This site is the fiction and poetry archives of Pereira Irving Paul.
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The native children played during the late night. Were they spirits or aborigines? The playground structure was double storied, with elaborate slides and mud and pools of water on the grounds. I was playing with them but not in a childish way. It was a serious, complex ritual perhaps set in an atmosphere of apocalypse. The skies were intense, looming with some kind of supernatural activity. There were figures in red flowing ritual garments without signs or identifiers, doing dervishes, twirling and swirling, men and women, slim and tall. There was a figure head, who looked like a well built Fu Man Chu. He towered above me from the second level of the playground as i looked up to him. He told me, in some way, to worship a being called ‘Lacroix’ (From french, ‘The Cross.’) In my head i thought i saw a dragon like entity or mythological serpent inside a shape, perhaps a square or rectangle. i didn’t fully trust the man though it wasn’t necessarily anything evil he was saying or doing. I think he was just from a different place and time, certainly a cult figure. In another sequence, I was in a departmental store, planning as escape route for a woman who carried a bag of importance. I stayed furtively behind racks of high end sepia/leather colored corporate clothes. The danger was that our enemies were invisible beings and they were hunting us down. She and I moved quickly down hotel like corridors then entered a lift where she became my sister and we were carrying large amounts of luggage, all belonging to her. There was a muscle man, perhaps a bodyguard whom i had to leave behind in order to fight off the unseen enemies. The priority was to get the luggage away, to escape. I told him as the lift door closed, “Sorry mate” as i knew he would die protecting us. IN another neighborhood, there was a block of flates for special humans. There wasn’t a need for doors as they entered their houses by ‘phasing in’ from their corridors to their homes. They had to tilt their heads to the left then walk sideways fast enough to disappear and enter their homes. They each had their own ‘home signatures’ and only they could enter so i had difficulty visiting someone. I ended up in the house of an artist, an middle aged man and i wasn’t sure if he was showing me paintings on paper or some kind of construction like sculptures or assemblages. We spoke but i couldn’t tell of what. His house wasn’t the rich man’s kind, a middle class place with unimpressive furniture. I was either in the lobby downstairs or along corridors, trying to find a way into the house of a girl.
descend the cosmic crown of memory
to the dub echo voice of the king
smell of the earth
a rain in my heart
of the memories in sunlight
I see the street and miss it the most.
the bombs had fallen then
comrades and flowers against the guns
a resurrection complete.
enter the universal Jah mind
nostalgia in the black flower field…
The prostitute, or Holy whore, in the dream was partly saddened by my reluctance to pay for lovemaking. "It's not about the money ($600)" she said, "It's about me opening up (the portal) in you." It was about an opening expression , a flowering (though they can all mean the legs and cosmic vagina. The island we were on was memorable (I miss Gili islands, lombok Indonesia) I was then in a shopping center on a main island and was with federation of friends. wWandered around a while (as i am a wanderer soul though not lost anymore)