Digging Out

Originally published April 2012

 ===bumped to the top in hopes one particular person will read it ===

I really love the works of M.C. Escher, I love the precision and the symmetry of them, the way he folds space without making it obvious.  But I like his work trapped on a page, where it is just something to look at.  I hate it whenever I find myself trapped within such spaces in a dream.  I never liked it when a dream would leave me in Escherville, that town belonged to my subconscious.  In the days when I'd practice lucid dreaming Escherville was the scene of many and a many a fight, usually my waking self aware within the dream in the same tactical position as Neo and Morpheus operating in the Matrix where The Agent can be anything, or anyone, where space itself can betray the laws of reality and turn against you. 

There was only one objective in Escherville, to survive and escape.  There was only one feeling in Escherville: a sense of dread and threat, the omnipresent eyes of the enemy.  It was never a peaceful place, even when it seemed absolutely idyllic that sense of dread clung to every contour, every shape.  No corner ever led to the road out of town, no door would open onto what you'd expect by what could be seen approaching.  Anything could be on the far side of any door, and anything often was.  I've seen Medusa's reflection behind some of those doors, I've stepped through to have the floor dissolve under my feet and show me eternity falling away below me.  I've stepped through to be greeted by beautiful nude sirens singing the terror of self will seduced away into nothingness.  I've stepped through to find myself in the court of the Vampire King, and shuddered in fear for my immortal soul to realize there were fangs in my mouth as well.  I don't think there is one perversion of the sexual that didn't manifest itself at one time or another, behind one door or the next.  Some revolted, others aroused, and all were dismissed... I knew early on better than to even think of indulging. 

So many times the stairs carried the sign saying Exit Above, so many times  the stairs become a trap, the ceiling solid, blood stained, the steps becoming smaller and smaller, compressing themselves into that ceiling and impossible to descend. I have no idea how many times I died in Escherville, awakened reincarnated weary and sweat soaked in the world of real life.  No idea.  Many, many times over the years.  But with the years the dying times came to be fewer and fewer, although it seemed as the count of my deaths decreased the terror of each enlarged in proportion. 

I've fought in Escherville: assault rifle, pistol, sword, grenades and molotov cocktails... each weapon had to be mastered to use against the unreal. None behaved as they do in real life.  Space is funny in Escherville, you don't always aim at the thing you want to hit.  Eventually I think the enemy came to respect me, it stopped sending violence against me, for the most part.  I had left a great many of it's monsters smoldering heaps of carnage on a street corner, reloaded and moved on.  They usually stayed dead.  Usually.

The image above is from one of my last tours in Escherville.  It was a summer afternoon, one of the deceptive tranquil afternoons that town is infamous for.  I conjured my favorite weapons, set my guards on psyche and soul, and strolled.  Of course no line stayed strait, of course turning no corner returned you to where you'd began, but that was nothing new.  The town was deserted, only the sense of those eyes watching. 

I came upon a track hoe, a large and powerful machine.  Apparently in Escherville like everywhere else if you want something underground you need to dig a ditch.  It was out of place, that machine.  Things out of place needed challenging, unchallenged they might reappear later as a threat.  I mounted the machine, the controls were familiar.  It sounded strong on start up, that perfect rumble of a powerful Diesel engine, the smooth surge of good hydraulics.  I started to dig.  And I dug, and I dug.  It turned into a tunnel soon enough, soon enough it was a problem keeping enough swinging room to empty the bucket behind me.  Soon enough the machine began to labor, I could feel the effort as the ground became harder, turned to rock.  Still I dug on, I was trapped in a tomb of my own making at that point. It was dig or die yet again.  The engine began to overheat, you could smell it, the air barely breathable, the O2 content almost to low for combustion.  The oil was boiling in the hydraulic circuits, the controls no longer smooth, the levers would kick back against your hands with enough force to bruise.  The tunnel began to climb, the ground became a bit softer, it was easier to make headway.  But the machine had spent it's strength, I knew if it stopped it would never start again. Where the bearings had been the crank was spinning on molten metal, the crank itself only a few degrees from melting.  It was the old terror come again.

But I had the victory, I did.  We broke through to the surface, the destroyed machine and I, still in the dream, still in Escherville just as the engine exploded into flames.  I leaped from the cab, not so surprised to find myself only a few blocks from where I'd gone below.  But I was very surprised when I shouldered my weapons again and walked away.  I could tell the roads would run straight this time, that I'd made Escherville conform to the laws of reality.  I've been back to Escherville a few times in the years since, but that isn't a problem, not anymore.  These days Escherville is my town. I own it.