Archive for the visions Category

Level Up

Posted in Chagall, do the right thing, evil, politics, victory, visions with tags , , , on September 20, 2013 by Qritiq




I saw the righteous rise from their graves.

There was thick shimmering heat from all the fire but it didn’t bother them; they were made of grey stone.







V

Posted in victory, visions on May 8, 2013 by Qritiq



i had 3 visions when i was in israel


1. there was an awareness of me
2. some hardcore zombie-apocalyptic shit going down
3. Victory.


caveat: visions don’t translate so good into words



masada




21

Posted in victory, visions with tags , on April 12, 2013 by Qritiq

21

Heaven II

Posted in visions with tags , , , on April 26, 2008 by Qritiq

The lobby is through a single door on the west side of Seventh Avenue near 31st  Street; it’s brightly lit.  The office is a single room to the right.  There is no door in its doorframe.  It contains only one brown metal formica-topped desk facing forward.  A pale rounded man with plastic-framed glasses and untameable light brown hair is seated at it.  He is reading over some paperwork. He is holding the paper up close under flourescent lighting.

It’s late.  The lobby has unscratched wide plate glass windows looking out onto the Avenue.  But it’s not much of a lobby; there are no chairs.   There is only enough room to walk through and just a little more.  The ceiling is white stucco and low, the lobby is clean.  Something is painted orange.  Or maybe it’s just the carpeting.  I am slight but sturdy and my room is right off the lobby, straight ahead and just a little to the left.  You have to take the elevator (it has plastic pearlized call buttons) to get to the other rooms.  I’m pretty sure other people I know are staying here.

Heaven I

Posted in visions with tags , , , on April 22, 2008 by Qritiq

They are readers and writers.  Readers of one-hand-held cloth-bound books absent of dust jackets.  Writers on clacking portable black-keyed manual typewriters in dark rooms.  One is taller than the other.  They are natty and comfortably lean.  At least one wears a hat.  There is a garden globe on a white concrete pedestal in the backyard.  It is either silver or blue.  The backyard is not big, but it is big enough.  I answer one through the upstairs window, my hair hanging down.

It is sunny and green as we walk slowly along a dusty path that runs by the back of our house.  I wear pumps, a white linen straight skirt – its hemline below the knee, a silver-white charmeuse blouse.  I seem taller.  My eyes are dark. My hair is dark, thick and put up.