Turn back to the large windows, and gray clouds have brushed themselves across the landscape.
The freeways are gone, the mirrored glass of office buildings have become opaque, bridge towers mystically obscured, the river flows through hidden channels, mountains no longer exist, space itself is virtual.

In conversation with a friend, I remembered the details of Ken Colbung's long-standing attempt to exhume the head
of Yagan, his ancestor, which was severed from his body after his murder in Australia by two white youths in the last century and brought to England. It was eventually buried in Everton Cemetery, Liverpool, by Liverpool Museum in 1964, along with another aboriginal head and a dream I had several years ago.

I am dead, a spirit flying along with another, and a third I only sense. I ask where everyone else is, as billions of people had died before me, and am 'told' they are higher up.  Now I am striving to rise higher. Above me is a dome  with a disk at its center my 'arm' is stretching to reach, and I'm shouting...

 

God appears as a whirlwind, a disrupting force,
a menace to sheltered beliefs. What one worships in a temple is the known, the fablized, the tamed; not God, who is wildly unfamiliar, the cranky neighbor whose tree threatens to crush your roof.