Dreamings November 29th Edition

I’m in the back of a long, wood paneled classroom. Everyone is sitting at desks except me. I am riding a bike, tracing a small infinity symbol, a ∞, over and over again. The professor has white hair and glasses and droopy eyes. He looks vaguely like the colonel from Kentucky Fried Chicken.

He is pointing to a picture on the short end of the classroom. The picture is from behind a building, it looks vaguely like the Empire State Building. The view is looking downwards. It looks like it was taken from a helicopter. The building is in the foreground and it is full of people thrusting their heads out of their apartment windows. The people are smiling and waving. Behind the building there is a gigantic city, I can see people walking around. It looks almost like a magic eye poster, the city is moving, vibrating. The building is swaying with joy.

I’m looking at this picture and flipping my neck around every few seconds because I’m still doing ∞ loops with my bike.

And then I realize it’s not a picture or a poster. It’s a window, a portal. And it’s happening in real time. The people are laughing and talking with one another. There is a ticker tape parade. The birds and mice are singing and dancing around like in Cinderella.

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The portal blurs a little and then refocuses.

The building bursts into flames…

I whip my head around after a turn……

The people are flinging themselves out of their windows, and stabbing their neighbors……

I whip my head around again…….

Behind and beneath the building, a desert opens up and envelopes the city below. Some building remain, but it is mostly a ghost town. There is blood everywhere.

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The professor approaches me quickly- I imagine he saw the expression on my face- and throws a pair of small, wire spectacles on my face. The window goes back to the euphoric scene I saw before. I rip the glasses off and stop my bike. I alternate between taking the glasses off and putting them on. The joy and the armageddon alternate.

One one loop of the infinity, I take off charging towards the front of the classroom. I ride my bike through the picture. And fall.

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I hit the ground hard but still upright on the bike. My butt is bruised from the the fall, but everything is together. I cruise down my block in San Diego. It is nighttime and the lights are shimmering. My bike gleams in the dark, it is sparkling blue with spots of gold and silver.

I ride up my driveway and see the old willow tree arching over the roof. It’s branches hang low and loose over the entryway and the willow looks as if it is delicately embracing the house. The tree is trying to offer some protection, but looks silly doing so. I picture a hunched, elderly man with a walker desperately shielding an infant from an unknown assailant. The willow is scared as it places itself between attacker and the infant.

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I knock on the door, expecting my mother to be there. Instead, she opens the door.

She is excited, but nervous, to see me. She looks around furtively and asks why I didn’t call. I seem to reflexively respond to her without opening my mouth. She can read my thoughts and I am powerless to stop her. I try to slam the door to my brain shut, but she forces her way in. She pokes around and knows exactly what I know.

Her fiancee emerges from the darkness of my old house and wraps her with his tanned, cabled arms. With his arm around her stomach and his breath in her ear, I remember when I used to be attached to that arm. I remember when I used to be that breath.

She looks about and waits for my question, despite knowing what I will ask even before I do.

I ask to come in and sit down for a while.

My kitchen and dining room look exactly how I remember them. Light bounces off the wood floors and off of my grandfather’s treasured clock he received for excellence as a professor at Boston University. The faded LP cases are there, and the purple and green dining room chair upholstery stares me in the face. The table is infested with termites, brittle, decaying. I used to eat breakfast there everyday before school, reading the sports section of the San Diego Union Tribune.

She is sitting on the couch with her companion. My couch. They are cuddling together, watching a parade out of the windows. There are elephants in my backyard and frightening clowns. They seem to be endlessly circling my swimming pool. Every know and then, it appears some member of the parade, an animal trainer or a fourth-chair clarinet player, gets pushed into the pool and is immediately eaten by sharks. The swimming pool has lost it’s chlorine-tinted hue and is a pit of tar and blood. The sharks periodically thrash about. Every time a parade member is pushed in, it boils and overflows onto the deck.
She and her lover invite me to lay down on the loveseat, next to the couch. They are stroking one another’s thighs and amorously kissing. I recline and position my gaze away from their affections, but every once in a while, one of them loudly moans. I lay there for a long time. All the while, I can feel her- as she is making out with her lover- inside my thoughts. She knows I am thinking about her. I am overcome with jealousy, yet I remain on the loveseat next to them.

The doorbell rings and beautiful women are in the entryway. They are wearing revealing costumes. There is a policewoman in a short skirt, a devil in a low-cut dress, a ghost in a see-through top. I realize it is Halloween.

They invite me to go with them, and I look back to Her. She indicates that I can find the candy next to the door, then quickly nuzzles her face in her partners neck.

I slowly grab the box, and find that is full of square pieces of foil-wrapped objects each about the size of a photo album. Each piece of candy weighs an immense amount. I can pick them up, but I quickly lose my grip. The foil glimmers as I struggle to lift each one and the costumed women laugh scornfully. They quickly withdraw their offer for me to accompany them.

I am unable to lift the large candies long enough to give any to the trick-or-treaters. They are frustrated and back away, thanking me for my efforts.

The enamored lovers hardly notice as I walk back unsuccessfully towards the couches.

The doorbell rings again, and She looks at me to get the door. More trick-or-treaters appear, and they are all once again beautiful women. A different group. Their same offer to escort them is extended and I decline once more. Again, I cannot lift the heavy, laptop-shaped candies. I look back for some offer of assistance from the pair on the couch, but find none available.

This scene repeats dozens of times throughout the night.

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And then, as I’m laying down, another portal opens up. My bike reappears and I ride through the picture. I look back at Her as I plunge over the edge. I fall silently, the air is cool and dry. There is a smell of dew and honeysuckle in the air. Trees rush by as I look up at Her face quizzically peering over edge at my plummeting figure. Her face is the last thing I see before I wake up.

And had everything necessary to the Modern Man,
A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire.
Our researchers into Public Opinion are content
That he held the proper opinions for the time of year;
When there was peace, he was for peace:  when there was war, he went.
He was married and added five children to the population,
Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his
   generation.
And our teachers report that he never interfered with their
   education.
Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd:
Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.

From The Unknown Citizen -W.H. Auden