The starving dreamer: part IV
When Architecture Whispers and Wolves Watch
Zachariah Kyle Francis continues his description of the wild and vivid dream he experiences every afternoon. He carries on moving his way through the streets of Manhattan, after his brief encounter with the creepy pharmacist. He is on a mission to investigate further the artist who goes by the name—Joe Vandelay…
Steaming ahead now towards the Guggenheim. My saunter has shifted into a march. The museum closes soon, I think. I’m not sure—I don’t have a mobile phone to check Google. I detest those things.
I want to get there soon and have a real browse around. I’ve heard there’s a new exhibition displaying Piet Mondrian’s last work.
Moreover, I want to find this Joe Vandelay and ask him a few questions. I have a feeling he might not be as crazy as others claim.
As I scythe through the streets, the sky casts a deep sable dye across its vast canvas, hanging like a shroud over the city. Darkness descends, igniting the illuminations. They rush past my eyes as I fly past the city’s people, shops, hotels, markets, cinemas, and cafes. Everything flickers like a flame in wind.
The speed of my movement melds these images into one pulsating hallucination: faces, lights, smells, voices—an all-consuming tapestry of sensory overload. I’m swept up in the wave, searing with momentum, locked onto the Guggenheim.
A question surges up: What if the same force that took Joe's gift is responsible for my creative block? Maybe I’m just another street lunatic chasing a phantom on a whim during a manic episode.
Doesn’t matter. My energy is aimed like an arrow at the museum.
I’ll be at 88th Street soon if I keep this mercurial pace.
I barrel through the crowd. It’s New York—no one cares. I think someone shouted after I clipped their shoulder. Get out of the way, idiot, I think. Why is it always my job to make space?
When I first arrived in this city, I was courteous, weaving and excusing myself with British politeness inbedded in my DNA . But after being body-checked a hundred times, I adapted. It’s a concrete jungle. Manners mean nothing.
At 88th Street, something’s off. The buildings, the people—everything is slightly skewed. It’s as if the environment is mirroring my internal state.
And then I see them.
A crowd. Marching in lockstep like androids. Each of them masked. Chin diapers, blue. They chant in unison, blank-eyed:
"Pfizer, Moderna, Zeneca our saviour, Fauci we praise you our lord."
Over and over. A low, humming incantation.
They swerve right, down a side street.
I follow.