Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Our top story this morning
Usually, first thing in the morning, my dreams, insights, worries, and tasks for the day, come tumbling at me all at once. Lately - for the last several nights at least - I've seen a news gazette in my head right before waking. Today it was a short two page insert, soft grey border and pale orange background, with gothic script for the title, and the headline: "Buy Longer Shoelaces"
Sunday, November 10, 2013
Opening bars to a short story
John Dale had a personal soundtrack. I don't mean that he got songs stuck in his head. What I mean is that at every major shift in the action of his life, classical music could be heard. Soft violins as he moved in for a drink at the water fountain. A crescendo if he lifted his four year old niece in the air to swing her around.
It might sound sort of romantic and exciting to have a musical score accompany your every waking move, but it was distracting at best. When he was alone, it made it hard to study. The minute he felt frustrated by a concept, the percussion section would kick in and then perhaps some horns.
At worst, waiting, for instance, outside the principal's office in eighth grade, because his teacher thought he was playing a prank to distract everyone on the math test with a rather loud rendition of Strauss' Blue Danube waltz, the fact that the opening bars to Prokiev's creepy Dance of the Knights began as soon as the principal opened his door to beckon him inside... well it didn't help his case.
John was expelled after a series of meetings in which he was directed ever-more-emphatically to reveal the location of the speakers he must have installed all over the school. "You!" his math teacher yelled in the last parent-teacher-principal meeting. "You are a MUSIC TERRORIST!!"
Eighth grade was probably the worst year of John's life. He was expelled from that school in September, and by several schools thereafter. By Christmas his parents had decided to home-school him.
He was examined by a veritable army of psychiatric and medical professionals, initially to break his antisocial speaker-hiding behavior, and then to see if his vocal cords could project complex orchestral music at a distance, and finally by a doctor who was also a priest and hypothesized that he was possessed by demonic spirits.
Eventually his parents gave up, accepted the utter lack of explanation for the phenomenon and John developed a kind of phobia about being in quiet spaces with strangers. A shrieking air-lifted toddler was unfazed by violin accompaniment, but adults in the library or a mall elevator were a different story. Though frequently they didn't identify him as the source of the music, their initially puzzled or annoyed expressions set him on edge.
It had not always been this way; John was a pretty normal kid, which is to say that music only played when adults set records on the retro turntable in his parents' den or popped a tape into the car stereo. When he was ten, he got his own discman as a birthday present. He listened amiably while pedaling his bike through the neighborhood after school or on the bus in the morning, but otherwise was not especially obsessed with music.
The trouble began when he hit puberty, the fall after his 13th birthday, just a few weeks into the eighth grade. At this point, he liked loud, energetic rock music - he was certainly not a classical music fan, nor had he ever had piano lesssons or played an instrument. In fact anyone who had approached his unusual condition with logic rather than assumptions would have immediately realized that even if he was the epicenter of the music, it was in no way a conscious result of his own actions or knowledge. John didn't know 99% of the pieces that played near him.
Some of it was recognizable, even to the layperson - the score of Beethoven's 9th or Rachmaninoff's Funeral March. Much of it was more obscure. But all of it was composed long before John was born and in many cases long after the composers and their children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren were dead.
It might sound sort of romantic and exciting to have a musical score accompany your every waking move, but it was distracting at best. When he was alone, it made it hard to study. The minute he felt frustrated by a concept, the percussion section would kick in and then perhaps some horns.
At worst, waiting, for instance, outside the principal's office in eighth grade, because his teacher thought he was playing a prank to distract everyone on the math test with a rather loud rendition of Strauss' Blue Danube waltz, the fact that the opening bars to Prokiev's creepy Dance of the Knights began as soon as the principal opened his door to beckon him inside... well it didn't help his case.
John was expelled after a series of meetings in which he was directed ever-more-emphatically to reveal the location of the speakers he must have installed all over the school. "You!" his math teacher yelled in the last parent-teacher-principal meeting. "You are a MUSIC TERRORIST!!"
Eighth grade was probably the worst year of John's life. He was expelled from that school in September, and by several schools thereafter. By Christmas his parents had decided to home-school him.
He was examined by a veritable army of psychiatric and medical professionals, initially to break his antisocial speaker-hiding behavior, and then to see if his vocal cords could project complex orchestral music at a distance, and finally by a doctor who was also a priest and hypothesized that he was possessed by demonic spirits.
Eventually his parents gave up, accepted the utter lack of explanation for the phenomenon and John developed a kind of phobia about being in quiet spaces with strangers. A shrieking air-lifted toddler was unfazed by violin accompaniment, but adults in the library or a mall elevator were a different story. Though frequently they didn't identify him as the source of the music, their initially puzzled or annoyed expressions set him on edge.
It had not always been this way; John was a pretty normal kid, which is to say that music only played when adults set records on the retro turntable in his parents' den or popped a tape into the car stereo. When he was ten, he got his own discman as a birthday present. He listened amiably while pedaling his bike through the neighborhood after school or on the bus in the morning, but otherwise was not especially obsessed with music.
The trouble began when he hit puberty, the fall after his 13th birthday, just a few weeks into the eighth grade. At this point, he liked loud, energetic rock music - he was certainly not a classical music fan, nor had he ever had piano lesssons or played an instrument. In fact anyone who had approached his unusual condition with logic rather than assumptions would have immediately realized that even if he was the epicenter of the music, it was in no way a conscious result of his own actions or knowledge. John didn't know 99% of the pieces that played near him.
Some of it was recognizable, even to the layperson - the score of Beethoven's 9th or Rachmaninoff's Funeral March. Much of it was more obscure. But all of it was composed long before John was born and in many cases long after the composers and their children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren were dead.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Biochem major terror with an ist
You see what I did there? In hopes of not getting flagged by immigration trolling for green card holders to remove from this country?
What could possibly drive me to risk being expelled from classroom USA? I had this dream last night that kept repeating, with minor variations, like a sort of narrative morse code.
I was a hovering spirit watching an 18 year old boy sign up for his first semester of classes, over and over, but each time at a different college.
The first time he was in his living room talking to his father about his upcoming freshman year at University of Texas. The boy was tall, broad-shouldered and well built but nerdy, with glasses and a pale, slightly sweaty complexion. He wore a white and brown striped button down shirt with chest pocket, from which an actual pencil, in a pocket protector, protruded. His hair flopped into his eyes every time he looked down at the catalog to write his latest selection onto a school form.
The next scene was a television newscast describing a grisly scene at the University of Texas. The date scrolling across the ticker was November 17. The boy's picture, a still taken of him in the same striped shirt, displayed in the upper right hand corner, was labeled simply, "suspect still at large."
Now the boy was wearing a purple button down shirt and talking amiably with his aunt while filling out a freshman schedule for fall quarter 2013. He had not aged. There were no signs of depression or psychosis in his eyes, simply curiosity and thoughtfulness as he pondered the academic year ahead, mapped out his near-future in strings of 7 character codes: Biol 160, Chem 112, Phot 110, Calc 199.
Next I was on a street corner. Two teenage girls stood at a bus stop, smoking, shivering in the cold. Beside them the newspaper vending machine front page showed a blown up image of the boy, purple shirt, glasses, staring expressionless into some school ID camera. The caption: "A troubled student at the University of Arkansas turned a simple fall day into a nightmare for hundreds of his Biochemistry classmates."
Back to another living room, this one in Somewhere, California. The boy. A new shirt, same glasses, visiting his big brother. Registration form for fall quarter classes at Pacific University.
I don't know how many times this dream repeated before I woke. Often enough to make an impression that lasted over an hour while I did Morning Chores before having time to sit down and write.
FTR I didn't feel a huge sense of terror or fear, or imminent danger. It was an emptier, colder emotion than that. If this dream was a message, it was not a literal one.
What could possibly drive me to risk being expelled from classroom USA? I had this dream last night that kept repeating, with minor variations, like a sort of narrative morse code.
I was a hovering spirit watching an 18 year old boy sign up for his first semester of classes, over and over, but each time at a different college.
The first time he was in his living room talking to his father about his upcoming freshman year at University of Texas. The boy was tall, broad-shouldered and well built but nerdy, with glasses and a pale, slightly sweaty complexion. He wore a white and brown striped button down shirt with chest pocket, from which an actual pencil, in a pocket protector, protruded. His hair flopped into his eyes every time he looked down at the catalog to write his latest selection onto a school form.
The next scene was a television newscast describing a grisly scene at the University of Texas. The date scrolling across the ticker was November 17. The boy's picture, a still taken of him in the same striped shirt, displayed in the upper right hand corner, was labeled simply, "suspect still at large."
Now the boy was wearing a purple button down shirt and talking amiably with his aunt while filling out a freshman schedule for fall quarter 2013. He had not aged. There were no signs of depression or psychosis in his eyes, simply curiosity and thoughtfulness as he pondered the academic year ahead, mapped out his near-future in strings of 7 character codes: Biol 160, Chem 112, Phot 110, Calc 199.
Next I was on a street corner. Two teenage girls stood at a bus stop, smoking, shivering in the cold. Beside them the newspaper vending machine front page showed a blown up image of the boy, purple shirt, glasses, staring expressionless into some school ID camera. The caption: "A troubled student at the University of Arkansas turned a simple fall day into a nightmare for hundreds of his Biochemistry classmates."
Back to another living room, this one in Somewhere, California. The boy. A new shirt, same glasses, visiting his big brother. Registration form for fall quarter classes at Pacific University.
I don't know how many times this dream repeated before I woke. Often enough to make an impression that lasted over an hour while I did Morning Chores before having time to sit down and write.
FTR I didn't feel a huge sense of terror or fear, or imminent danger. It was an emptier, colder emotion than that. If this dream was a message, it was not a literal one.
Monday, November 4, 2013
Black forest cake quest
You know those dreams where you have to pee and you spend the entire time searching for a bathroom but then the surfaces are made of slime and it's too disgusting to sit down, or the door is locked, or the walls turn transparent halfway through and you have to leave or there are monsters in the tank all of which turns out to be actually great since then you have to WAKE UP to accomplish your goal?
I just realized where you think this is going but you are wrong. The point is that besides saving you from wetting the bed, these dreams are anxiety dreams. Similar to the dreams where you have to write a test but you show up in your pyjamas without a pencil and the classroom is across campus through a labyrinth, or the dreams where you are late for your flight and can't find your passport and discover the airport was moved to another city and your car won't start so you have to steal one...
How can you be certain it's an anxiety dream? There is no resolution. You never catch your flight. You never locate the classroom. You never find a suitable restroom.
Last night I dreamt that my impossible quest was about cake. I was on my way to a party at a hotel but I had forgotten to bring anything and got lost in the corridors. I ended up taking a long series of flights of stairs and at the very bottom was a broken water fountain holding up a half eaten Black Forest cake.
To one side was the hotel kitchen; staff bustled in and out of the swinging doors, carrying in dirty dishes and pushing full carts out to the elevator. On the other side was a row of five computer poker booths manned by patrons with bottomless glasses of lager, who, other than their playing hand on the digital screen, looked like they hadn't moved in several years.
The cake was moist and fresh but sat at an angle in the fountain so the cream had collected on one side, making the whole thing lopsided. I figured it was being trashed. Next to it sat a knife and three clean plates. I stood there for half an hour, waiting for the hubbub to subside long enough for me to sneak in and cut off some pieces to bring to the party.
Just as there was a lull in activity, the cake moved a fraction of an inch and imploded, falling into the fountain. I was horrified. All that fresh cream and moist chocolate wasted. I went back up the stairs determined to find the party but instead found one of my friends, a tall fat gamer named Jesse. He looked more like a retired lumberjack than a computer nerd. He carried a beer in one hand and an ipad in the other, managing somehow to carry on playing his game while drinking beer, walking through the hotel and holding up his end of a conversation.
At one point he also succeeded in groping my breast in a friendly non-threatening way all without putting any of his accessories down. When I shook my head he shrugged and said, "a guy's gotta try, you know?" I said no, I did not really know that, but he was so amiable and nonchalant that I couldn't muster any outrage.
I told Jesse about the fountain. He wanted to see it so I re-traced my route down the stairs. Lo and behold, a new cake sat there, entirely untouched. It was even more lopsided than the first. Now I was less sure it was trash and considered that the place was just so busy that they had taken to setting cakes on any surface available.
I still wanted slices of cake and now it was a matter of stealing it, rather than a noble effort to prevent waste. Again, I waited for a break in the steady stream of hotel bussers and bellhops. Now there also were a couple of homeless people lying on the carpet, which was littered with candy bar wrappers and empty packs of cigarettes. Jesse and I moved in slowly, like cheetahs fixed on prey. He was surprisingly graceful for such a big guy. I mentioned it and he said, oh, yeah, he took ballet as a kid. People are full of surprises.
We were inches from the target when it happened again: the cake shifted, and the four tier pastry came down like it had been hit by a wrecking ball. Jesse and I locked eyes, shared the same thought. We dug into the top of the cake, bringing up handful of somewhat intact double layered cake and set it on plates. I grabbed a slice and shoved it into his mouth. He threw the piece he was holding directly into my face, and I reflexively closed my eyes.
When I had cleaned up enough to see again, Jesse was gone, along with the two plates of cake we had salvaged. A fresh cake sat in the fountain, this time inside a cardboard box. I took the knife and carefully cut a perfect wedge, setting it onto the last plate. I turned to go but at the top of the stairs I looked carefully at what I had acquired. Like all the cakes before, this one was lopsided. I had cut mostly a wedge of cream.
I turned to go back, thinking I could cut a piece out of the opposite side and balance it out. I lost my footing and the cake went up into the air; when it landed the cream sprayed off the plate in all directions, settling back down like a melted snowman in a puddle around the plate. I realized that I had all the cream from the cake in that piece. Even if I went back down the stairs, the cake would be completely dry.
I just realized where you think this is going but you are wrong. The point is that besides saving you from wetting the bed, these dreams are anxiety dreams. Similar to the dreams where you have to write a test but you show up in your pyjamas without a pencil and the classroom is across campus through a labyrinth, or the dreams where you are late for your flight and can't find your passport and discover the airport was moved to another city and your car won't start so you have to steal one...
How can you be certain it's an anxiety dream? There is no resolution. You never catch your flight. You never locate the classroom. You never find a suitable restroom.
Last night I dreamt that my impossible quest was about cake. I was on my way to a party at a hotel but I had forgotten to bring anything and got lost in the corridors. I ended up taking a long series of flights of stairs and at the very bottom was a broken water fountain holding up a half eaten Black Forest cake.
To one side was the hotel kitchen; staff bustled in and out of the swinging doors, carrying in dirty dishes and pushing full carts out to the elevator. On the other side was a row of five computer poker booths manned by patrons with bottomless glasses of lager, who, other than their playing hand on the digital screen, looked like they hadn't moved in several years.
The cake was moist and fresh but sat at an angle in the fountain so the cream had collected on one side, making the whole thing lopsided. I figured it was being trashed. Next to it sat a knife and three clean plates. I stood there for half an hour, waiting for the hubbub to subside long enough for me to sneak in and cut off some pieces to bring to the party.
Just as there was a lull in activity, the cake moved a fraction of an inch and imploded, falling into the fountain. I was horrified. All that fresh cream and moist chocolate wasted. I went back up the stairs determined to find the party but instead found one of my friends, a tall fat gamer named Jesse. He looked more like a retired lumberjack than a computer nerd. He carried a beer in one hand and an ipad in the other, managing somehow to carry on playing his game while drinking beer, walking through the hotel and holding up his end of a conversation.
At one point he also succeeded in groping my breast in a friendly non-threatening way all without putting any of his accessories down. When I shook my head he shrugged and said, "a guy's gotta try, you know?" I said no, I did not really know that, but he was so amiable and nonchalant that I couldn't muster any outrage.
I told Jesse about the fountain. He wanted to see it so I re-traced my route down the stairs. Lo and behold, a new cake sat there, entirely untouched. It was even more lopsided than the first. Now I was less sure it was trash and considered that the place was just so busy that they had taken to setting cakes on any surface available.
I still wanted slices of cake and now it was a matter of stealing it, rather than a noble effort to prevent waste. Again, I waited for a break in the steady stream of hotel bussers and bellhops. Now there also were a couple of homeless people lying on the carpet, which was littered with candy bar wrappers and empty packs of cigarettes. Jesse and I moved in slowly, like cheetahs fixed on prey. He was surprisingly graceful for such a big guy. I mentioned it and he said, oh, yeah, he took ballet as a kid. People are full of surprises.
We were inches from the target when it happened again: the cake shifted, and the four tier pastry came down like it had been hit by a wrecking ball. Jesse and I locked eyes, shared the same thought. We dug into the top of the cake, bringing up handful of somewhat intact double layered cake and set it on plates. I grabbed a slice and shoved it into his mouth. He threw the piece he was holding directly into my face, and I reflexively closed my eyes.
When I had cleaned up enough to see again, Jesse was gone, along with the two plates of cake we had salvaged. A fresh cake sat in the fountain, this time inside a cardboard box. I took the knife and carefully cut a perfect wedge, setting it onto the last plate. I turned to go but at the top of the stairs I looked carefully at what I had acquired. Like all the cakes before, this one was lopsided. I had cut mostly a wedge of cream.
I turned to go back, thinking I could cut a piece out of the opposite side and balance it out. I lost my footing and the cake went up into the air; when it landed the cream sprayed off the plate in all directions, settling back down like a melted snowman in a puddle around the plate. I realized that I had all the cream from the cake in that piece. Even if I went back down the stairs, the cake would be completely dry.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Saying yes
I dreamt that I was in a movie starring Robin Williams in which he plays a man who spends a year saying yes to everything - yes to any idea that pops into his head, yes to any opportunity that presents itself, yes to any offer or request by another person - yes to anything as long as it's not lethal, immoral or impossible.
Initially he's in a giant museum gym and he is the only adult playing on all the equipment while his best friend, a blonde woman in a business suit, looks on - he swings on the log suspended fifty feet in the air (over a net). He walks through the silly string fountain and climbs the forever stairs, a bedazzled escelator that moves downwards at the same rate as the stairs move up.
In the next scene his body has youthened to the age of thirteen; he stands on a dais in the middle of a town square wearing silk pyjamas and self-consciously adjusts his page-boy wig. His mother points Vanna White-style as a horse-drawn chariot moves through the center of the square, stopping right in front of him. His mother pulls a long black leather Matrix style jacket out of the chariot and holds it up. He smiles, nods yes to the costume and moves foward to assume the role of superhero.
Initially he's in a giant museum gym and he is the only adult playing on all the equipment while his best friend, a blonde woman in a business suit, looks on - he swings on the log suspended fifty feet in the air (over a net). He walks through the silly string fountain and climbs the forever stairs, a bedazzled escelator that moves downwards at the same rate as the stairs move up.
In the next scene his body has youthened to the age of thirteen; he stands on a dais in the middle of a town square wearing silk pyjamas and self-consciously adjusts his page-boy wig. His mother points Vanna White-style as a horse-drawn chariot moves through the center of the square, stopping right in front of him. His mother pulls a long black leather Matrix style jacket out of the chariot and holds it up. He smiles, nods yes to the costume and moves foward to assume the role of superhero.
Monday, October 14, 2013
The "ick" factor
Last night I drank six glasses of wine. Well, I "tasted" six wines. But the pours were generous and the wine was tasty and I probably drank a total of three actual glasses of wine.
The rather astounding thing is that I am alive this morning, since red wine usually gives me a hangover about half an hour after drinking. Perhaps it is because I made a point of drinking six gallons of water with my wine.
Still, it seems the red wine was intent on leaving some mark on me. Instead of light sensitivity and nausea, I had the most repulsive dream in recent memory.
About three weeks ago I had viral pinkeye. It's a very special feeling to be an adult with an infection nobody else has had since they were 8.
Last night I dreamt that I was examining my eyes in a mirror to see if the redness had gone down. I noticed an eyelash and when I went to remove it, the eyelash moved. Then I saw another. And another. Both eyes were filled with small dark worms swimming just below the conjunctiva.
It was possibly the most horrifying moment of my waking or sleeping life.
I ran into the main room of the house where my roommates - a couple with a child, and a cousin who was crashing with us - were making breakfast. I was talking too fast, and crying; nobody could really understand what I was saying. The mom of the couple tried to hug me and I violently shoved her back.
"Promise me you will wash your hands immediately," I told her. "Don't touch me till I'm better."
It took some doing to convey what I had experienced and I don't think they really believed me at first. After getting promises that everyone would treat me like a biohazard I returned to my room to google "eye worms".
And thankfully, finally, woke up into the reality where my body is not a super disgusting harbor for creatures of nightmare.
Thank you half-hearted Seattle morning sun. Eventually you did your job. I wish you could have moved just a little faster.
The rather astounding thing is that I am alive this morning, since red wine usually gives me a hangover about half an hour after drinking. Perhaps it is because I made a point of drinking six gallons of water with my wine.
Still, it seems the red wine was intent on leaving some mark on me. Instead of light sensitivity and nausea, I had the most repulsive dream in recent memory.
About three weeks ago I had viral pinkeye. It's a very special feeling to be an adult with an infection nobody else has had since they were 8.
Last night I dreamt that I was examining my eyes in a mirror to see if the redness had gone down. I noticed an eyelash and when I went to remove it, the eyelash moved. Then I saw another. And another. Both eyes were filled with small dark worms swimming just below the conjunctiva.
It was possibly the most horrifying moment of my waking or sleeping life.
I ran into the main room of the house where my roommates - a couple with a child, and a cousin who was crashing with us - were making breakfast. I was talking too fast, and crying; nobody could really understand what I was saying. The mom of the couple tried to hug me and I violently shoved her back.
"Promise me you will wash your hands immediately," I told her. "Don't touch me till I'm better."
It took some doing to convey what I had experienced and I don't think they really believed me at first. After getting promises that everyone would treat me like a biohazard I returned to my room to google "eye worms".
And thankfully, finally, woke up into the reality where my body is not a super disgusting harbor for creatures of nightmare.
Thank you half-hearted Seattle morning sun. Eventually you did your job. I wish you could have moved just a little faster.
Sunday, September 15, 2013
Rocketship and art: a horror film in two acts
It starts in a rocket. There are thousands of people buckling themselves into seats ready for flight, on dozens of floors connected by a single central vertical ladder that will eventually be our escape route. The older people are assigned to the bottom floors - the assumption is they will be slowest. However it also means they have the longest distance to climb.
We have been living in this rocket for years, because the world outside was poisoned. Now we are told we are being released after a short journey to somewhere beautiful. We can go outside and live in the air and grow things again.
My sister and I, assigned to a top floor because of our youth, are climbing down the stairs towards the bottom. I am convinced the entire evacuation is a scam. The rocket never feels like we are accelerating or decelerating and no one else seems to notice this departure from the physics of what should be happening.
As we descend the air seems thicker. The passengers are certainly greyer, more heavyset. I begin to have a slow-motion panic attack, imagining being stuck behind this slow moving mass. My strategy has been to take our time exiting the rocket so that we could perhaps assess from some downward trickling of reaction whether my fears are grounded.
I have no contacts within the small cadre of officers that run the rocket and issue the orders; my sense of the wrongness of the current plan is simply gut instinct - at least at first. Every little thing seems to support it, niggly little facts eating away at my faith in our leaders.
Why after years of dwindling supplies and restricted rations is it suddenly possible for us to take a short trip to paradise? I can't shake the much more likely scenario: we are nearly out of food and water. This is a plan to conserve what's left among the much smaller number of crew by "letting" us all out into the poisoned air.
The PA system barks; the exodus begins. People swarm up the ladder and disappear many floors above us, into whatever awaits. I hold my breath, hold my sister's hand. We have found nowhere to hide and I have begun to wonder if there is no safety inside the rocket after all. It has occurred to me that many of these senior citizens will not be able to make the long climb to the surface. Perhaps they plan to kill us either way - luring the able-bodied, fit-enough-to-fight outside into the lethal atmosphere and then sealing the slow inside, allowing us to slowly poison ourselves with our own exhalations.
There is a blank spot in my memory of what comes next, so I have no answer to that most basic question - what happened at the pivotal moment as each person emerged from the top of the rocket. Was it hope, crushed by reality or was it, incredibly, joy in the face of salvation, in promises come true.
In the next scenes I am in a museum; I can't tell if it is the future in which we survived, but it seems equally possible this is the prequel, and I am experiencing events in the past.
I am in an underwater museum. Works are shown on walls separated by a thin membrane of water and glass, under lit by soft floodlights. I am looking at a digital exhibit; the prolific artist's surreal photographs blink through in sequence, changeing every ten seconds.
The artist himself is standing next to the 18x24 digital frame, describing his technique. He is a friend, so I have already heard how he shoots at angles that allow him to give the illusion that the body part in focus - usually the head - has been severed from the body yet incredibly still lives. Though his pictures have no blood, they are effective and disturbing.
I am secretly afraid of him because I had a dream one night that when the angle of the shot isn't working, he resorts to actually dissecting his subject, and taking photographs in the moments before death. Either way the images seem evil and whether it is actual or simply effectively simulated horror seems to be a little beside the point.
I come away from the display with my stomach hurting from fear and sadness.
We have been living in this rocket for years, because the world outside was poisoned. Now we are told we are being released after a short journey to somewhere beautiful. We can go outside and live in the air and grow things again.
My sister and I, assigned to a top floor because of our youth, are climbing down the stairs towards the bottom. I am convinced the entire evacuation is a scam. The rocket never feels like we are accelerating or decelerating and no one else seems to notice this departure from the physics of what should be happening.
As we descend the air seems thicker. The passengers are certainly greyer, more heavyset. I begin to have a slow-motion panic attack, imagining being stuck behind this slow moving mass. My strategy has been to take our time exiting the rocket so that we could perhaps assess from some downward trickling of reaction whether my fears are grounded.
I have no contacts within the small cadre of officers that run the rocket and issue the orders; my sense of the wrongness of the current plan is simply gut instinct - at least at first. Every little thing seems to support it, niggly little facts eating away at my faith in our leaders.
Why after years of dwindling supplies and restricted rations is it suddenly possible for us to take a short trip to paradise? I can't shake the much more likely scenario: we are nearly out of food and water. This is a plan to conserve what's left among the much smaller number of crew by "letting" us all out into the poisoned air.
The PA system barks; the exodus begins. People swarm up the ladder and disappear many floors above us, into whatever awaits. I hold my breath, hold my sister's hand. We have found nowhere to hide and I have begun to wonder if there is no safety inside the rocket after all. It has occurred to me that many of these senior citizens will not be able to make the long climb to the surface. Perhaps they plan to kill us either way - luring the able-bodied, fit-enough-to-fight outside into the lethal atmosphere and then sealing the slow inside, allowing us to slowly poison ourselves with our own exhalations.
There is a blank spot in my memory of what comes next, so I have no answer to that most basic question - what happened at the pivotal moment as each person emerged from the top of the rocket. Was it hope, crushed by reality or was it, incredibly, joy in the face of salvation, in promises come true.
In the next scenes I am in a museum; I can't tell if it is the future in which we survived, but it seems equally possible this is the prequel, and I am experiencing events in the past.
I am in an underwater museum. Works are shown on walls separated by a thin membrane of water and glass, under lit by soft floodlights. I am looking at a digital exhibit; the prolific artist's surreal photographs blink through in sequence, changeing every ten seconds.
The artist himself is standing next to the 18x24 digital frame, describing his technique. He is a friend, so I have already heard how he shoots at angles that allow him to give the illusion that the body part in focus - usually the head - has been severed from the body yet incredibly still lives. Though his pictures have no blood, they are effective and disturbing.
I am secretly afraid of him because I had a dream one night that when the angle of the shot isn't working, he resorts to actually dissecting his subject, and taking photographs in the moments before death. Either way the images seem evil and whether it is actual or simply effectively simulated horror seems to be a little beside the point.
I come away from the display with my stomach hurting from fear and sadness.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)