Monday, August 24, 2009

Dream sequence

He sits in long, evening-dew-wet grass with a mortar cannon between his legs... less of a mortar cannon than a small modified tennis ball launcher, packed with sand and a golf ball. Pow. Sand and a golf ball spray outwards. From over the rise it has the appearance of nothing else like somebody playing a chip shot out of a sand bunker. It is cold.
There is a photographer. Is it Denzel Washington? This is a movie... Ace photographer Denzel Washington tries to capture the perfect image of a chip shot from a sand bunker, golf ball in flight in a sundog of sand. Golf ball and sand in the brilliant red of sunrise. Golf ball and sand in the dazzling noon day sun. Golf ball and sand in the brilliant red of sunset. In the hazy twilight now. Little must he know of the web of intrigue and danger he is about to be drawn into (It is Denzel after all).
Now it is dark. The assistant, an obscure actor who will probably be killed to give Denzel some psychological depth, stands. Perhaps they are lovers, maybe friends. Most likely they are ex-Vietnam buddies (It is Denzel after all).
“Those ants that navigated up my trouser and been eating my butt all afternoon...” begins the assistant, “Well one of them just reconned my left testicle.”
Denzel pouts knowingly. Perhaps they are ex-Vietnam buddies and lovers. Now they are no longer actors, they are me and someone else. Someone else and I are in the long wet grass in the dark.
Impossible street lamps flicker. Psyche lamps. There is always one.
We are surrounded by tall tall dark trees and the daisy chain of flickering psyche lamps leads out of the clearing and into the trees. I am cold.
Someone else says “Want to go through that entrance?” Who the fuck is that? Now I am aware of a clear area. A backlit portal, wet and steamy.
“You mean that hole that looks like the scary part of the Pet Sematary? Why not.” I am hopelessly ironic.
“Ain’t never seen Pet Sematary.” says Denzel’s assistant. Through the portal I can see a herd of deer. Are deer harmless? Now the cold takes a form like dark water, begins to flow in through the hole like the blackness when the boat sank. Like the blackness that sucked the chief engineer in and away like a big, strong but helpless rag doll; filling the space between him and reality with a cold watery veil. But the engineer did not die when the boat sank. He was the only one.
Who would you sell your soul to, in that cold and dark place, to survive?

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