Dreams, the green, and men with machines

Dusk always fell into the night impatiently. The lilac haze would fade into a grey gradation without any attachment to those pillows of cloud and intertwined sheets of pink and blue. There was such vitality present during the day, but the night held a greater promise of wonder and interstellar possibility. If the sun and moon were eternal lovers caught in a relentless dance, seeking the collision of embrace, then, it would help to explain how time just continued to eat away into the future. Zavier would look out across the river at the city before him, his eyes taking in the juxtaposition of iridescent beauty and matte shadows. Ivy tendrils ensnared the concrete, urbanised jungle. Living in the grey, where there was no absolute truth, felt comparable to watching an old film of a circus performer walking a tightrope.

Zavier was a young man of twenty-eight years experiencing existential crisis. He had lost the love of his life and hence believed his internal flame was snuffed out for good. There was such blue in this reality of his. He felt most days that he could not go on, but during the night, there was an undeniable liveliness that would rekindle his hope for a brighter happiness.

The city came alive with eager chattering and incessant clinking of glassware as people crowded into the riverside bars and restaurants. Their energy mingled with the beat of the music and the hum of electrical wiring. Sitting at his desk in his apartment, Zavier would sense the waft of youthful liberty encroaching on his melancholy. The waft of sweat, alcohol and perfume would ascend to the nineteenth-floor window and trickle into the small space like a water fountain. He blinked; felt his personal world constrict. The sheer curtains twirled and elevated in a momentary salutation to the purity of the breeze. Pleasant odours of the river and not-too-distant ocean flooded Zavier’s nostrils. He watched the curtains fall back to their inanimate existence and it was in that moment that the man decided enough was enough. If he craved flight into a new reality and state of being, then he could be the only one to press the ignition. If his launch were to fail, he need not fear to start over. Again.

In the hours that followed liveliness came restlessness. He grew tired of ‘star-gazing’ into the blue lights of screens and then to the flashes of photographs on the same, unchanging beige wall. The sound of the vintage projector clicking over each image punctured his eardrums like a jet committing to a fly-by along the boulevard below. Zavier glanced absently at the final photograph and could not help comparing himself to the subject. An old aristocrat sat upon a dead tree trunk in the park, smoking a cigar with obvious detachment. His eyes were watery with both deprivation and intoxication. There was no beauty in a life spent dedicated to a servitude of ignorance. Zavier vowed that he would not let his creativity and capability dissipate.

His heart was not yet fully recovered from the torment she had left him with. Some nights he caught himself hoping she would return to him. Estelle had broken off their engagement to return to her family in the United Kingdom. Where the pastures were greener and shit. The inevitability of being an artist- to form too great a connection to your muse- had him currently teetering on a very fine ledge. Zavier admitted that his innate attraction to thrills and venturing into metaphorical danger zones had driven her away. Estelle was a scientist, and she feared those gaps in-between that remain immeasurable. In the end, he had bid her farewell; another summer romance in the dust. The lingering sensation of her touch upon his skin had vanished with the passing of time, but his sight still captured little resemblances of her everywhere- auburn hair glinting gold in the afternoon rays as a schoolgirl bounded home, a florist’s bouquet of withering wildflowers, and naked porcelain mannequins in a luxurious boutique. A horizontal rainbow refracted by a shop window. Most things were never born to last, or bloom, and if they did, those envious weeds would eat them up. Incongruences and inequality made the rose brutal. He made a wish that Estelle would one day remove those thorns in her side, designed purely as another layer of protection. Zavier had such an open heart and mind that security suffocated his spontaneity. He recalled his vow.

A cascade of bell-like laughter ascended from Bee-tee’s Tapas. The energy of bodies mingling and rebounding like atoms, existing fearlessly in the fleeting instances of this life, suddenly inspired Zavier’s desire to embrace the rest of his youth. He wanted to feel alive and drive his car through the streets at night. The space that had felt comfortable for so long- house plants, ebbing neon fluorescence and middle-century furniture- now seemed like a transition state. If he avoided moving into a new chapter, he’d eventually end up like that old aristocrat. Growth was the real progress that urban people sought after so possessively. He wondered at what stage of his career as an artist and photographer, his thoughts had begun to overtake real connection. There was a limit to how much heavy metal and music he could withstand. Walking past the prints of the ‘The Old Guitarist’ and ‘Aeroritratto di Mussolini aviatore’, he imagined he felt a shift in the solar system. Fine art could do that to you. He grabbed his leather jacket, threw it across his right shoulder and did not lock the door on his way out. There were some memories that were best left behind.

The elevator descended at a rapid pace. He blinked and the opaque glass slid to reveal the cold basement. Lighting flickered dramatically as he walked over to his hydrogen-cell powered 1955 Jaguar XK140. She was a black beauty. He opened the door and dropped into the plush leather. He pressed the button, and the ignition did not fail. Speeding soundlessly past the pillars and out the gate into the night, Zavier felt he could breathe again. An unplanned route always gave him the peace of mind he needed. The sounds from outside the vehicle seemed distant, and the flashing imagery of his surroundings lacked clarity. Ironically, it was during this half-engagement with the mundane world that people felt their trajectory heading the ‘right’ way. Perhaps, it was simply the momentum of moving forwards at speed. The escapism made all the pain give way to a surreal calm.

Zavier sped through the city towards the mountain in the backdrop. The green glow of eager traffic lights offered a new perspective on opportunity. The future was a tide that kept reeling him in. It was more alluring than anything else- not knowing the destination. Faith would lead him to discoveries of serene and tranquil places. There was promise in these spaces for a better, more liberal world. Rainforests and pristine beaches. Castles and statues of Gods. He could feel the dreams manifesting into a reality he once believed to be nonsense. The lights reflected the sky in a desperate, hopeful manner and he could not help finding elements of architectural and naturalistic design for revere. After heartache came hope. There was no designated signage indicating his ending was one of falling. He could choose to rise. Intersections kept signalling the green light so, onwards he drove. The road wound beyond the mountains to fields, and then to another sea. He would go there. Restore the evergreen to broken boundaries and seams. Then, some way further beyond what anyone may have ever expected from a poor artist with a head full of dreams.

By Emma Donovan