We are now living in post-apocalyptic cities where nothing grows and all industrial progress has ceased. The sun never shines here, it is always dark. There are no animals left, we have eaten them all — there are only trees, decrepit buildings, and us. Without animals we no longer have a reference that we can point to and claim the vague animator we call “instinct” exists; nor do we have operational machines to tear into the land. Without these we no longer feel dominion over anything; and even the most Earth loving among us are weak and angry.
The boys are marching off to war. There is a black clothed team and a white clothed team. I’m with the black. This war is a senseless game, neither side has a goal; but people will die, many people will die. While marching into the silent and empty forest I desert my company and build a raft out of old animal bones and twigs. I float down a tame stream and arrive at a place where I am stuck inside a photographic book that is similar to a high school year book. There is always one photo that is animated and talking. The type of dialogue taking place is like that of an evening news show conducting an interview. I am asked what I think the biggest problem we now face is. The page turns and my photograph is animated — in it I am a teenager, I have long hair and I’m wearing a red KGB shirt with a hammer & sickle decal on it. I proclaim proudly (in the way only a teenager can) that it is because we have abandoned ourselves, and that I have never abandoned anything. But my adult self who is wittnessing my talking teenage photograph knows this is not true — I have just abandoned my army.
Beethoven’s 5th symphony begins blasting into the world. I can hear it perfectly, it is precise. The book closes and the trees uproot. The world is receiving its final apocalyptic blows. I am not worried, instead I am marveled by how my dreaming mind is capable of reproducing this complicated music — and I wake up with it still ringing in my ears. ♨
There was a hillside where we, the soldiers, hung out. It was joyful to feel myself in my legs walking down and then up a hill of earth. It was a tall mound of jagged dirt at the top. There was some talk and some camaraderie. Not long and I had fallen asleep inside a warm sac. There was a sexual bit. I remember a phallus. Then a mouth sort of yelling from the outside to wake up. The war had come.
I dreamt I was floating over people being marched as soldiers. We entered a compound and there was an amnesty zone where a sport was being held. I thought of the Celtics(a team I guess?) I was filming with an old victorian accordion camera and there were broadsides of poetry and art. Michel had a piece on the counter attached to Susurrus Din. SD’s work was not supposed to be there, but it was attached to Michel’s. Someone sort of shuffled them on the counter. My friend S.K. from Philly was there in profile. The war was still on outside. An urge to leave came and then I saw a man with an M16 and a white T-shirt come in. He was getting the jump on the other side. For all the war feelings and guns, I heard no shots. I had a bad feeling leaving the arena where the poetry broadsides/Celtics game had gone on. I didn’t have my gun. Where did we leave our guns? Where was my baby? I was think this as I was inside the arena too.
When I left the arena, I climbed up in the building to escape. I saw dark-latino or middle-eastern men. They didn’t seem associated with this “war.” I felt a slight tension but they just disappeared. I needed to get out. I had rope. I don’t remember tying the rope to anything, but still I rappelled down the side into a foyer and ran off. I remember thinking I was not sure what color my team was; blue or tan. It felt like a summer camp and not a war after all. I ran off alone and didn’t rejoin the soldiers but came upon an outdoor birthday party that I was not invited to despite the realization that my sister and brother were there. My brother gave me a plate of pomegranate seeds apologetically because there was no cake for me. I arrived just in time to see it placed before his good friend Gibran. They cut the cake and I slipped away. The women were dressy and one had a scarf around her neck. I had been wearing a full-length slip as I walked up alone. I looked in the refrigerator and saw some old cupcakes. I ate nothing, save the hint of pomegranate seeds. They tasted like cranberries.
I’m in the forest behind my parents’ house, it is much thinker and more tropical than I remember. My friend, Florian, is back there with me. A beautiful owl is flying around catching game in her mouth. She is mesmerizing to watch. The owl ends up catching a white cat. She’s proud of it, and lands on a branch less than a meter away from us. Her eyes are huge and gleaming. She swallows the cats tail, and stares at us. I debate whether or not to go fetch my camera. It’s in the house, not too far away. I go for it, hoping I don’t miss much. When I get back Florian explains that the feast is over, and that it wasn’t very pleasant to witness. His description makes it seem as if I have been gone for much longer than what I sensed was under a minute. Apparently the owl started by carefully removing the cat’s spinal cord and then, after eating it bit by bit, swallowed the rest of the little creature in an unnatural fashion. I’m disappointed that I didn’t see this happen nor get any photos of the act.
– – –
I’m in a gorgeous lagoon of turquoise blue water with giant jagged boulders surrounding it. There’s a performance happening. My friend, Alice, is about to go on. Moments after she starts, she swims over to me and my brother, Bobby. She drags us into her show; in what appears to everyone else as a very rehearsed act — but it isn’t. We have no control over our movements, yet we are swimming in unison and weaving in and out of symmetrical patterns. It’s not frightening, in fact, it’s rather pleasant. This lasts about 15 minutes and we are greeted with some cheering when we are finished. ♨
I’m in my potential new, big apartment in an old building in Berlin. Someone tells me that the apartment is on the water. I cast a glance out of the window and I can see water. The sun is reflecting on a calm darkblue sea.
There’s a newspaper on the wooden table with a picture of our house in it. Through seeing this picture I realize the house is built on top of an old stone bridge. I look down through another window and realize that there is a muddy shallowly river below. The bridge is massive and broad, it seems to be stable, but I can’t figure where the water of the river can actually go through it. I know that there will be floods sometimes if we move into this apartment.
I’m talking to my future flatmate and he has a surprisingly deep voice. He then turns out to be another man.
I am on a beach island. Some special event is drawing the attention of thousands of religious people: there are monks, priests, and nuns, of various creeds, in different colored robes. Everyone was facing the shore, but now they are rustling about, perhaps preparing to leave. I missed whatever event transpired. I found a stack of tourist maps for the beach, on them is written the words “Caucasian Map”; there are two different kinds, one for 2010/11 and another for 2008/09. I grab the most recent, but I don’t keep it because it seems useless — in it there is only a photograph of the shoreline, and it’s not a very good photograph. I don’t understand what the map could possibly be for — it isn’t a birds-eye-view of the shoreline, just a snapshot. I put it back on the rack and weave my way through the countless robed people — though I don’t know where to. ♨