Que sera sera

Gentle reader, at this moment I am keen to let twin trains of past and present obsessions collide. The engines meet face to face at exactly equal velocity so that they rise up on their hind wheels while peeling apart and driving through; prismatic spirals of shatter glass, chrome, iron, hydraulic tubing, tungsten (the engines of my mind are always built primarily of tungsten).

Now the lead cars are also rising, pelted by expanding bits and pieces of both engines like meteors, perforating, crushing, collapsing, introducing chaotic elements into what nanoseconds past was perfect symmetry and then the shock wave dispenses with the subtlety of shrapnel and tears each lead car to accelerating, unidentifiable hot chunks.

In both directions cars are leaping upward as if in joy toward the center of impact, chaos has almost but not quite surpassed order and a nearly intact dining car lifts off the track, it’s ass end rising; and the dining car on the other train buckles nose first into the track, passengers shoot through disintegrating walls, windows, tumble almost gracefully, trapeze artists made of tangled meat, up, over and into the somersaulting dinning car from the first train, punching through the roof like bullets through a paper target!

And in the spinning dining car sufficient centrifugal force creates for a fractional moment artificial gravity. To the passengers inside, both original and recently arrived, it seems as if nothing is moving at all or would seem so if not for the terrible bodily damage they have sustained.

Recalling that these trains are imaginary, recalling I am not a spectator, but rather Imaginengineer… I restore the structural architecture of the dining car, drape white linen back upon the tables, refill each cut glass vase, reassemble each flower petal by petal, ‘ton em sevol ehs, em sevol ehs’, restore the passengers to the physical state they enjoyed prior to being brutally shaken about like whatever makes the noise inside maracas.

I take a second’s worth of time within the dining car between my fingers, stretch it like Silly Putty until that single second becomes hours quite long enough to hold a dinner party in.

And then I have myself a peek.

Her eyes are a chocolate whirlpool, I want to dip myself in them and emerge chocolafied, I want to hide in her refrigerator waiting, waiting, waiting to become a midnight snack.

A lifetime or lunchtime, we all arrive on schedule at our terminal destination.

~ by davenewworld on February 14, 2009.