reflection and I think about roundness, how Superman is the roundest mythopoetic heroplex (Batman: all cubes and alleys and cells and cages).  Superman is a holographic fragment of a lost paradise, strange visitor from another world, the incarnate light of Beyond, protecting us from its Abyss.  His core quality is compassion.  He can do anything, and all he wants to do is help.
I imagine the last Superman, endgame of a dynasty that extends a billion years into our fictoplasmic futures.  He's a sphere who falls into flatland and falls in love with its tight physics and its life-forms, origami angels folded up into 2d humans, every one of us so much stranger than we know.  SuperSphere knows, and he watches over us.  He hovers over the gameboard, protecting us from a malevolent ecology of predators, sinister sentient geometries and thoughtforms, slithering through dimensions most of us lack the apparatus to perceive.
SuperSphere, when he bubbles and warps in our midst, would need a color.  Orange maybe.  Perhaps SuperSpheres would hang heavy from a tree or a central nervous system with its roots in Flatland and its uppermost branches unfolding infinitely into the Other.  The Spheres fall like fruit, into the phenomenal world.  Maybe bad flat things who have trafficked with them would learn how to peel them before they know how to hover again and the bad flatfolk would drink their pulpy juices, to see as they see, without pity or a vision of anything but more juice. I wonder what kind of fruit corresponds to each Sephiroth on the Tree of Life.  I finish dressing and slip on my shoes, eager to spin and weave a new phase of the Booky Book.
So many stories, so little time.  But time enough.
Thank you, Super Orange.  Vitamin "O" in the house.

"HYPNOZINE GHOST RADIO" image by Andrew Mc Kenzie.

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