Editorial: Surrealise this

We called it living-dream, locked by our eyeballs with the boy painted white at the traffic lights. We named fantasy the suspect, dancing in glass castles to furious drums, heat intense, walls running silver, guessing that nothing would ever match this evening, this one evening amongst them all.
But then there were more.

We called in the sunset on Sundays with takeaway chips and baptisms scattered along the shore. I thought I was stuck in dream; my waking life hallucination of something wild and exotic. Then I woke. Woke again. Kept waking until the city wrenched open these eyes and forbade a look back. 

Dictionary: Surrealism, n. Pure psychic automatism, by which one proposes to express, either verbally, in writing, or by any other manner, the real functioning of thought. Dictation of thought in the absence of all control exercised by reason, outside of all aesthetic and moral preoccupation.

It starts with a feeling.
Just a thought. Small, nagging, but there.

It seems to be unreal. Trapped in the bumper-to-bumper of peak hour traffic, look to the left; woman in pinstripe suit and stilettos, sack of maize on head as she makes her way toward home. Right. Bleached blonde man, fan of light beers and betting on the horses, shirt says, I (heart) Soweto. It’s all gone peculiar.

Morning trips to the shopping mall, when you’re paying for groceries with folks in Zionist garb. Distant figures in the cane fields, faces red with clay.
High walls hiding suburban fortresses.

We wish it were all a dream, on the days when choice is one between a rusting dusk, sun dropping behind what may as well be the edge of the world or just South Beach - your South Beach - and working late at the office as your boss tells you about the deadlines you are missing, or the work you should be doing, or how you’re hanging on the lower rungs of corporate success.Then, you wish it were all a dream. You’re getting it now, baby. Now you’re surrealising. We are the dreamers, down here in deepest darkest. Our reality makes clear the concept of suffering, but it also glows gold with a modern day surreal. It seems to me that Africa is a dream.
The reason of the workday grind means nothing to an unconscious mind. What is beautiful is real and what isn’t, well, what isn’t doesn’t matter because it doesn’t exist because it’s all become a mixture of something else, other things, unbridled things, things of passion, things which pulse, things which beat rhythm that screams
“You. Are. Alive.” We bring the unconscious to life, down here, we live the marvellous down here.