We are instructed to be very careful not to get our paint anywhere but on the paper. I point my finger and say, "When you last visited me, I was just beginning therapy for the injury". During your visit, we meandered into blocks and blocks of street until we arrived at an entrance, up four flights of stairs, and were offered a spot on the floor. There are plants refracting light from three bay windows, brightening the room a cucumber color. The floor is wooden and polished, and as I smell the scent, you levitate an inch. After days of floating atop linoleum-tiled hospital hallways. I point my finger towards the surface and then dive. Five hours sneak by. Clouds pass, horns honk, pages turn outside. The sky turns red. White-red, then blue. Green squiggle's that look like w's fly from the trees, and I fall into a deep sleep underneath. Individual letters (characters) step out of their disguises-which I had recognized when I was awake, but now I cannot pin down their sounds or where they might sit in a word, and what that word might mean. They begin to morph into a space that I've inhabited inside and outside my body. I listen, until my focus is so hard it clangs it's metal head on whatever it makes contact with. Then I remember something. When I was younger, we would practice opening the crowns of our heads from the trunks of our brains, which formed a pathway for any roots buried to cast outwards like fishing into the light around us. That way, the light would grow in all directions, directionless. It passes through our matter of flesh and water, and when it does, reconstitutes our dimensions, our skin into light, space into us. Here, all the metal objects within our architecture condensates into the air. The structure (walls and doorways and rooms) has one spot in one of the rooms which is soft enough to fall into. I fly there, leaping over the shelves created by the tops of doorways where a ceiling would meet them, and I manifest a small fire burning in a vast field of stars. I build an invisible architecture in my slumber. I can feel the cold air breathe across my skin and a creeping sensation that my body is shrinking into a very sharp object, then being blown up like a balloon proposing we fly away, and then falling, down all the flights of stairs into the basement of the building. My vision is swept into a corner by a very dark figure-who must have pulled the string to the single bulb down here, because only if I look away can I make out it's edges. I instinctively begin to trace all the layers of color on the surface, interpreting their distances by running the tips of my fingers across every bump and crest and through air. When I wake up, laying in bed is the painting. It looks at me with puffy slits for eyes, yawns and then yelps, wiggling about, naked beneath the sheets. 

five thirty west second