Monday, May 17, 2010

Two dreams


A bear made of ice, its eyes and mouth tipped with goldleaf. A kung fu child with the face of a Korean clown. He lives in a vertical slum, shimmying up plastic pipes and down concrete stairs when the mob or police come searching. For some reason, the mob leader is dressed for a Chinese opera. He calls to challenge the child. The child taunts him. The mob leader leaps and falls under canvas, where he is decapitated by his own men. The gangsters pursue him. He is always in the corner of the camera shot. Up three storeys at least. You’re there too. There is a ladder made of piping before you. Climb up. You can see the ice bear. The child was the first to furnish it with gold, and now everyone knows it is holy. He touches the Plexiglas tank of water where it floats among a grid of cages. When you reach the top you understand he is the ice bear all along. In your pocket is a crumb of dry bread. You try to feed it to the child. He refuses. You push it into his carven mouth. His brain is crushed with headache, with memories of his mother.


I was a young white woman, lying in bed with a young white man with a prominent nose and piercing eyes, tall and thin. Both of us were naked, and occasionally I would kiss him on the lips knowing it was time to leave. “We’re not fully sane,” I kept on saying, knowing we were characters in a book by someone named Stephanie Foley or something, a book in which we were venturing deeper and deeper into a concept of infinity through a series of descriptions of the intensity of work, of being able to focus on abstract physics rather than sports or everyday activity which plagued the other university students. We were Asperger’s-esque. There was a memory in my character’s mind where I had kissed a black man, after hearing a Manhattan mulatta girl talk about how her mother was really Polynesian and that someone famous in a music video lived at (certain number) 49th street with his mother, not 9 street as initially shown, let’s check it out she said to her friend, and we knew we were above such things, and the black man said something superficial yet profound about also not being complete, and I agreed, but I was still in bed with the white man, waiting for the moment in the darkness when I was ready to leave.

... I'm trying to transcribe my dreams as way of accessing my imagination better. Can't hurt.

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