Awake Asleep Dreaming Dead (18 page)

Imagination transports us to a dimension out of our world, different from the one we’ve grown up in, and to a place only a few see. A dreamer always gets up, and takes another crack at getting one step closer to the finish line. Our world is a big playground, and if by chance you go back to your school years, later you may think, This playground is so small; I’ve grown up. Imagine waking up one morning and saying the same about the universe.

Then in the distance a mellow cascade of sound invades the tranquil seat and clutches the natural world. A big loud thunderous noise spreads, swells, and bursts into a surging vibrating mechanism battering the forest. It sweeps across meadows and fields. A conquering force charging what seems a hapless land. The question of how it’s made evokes images of what it is—a loud and wonderful sound not unfamiliar or alien—perhaps a tone pleasant to lovers of machines. On the crest of the knoll an outline emerges from an encircling mesmeric dust cloud. A faint shape with two great round eyes, and a mouth locked in a strange permanent grin. Soon the instrument creating this pulsating whine comes into clear view. It’s an aggressive unstoppable force, dragging a cloud of scatter as it bowls down the quiet country road broadcasting its booming and intense crushing tone.

This commanding chrome machine stirs the serene countryside spitting out a piercing noise similar to a rocket blasting off to space. It races down the remote winding country course through patches of trees occasionally glancing off pot-holes. A quiver from the wheels goes up, out, and through the steering column vibrating in the hands and fingers of the driver as it rattles over the bumps nearly spinning out of control on the corners. Without slowing, the shape disappears over the next hill in the sun’s carefree blazing ray leaving a whirling wake of the earth’s mash adorning the transparent and early morning ginger sky.

The reving engine generates a grinding echo as it continues down the naked country road becoming a low and smooth sound that tickles the ear, makes the skin throb, curiosity prevailing, and impresses fear into the innocent. This is a rolling man-made tempest of thunder. A sleek, sweet design to fall in love with, release the trapped, unlock the chained, and open the door to freedom. It’s fuel mixed with air followed by timely sparks resulting in an explosion rewarding the driver with the sense of creation along with the release and control of an awesome power. Like all things there’s an aroma, a fossil fuel perfume, a formula mixed and controlled by man. A combination of nature, mineral, and one part—scientific know-how.

Together, man and machine travel through space faster than the mind can comprehend will happen or transpire. All decisions are left to the man, and the machine obeys all commands within its limits. If pushed beyond, or if an unknown uncontrollable factor inserts itself, all is left to fate. And—who controls fate? Man, or a powerful encircling unseen hand, floating, living, moving all around?

Faster and faster the machine travels over and through the rolling hills, never slowing, never stopping, relentlessly pursuing the driver’s wishes—to go fast! The driver in control of this machine decides. He’s the commander, and has the power at the tips of his fingers. He’s on the way to a place where change transpires in such a way that time will shudder. Breath will stop, blood will spill, sound will fade, darkness will descend, and all living things known to him will no longer exist—

Ahead the driver notices an old rusty iron bridge; a vital link in his route. Its age and where it leads are unknown. He slows, then stops on the rickety creation raising an eye. His sight moves to the top of the structure, examining, investigating, counting the endless pieces of metal and bolts that hold it together. He looks down at a channel of shimmering energy running below. An enchanting, never ending crystal blanket of silver drifts around the bend to an unknown place. On the other side of the bridge stands a circular yellow railroad crossing sign.

Target practice? the driver whispers. I feel like I’m in a sacred place, or some sanctuary not wanting to disturb the flock. One-two-three-four-five, he counts, but none in the bull’s-eye. The black X that dissects it into parts is intact. X marks the spot, X is where secrets reside and wait to be uncovered, and left naked to the world.

The driver eases up a short small incline, and stops in front of the railroad tracks. Except for the sounds of nature, and a subtle wind bending the trees, he waits in silence as he reves the engine. He looks left, right, and down endless silky iron rails of iron. After a moment he releases the clutch, steps on the gas and edges forward. The rear tires spray gravel as he forces the accelerator down, then further, pushing it to the verge, unleashing the rear wheels, and watching them whirl unfettered in the car’s bullet side mirrors. He crosses the iron rails in flight landing neatly and nimbly. Then follows the narrow gravel road between the stream on the left, and an intimidating rocky cliff on the right. It leans and hangs ominously over the car. He stays tight on course until coming to a crossroads.

The crossroads—the junction of decisions—where intuition takes a foothold, and guides to the point of choice. He contemplates. This takes time as knowledge emerges through his senses using an innate and unique system. A mathematical computation combined with a human experience that has never existed in any form whatsoever, and possibly will never do so again. The silence of the moment may be over quickly or linger. But once the decision is made, right or wrong, there’s no turning back from the place that’s waiting for him.

He looks ahead. Dead smack in the middle of the intersection, surrounded by a red-dry-blotch, is an undistinguishable small dead animal that’s felt rubber many times. It fires up a sense of danger that surges through the driver’s body. The road to the left appears in better condition for driving at a speed that tests the limits of the machine, so he heads off in that direction, pushing the accelerator to the red-line. He shifts into second, the engine wrenches, then third, and finally the last gear until only the whistle of the machine purrs with a kiss of wind, and the luck of the road ahead.

The driver watches the speedometer needle climb as the worn center line become one long continuous smudge. The machine performs splendidly, and is a joy to command as it holds onto corners attached by some invisible, unknown force. When he comes to a straight section in the road he revs the engine once more letting it sing. The country track is the perfect place to open the machine up. No worries about law or traffic, just an open road leading to an imaginary place.

I’ve got to make a pit stop pretty soon drummed in his head as he hammered the clutch to the floor, and downshifted into 3rd gear. The engine growled up the palisades, then like an airborne lasso the car swung around the rim, and latched onto a hair-pin corner. The driver’s eyes snapped open and followed the steel guardrail stitched along the twisting asphalt vein.

Damn, I’m gonna fly off the road! he thought, and downshifted into 2nd gear as his field of vision moved from the road to the red-lining-tachometer. But the car hugged and rounded the corner with no problem, landing at a section with a panoramic vista, and window to a place that seemed to emerge from a land beyond.

Man— it’s like being in the theater at the beginning of a show when the curtain opens, he thought.

The Flame of Apollo, he whispered, and turned the steering wheel like a captain gliding and swaying on morning breakers curling on a bow of a ship. He parked, and watched the blinding golden majesty bubble from the horizon. He let his worries go, turned off the engine, and waited to admire how the solar splendor would sprinkle life over the earth. Moments later a peaceful golden ray rose on the steamy rolling hills and valleys, illuminating the horizon and opening the dark unseen corners of the world.

Look at that, he thought. I’m getting some shots of this.

The driver grabbed his camera from the seat, then set it on the dash, and waited for—just the right moment.

It’s . . . amazing, he muttered as he watched the jaw-dropping sky transform from dusk to dawn through the bug smeared windshield. Light’s the key, he whispered. He linked his thumb and fingers, then leaned out the window. He held his hand to his eye, and peered through the opening adjusting the size like the aperture in a camera lens.

Light-is-the-key, he repeated while panning the horizon, generating random pictures, and rendering the visual ideas, like a painter holding a pallet and brush. He raised the camera to his eye, and focused on a rolling dell that walked into the horizon forever. These shots are going to look great! This view is like nothing I’ve ever seen before.

I guess the light show’s over, he thought.

He put the camera back on the seat, and headed down the valley he’d just photographed. With the car in low gear he coasted into a tunnel of trees that funneled and filtered the early sunshine. It became dark all around with only flickering lights beaming from the sun. Shiny shadows danced on leaves, and reflected in the chrome metallic veneer of the car. The driver looked up to an open spot in the branches above and watched a hawk circle around and around. It seemed to be spinning away into vortex of blue, but fought and held its ground, floating between earth and sky.

It’s hunting for food, the driver whispered.

Being awake all night was finally catching up with the driver. His heavy eye-lids opened, closed, and blinked more and more. The flashes of sunlight trickled through the trees, and created a hazy distorted vision as he drove under the green canopy. In the windshield he watched the shapes reflect, roll up and over the glass. Shadows covered the sky with loneliness, a cold feeling surrounded him, so he focused on his destination, driving faster. Up and down the looping roller coaster trails—left and right, riding a perpetual Foucault pendulum—swinging back and forth.

I need more shots of scenery for the magazine article, he thought, while concentrating on staying awake, watching the trees, and keeping an eye on the road.

It seemed to be an unending course as the car penetrated the lofty trees. He drove through wooden walls of nature as scenery melted into a montage of foliage, meadows, and the occasional red barn blotch outline of a distant isolated farm.

The only decent pictures I’ve taken so far are the ones of the sunrise.

He meandered on the up-down trail in a quasi-delusional-delirium, unaware, with time idle, not perceptible or changing—stuck in the moment.

I feel like I’m the only person on the planet, he thought, then scanned the terrain. I’m really in the sticks. Just me, my camera, car, and landscape. It sure looks serene with the sun coming up.

As he drove, warm sunshine fell on his face. Thoughts, images, and ideas changed as fast as he blinked. A rainbow of images switched on and off, reminding him of strobe lights in a dance hall, bodies moving in slow motion fashion, mechanical and machine-like.

Who’s in control, a creator? The environment? Me? he whispered. Is everything just a single solitary moment? Is time eventually used up, then gone forever? Where does time come from, and where does it go?

Gripping the wheel he steered into a stereo-kinetic parade of images. He looked in the rear-view mirror. Man, are my eyes ever bloodshot, and I look like hell.

He bulked out a yawn as he studied his weary face in the mirror. I’m drained.

Fighting to stay awake he inhaled the minimal amount of oxygen needed to sustain human existence, then glanced at the speedometer with a head that bobbed like it had no nuchal ligament.

Eighty-five miles an hour . . . I’m moving at a pretty good clip, he said.

He stuck his face outside, let the wind smack him, and inhaled some cool morning air.

That feels good, he thought.

Momentarily refreshed he looked in the rear-view again, and focused on his mouth. Words of sincerity tumbled off his lips as the imaginary peal of church bells rang in his head.

When I finish this job, I’m calling to pop the question, and buying her a ring, he said.

He watched the reflection of a blissful grin materialize in the rear-view.

The prettiest one in the store, he shouted out the window, then with satisfaction stared at his reflection in the mirror again. The grin turned into a big fat smile, and to celebrate, he jabbed at the horn, it blared. He yelled out the window again, And—I can’t wait to see the look on your face when I give it to you!

The driver sat back in a hypnotic state. He focused on the disappearing center line, and watched it being devoured by the machine he controlled.

He looked up, and whispered, Why is this happening?

The smiling cast changed to a petrified glare. Every muscle in his body stretched to breaking point like over-wound guitar strings, and his vision binocular—zooming in—following the animal jumping from the tall grass on the side of the road.

Harley! he yelled after seeing the animal stop, and plant itself in the center of the road, then it stood there gawking back at the driver.

In a glint of time, and nowhere to go, the small creature grew in size, filling the windshield. Its marble eyes were stunned as it waited to be turned into ground meat.

The driver calculated the options.

A voice in his head screamed, Go left—go right! Go left—go right! He looked in the rear view. I don’t want to be in this . . . place, then he cranked the wheel and slammed the brakes down hard!

Tires screeched—the car whirled.

The scene in the windshield warped into a whirlpool. With a tight grip on the wheel, and strapped in by the seat belt, the force still tossed him like a flag in the wind. Instinctively he slammed the brake to the floor again. His fingers throbbed. He steered the car through a montage of images, color, and what sounded like a concert of reverberating, out-of-tune, musical instruments. Gritting his teeth, and opening his eyes broad, he rode the car down into the ditch, then out and across to the other side.