I’m trying to find that place.

That mystical Promised Land where the river is the most riveting shade of teal and birds sing from the throat – heady and perfect - and they crash into windows with the sounds of cymbals. That place where the sky is green and pink and obscure and the most plastic blue.

Art.

I feel as though any excursion, any music, any manufactured words depicting fiction float magically to this place. This parallel universe where life imitates art imitating life. Bubbles and paint and oil textured clouds and noise and green, where you can sing if you feel like it.

I think it’s hidden.

I think you get to see it when you’ve practiced enough, when you’ve suffered enough of the mundanities, stuck here in the Real. Once you can appreciate the Art in things, the Imagined, the perfect windows to catch glimpses of line-drawn plans of how this place looks, then you get to appreciate it. Not sooner than that, though.

Poppy bass lines and melancholy piano and Rachmaninoff and Macs and polystyrene sculptures and wire and tar and thread. I expect it will look like Willy Wonka’s factory, in the original film, with the tea-cup-flowers and fat gummy-bear fruit.

In this land, you can sing if you want to.