I dreampt of the boy in the burning house. The boy chained to the rails of his hospital metal desk-bed, whom he called Buddy. The boy was blind and not wanted to be lost. The house blazed as I watched it in full technicoior, safely vouyering. It was on a screen. The family, not nescesarily his—who knows if it was his, he did not know if it was his, but the woman and her little daughter-girl who lived in the house when it burned—they did not come to his room to rescue Buddy. They did not appear in the dream again. The boy strained and pulled and screamed for his pet-friend, for his metal-friend’s life. The boy had to be brave so Buddy would not get panicked. The boy got out. Buddy got left behind. Buddy burned. He couldn’t fit through the doorway, being so terribly heavy, being so big. THe boy screamed at the firefighters to save his only name. Hescreamed ‘Buddy’ so afterwards that was how they always thought of him. We who watched. The woman and girl were not in his life again, he never heard them again—did they perish also, staying behind with Buddy in the flames? Did they flee in shame? The boy in the dream would not be sure. And then I woke up and was him, me, a youth old enough to smoke and surgicly restored to sight, and they were not relevant anymore, were not present in my thoughts.
I dreampt my vision unsteady, a young man me, sparse-worded mouth. No, listen, I dreampt I was helping make a documentary, a film pointless if arty about my childhood life in that house, which meant—to the filmmaker—my escape. They had an actor for most of it, a series of actors rather, to show me at different ages, even one who was suppoosed to be me now. I didn’t speak to him much, his hair was darker than mine, and he did not have blonde skin. But I had to—I had to—I had to be in it for the hardest part—I had to run out of a house that was actually on fire while they filmed it for the supposed therapeutic benefits this would confer on me. The psychologist who prescribed this psycho-drama was working with the film-team. That was the twist. That was what got them the funding and pretensions to make my life their film. They were paying me $20,000 for ‘consulting’ on it. But they didn’t actusally want to hear about whst happened or what details were...they didn’t have me there to make it true, they had me there to tape a scene through a lens. I was there to provide spectacle , not veracity. What other job or prospects did I have—what else could I do? They said my life wasn’t really going to be in danger at any point—it was special effects real, tv real, just like their film. Aslong as I was careful—basic sensible precautions any actor would take for such a scene—as long as they were ready on the set with water-buckets and OSHA first-aid—everything would be fine. I was not let to watch the actual making of any other part of the movie, as this would spoil the naturalness of my part.
I dreampt of the boy in the burning house and I could see his pasty sick-bed face, his hospital nightclothes and the straps on his arm in startling, grainy detail...the rest of the room was not clear, the corners and wall-colors were not there. It was strange and haunting silent and I was not afraid; it was that kind of dream. I woke up when [I] he screamed, I awoke to a scream I awoke to a scream in a house on fire I awoke because I had screamed because I awoke—
the right sleeve of my long-armed blue blue work-shirt was on fire. The white cotton protection-vest I wore undreneathe was protectively wet but it was only an undershirt wife-beater shape and I smelled the hair on my arm singe I was burning and it smelled more like chemicals than flesh and I was here to rescue someone and I had to find them, I had to help them out too, I couldn’t just run blindly out and leave them after hearing them scream and there was coughing and too many places to look and so much thick smoke I couldn’t see thewalls I fell against and I wondered if the buttons on the shirt would burn too while tryoing to follow the source of the screams and then there was suddenly nothing I stumbled sideways and there was no wall to stop me I fell out into nothing I was outside I was running in a crouch but on my feet I was watching myself, my face reflected in the lens of thge camera on thge front lawn and that is what it looks like, a person running from a burning house and my glasses reflected tiny glints so I couldn’t see, in the camera’s reflection, my eyes, obscured by the glasses two tiny reflections back. I panted they pulled my shirt from me someone yelled and I walked off theset. I will never be the boy in the burning houe again. The movie wasn’t there to help. Art doesn’t rescue anyone: Buddy and the woman, the little girl and the scream—nobody gets rescued in my dreams. Nobody gets rescued when I dream.
¶ 12:57 AM 0 comments
A small story....a true story. My imagination is nothing but stories; the memories grown confused. Both schizophrenics and Alzheimer patients lack the continuity necessary to create a story. I wonder if their memories fluctuate similarly. Dinner with the parents, pizza. My dad telling the same old tired stories as usual. Those are all the memories he has. There is always a defensive note in my voice when arguing with my parents about How Things Were. Like anytime I'm wrong it means I confused it all. There is a strange balance in this mutual denial.
I want a wedding. I want to be a bride. I think about learning the weight of a diamond ring on my hand, afraid to wish. I want the dress, the flowers, the ceremony. I want the gifts, the beautifully wrapped domesticity. I want to sit in front of a delicate wood desk writing Thank You cards on silver monographed paper. I want to learn to be that kind of girl, who knows how to get married and make the bed so the bedspread doesn't end up all off to one side. We moved in May and some boxes still aren't unpacked.
I want a penise. Sometimes I think oral sex is just plain overrated, but I'd rather think about getting a blow-job than giving one. Sean told me about his fantasy of coming home from work and I undress him and go down on him.
I think about blood-stained sheets, wonder how many women down through the centuries have arranged to be married during their menstrual time. Why does the bride wear a white dress here, anyways? Conspicuous consumption? I want an old Venetian lace veil like one in the story book.
I want to go to Venice, Paris, Amsterdam. I want to see Moors and potato hills. I like the idea of moving somewhere no one can claim relation, where no one will know me unless I choose to introduce myself. It must have been a great deal easier to disappear before the whole telecommunication thingy.
The dream I had....people formed of stained glass. Sean's nightmares, his arms shaking in his sleep. Lately I am always afraid of death--I need to pray more. ¶ 10:32 PM 0 comments
