Dreaming my Philosophy: Animism, Vomit, Foxes and Very Peculiar Roadside Companions Nina Gibb
I
t might happen as the rhythm of light through the trees and the water’s persistent murmuring suggests a voice whispering from the creek. Or perhaps as figures coalesce from the places where the sheets of rain fall against one another in a summer storm. In a world where streams are few and far between, I can imagine it in an encounter with the spooky-euphoric quality of sunlight under rain-clouds, the feeling of surprise that there are men who actually look attractive sporting postironic moustaches or even in a sudden awareness of the ubiquity of the splash of vomit on the midnight tram.
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