Last sentence of a dream:
" . . . a city of machines built to make soup, was abandoned because the soup they made, was too mushy!"
Ah, the city of machines must be Blogger, and the soup I am trying to make is . . well . . at times inedible!
I fumble for my black velour bathrobe that is so dark and thick, and soft, that if I put it down, it looses all charge, all orientation, and takes at least ten seconds to find the top, establish which is the inside, if the arms are turned right side out or not, and then put it on. The cloth is so formless, so 'void', so Kali, so enveloping, so without form or agenda, that it almost waits until I'm finished with some interior battle of ego-consciousness, before it becomes wearable.
This is especially difficult just after waking up.
If I try to find this article of clothing. because that's what this is, an article, and put it on in the dark, which I have done, it is nearly impossible to get right unless my ego-thought process is impeccably in-command of my motor skills. It would be much easier to grope about a strange castle for a piece of metal armor.
Now I ask myself as I think these thoughts, 'Am I awake? Is the velour armor I seek anything other than love?'
I must first outfit myself with an conscious structure of clothing, history, and use.
I must still be dreaming that soup dream.
I feel for telltale markers, such as the loop at the top that is meant to hang it, made out of the same soft velour, and then work from there down to the outside, feeling for similar loops to make sure the the belt is passing through, and once again to establish inside, versus out. Ah, thinks I, 'the loops must have been a late addition to the design!', I then proceed to the arms, with bare blind hands feeling for their orientation. Arms came later, the first bathrobe was a tunic! A reverse history of clothing!
This could be useful . . .
Sex with an alien, a false move could mean Death,
An exercise in topology.
