To excavate simulated images of real events that happened, but not in this dream.
To distort the dreamed event, to overlay it.

This is visionary fiction. It begins to take shape as fiction when, during the process of transposition, it becomes a corrupted image, something not truly seen or dreamed. Perhaps through its own weaving an alternative version is created.

It was just a being in its place, going to gather some herbs. It is clear that it knew the path, where and when to go and return. There was intentionality in its movement. Up to this point, that is enough. The rest I prefer not to conjecture.
What matters to me, in part, is that between worlds the speculative space formed by imagination and the tangible field of the real, reassembled in the figure, may resemble in form or gesture grandmothers, parents, or uncles from the market.

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This is a vision. It began in a dream where I saw the unfolding of an exploitation in which the symbolically dominating, continuously colonizing body subjugates the earth-body, diasporic, forcing it to dismantle the material manifestation of planet-time. The elementals: trees, dwelling-plants.

The movement of vital force to lift or keep suspended the metallic empires, laboratories that perpetuate enslavement. They were there removing millenary trees from the root with their bodies and throwing them far away. They were as strong as the trees themselves, which they removed effortlessly.
They sheltered themselves from the sun with a hat and shone like it, and they wore no shoes.

They opened clearings in the dismantling of that landscape that shapes my earliest childhood memories of the Chapada Diamantina.
They were ready to stop but were ordered to continue.

This is the matrix of the fiction. A present vision.

To speculate, fictionalize, imagine an event in the painting that disrupts the dreamed fact.