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A friend told me about a dream she had and I told her “what a great story!” Well, I don’t know if I’m up to the great part, but I decided to attempt writing my imagined version of it. When I showed her this version she said, “that’s not my dream!” Of course, I realized that in a dream one is often in a situation fraught with feeling, anxiety and fear — if it’s that kind of dream. In dreams however, there are often few narrative links — one simply jumps from one situation to the next, the tension ratchets up, but the linkages are vague and unimportant. In trying to write it up as a story however, one usually has to provide some thread, some plausible sequence of events, even if the events are fantastic. So, I made myself the lead character and threw in some elements from my own life to make it more “real”.
Part I
I go to Macy’s to get a new winter coat, as mine is falling apart. The old coat was a thrift store Russian army number that was double breasted, tailored and incredibly warm — well, you’d expect no less from the Russian army. They may have lost a lot of men in WWII, but at least they knew how to keep them warm. Maybe it was the dense, thick and tightly woven wool that did it. I had worn it for ten years or more, and earlier in the day, after reaching up above my head I heard the sound of seam behind the right sleeve ripping. I looked under my arm — it was a big rip, not just a little loosening of the seam. It was time.
I decide to wear the old coat to the store and then just toss it in a trash receptacle once I get a new one. I enter on 7th Ave through a group of doors above which is written “Men’s Store”. Inside, down a few steps, there are shirts and suits hanging along diagonally arranged racks — not what I’m looking for. Oddly, despite needing to get to my office for a meeting in an hour, I suddenly feel in no particular rush. Something about the decor and layout of these large stores has the clever effect of inducing instant relaxation and distraction. Though I have no need for any of the shirts or jackets surrounding me, I thought why not look around and check out what’s on offer. I’m here, so I might as well see what’s around for that day when I do need a shirt or jacket, right? Maybe they put something in the air that puts one in a pleasant shopping trance? Maybe there are subtle frequencies in the muzak that make one forget all the cares of the day? Maybe it’s the lighting or the lack of windows.
After wandering around a bit, I spot an escalator going down. From my vantage point, I can see some sportswear and some puffy coats on a rack down there. That’s where I might find my new coat.
The floor layout in this massive store is staggered, with those departments closer to 6th Ave or Broadway a half floor higher or lower than the area in which I am standing. Separate banks for escalators are therefore needed to serve these slightly different levels. The staggered levels also means that one can’t see the entire length of any floor; even if the displays and escalator banks weren’t in the way, the varying floor levels would still make it impossible. The visual horizon is constantly broken up, fragmented, surely contributing to the pleasant, trance-like effect of disorientation.
I remember that one particular bank of escalators near the center of the store is the wooden type and must have been installed when the devices were first invented. Those old escalators make a distinct sound, a soft, wooden, clunking clatter, like someone playing a piano busily, but gently — so gently that the strings are never hit. You just hear the sounds of the wooden mechanics, the levers and keys knocking and clunking. A giant, wooden prepared piano. The mechanical oil within these escalators has worked its way into the wood over the years, making it soft and smooth — that, and the wear of millions of hands, shopping bags, shoes and strollers has rounded all the edges. It’s a beautiful contraption.
I see some ski coats on a rack and soon realize that they’re all large, extra large, and extra, extra large. I usually think of myself as a medium size, so will they be too big? It must be the influence of hip-hop fashion, that everything now should be baggy and large. Actually, one of the large size coats seems to fit OK — I’m not totally lost in it. So, I carry it along as I wander to see what else might be available. There is a similar model with an interior pocket for an iPod. The pocket even has a window, and just by pulling down the zipper a bit you can see what song is playing. But it’s not as thick a coat as the first. Other coats have outer shells and some cover the upper legs. Combined with the large size and puffy style, these latter coats are like small houses. I stick with my first choice. As I pay for my selection, the saleslady asks me if I might have lost a coat. Maybe she noticed that I wasn’t wearing one (I left my old one on a shelf). She said she had seen it and was going to see if someone was missing a coat, but I said, yeah, I’m just going to throw it out. She said she thought it was a woman’s coat, as it is tailored and slim.
Out of curiosity, I wander some more through the coat department and eventually go up another set of escalators that for some reason don’t bring me back to the men’s dressy shirts department. There are some glass cases with moisturizers and fragrances here, and some staff wanting me to sample a few. That’s OK, I’ll pass on the smells, but as I now have a few minutes, I decide I can just wander freely. I am sure that I have simply found myself on one staggered level and I’ll see a familiar department sooner or later.
I go up another series of escalators, which means, as usual, that I have to walk around to the rear of the escalator I’d just come up. This one is entirely stainless steel and makes a slight hissing sound as I pass between floors. I am now in camping supplies, which I didn’t even know Macy’s carried. In the distance, I can see tents and two mannequins in hiking gear. In the other direction, some carpets are piled up, and behind them larger carpets lean against each other, upright, rolled in pairs and in rows, like pillars in a temple. I look at one carpet that seems to have a strange, non-repeating pattern made of swirls. The swirls are almost tiled, and copied all over the surface, except each one is subtly different. The salesman said these are new, from Thailand of all places. He says the pattern variations are computer aided and are based on video game decor. An algorithm is used to help create natural looking textures that don’t look as though they’d been stamped out or actually made by machine. Ingenious.
I realize I’d better be going if I am to make my downtown meeting, so I ask where to find the nearest escalator bank. On the floor below, I don’t see the glass cases I’d seen there earlier, but as these stores are so big and fragmented, I don’t think anything of it. There’s a gaggle of elderly salesladies over by some new microwaves, so I ask them if they know how to get to the men’s store and they say no, they usually come in by the other entrance.
I walk past the appliances and down a few steps to the staggered lower level, but it still doesn’t look familiar. Over on some plastic folding chairs, a young couple holds hands while their kids chase each other through the lawn furniture. They both look tired, as if they’ve been shopping all day. Beyond the garden supplies, I see a man pushing a cart filled with boxes, so I head that way.
By the time I get to where he was, I can see him disappearing into a couple of service personnel swinging doors. I walk over and poke my head in there and a woman inside tells me this area is for service only. I ask about the men’s department again and she says she only works on this floor, back here, so she doesn’t know about that floor.
It is getting later, so I quicken my pace and decide the safest bet is to retrace my steps as best I can, even though it means going up and then down again. I go back through the lawn chairs and up the steps, but can’t see the escalators I’d remembered taking from the floor above. Those escalators had promotions for the upcoming Valentine’s Day sales, but these ones don’t. Oh, well — I go up them anyway.
I hope to see the carpets at least, but there’s only a few little throw rugs, and those temple columns don’t seem to be near here. Really strange. I see a woman with a checklist in her hand and ask her where the large carpets might be and she says, down there, just past the bookstore, and she points over to the right, around a corner.
Bookstore?! There’s a bookstore here? Whatever. I have no choice but to trust her so I head in that direction. I turn the corner on the right, but still don’t see any bookstore. I glance back to see if she was still there, but she’s gone. I think I see her checklist lying on a counter, but I can’t be sure from this distance if it is in fact hers. Ahead of me is another set of escalators, and I think, why not? I go up another flight just in case I’ve miscounted or the staggered floors threw me off. There are the Valentine posters, finally, but this is not the same escalator bank, I can tell by the sound.
I find myself on a floor that seems to be a chaotic clutter of boxes, service carts and merchandise from a lot of other departments. There are a couple of upright vacuum cleaners and some decorative bottles of bath salts piled on a cart. I hear a noise behind some of the boxes and glance over. A young man, who, by the looks of it, probably doesn’t work in the store, is rummaging through a pile of pillows. He is dressed in a nice shirt and pants, but the shirt isn’t tucked in and it sort of looks like he slept in it. He eventually finds a bolster down at the bottom and yanks it loose from the others. When he stands up he sees me looking at him and begins to quickly walk away with his prize. I say excuse me, but he pretends not to hear and he walks away a little faster. He disappears behind some other unopened boxes.
I look around, but there doesn’t seem to be any sales help on this floor. I head in the direction of the young man. More boxes, some opened, some thrown haphazardly in piles. A table lamp lies on the floor. A mattress leans against a washer/dryer, its plastic cover partly removed. I see another escalator bank behind a group of dressers, so I walk a little towards it. Now I can hear voices coming from the floor above — they sound like an elderly couple. The closest escalator is going down, so I circle round to the other side and go up to where I think the couple must be.
I don’t see them, but I hear a different set of voices on the right, just beyond a display of plastic shower curtains. I part some of the curtains and see that someone has set up a rudimentary living situation on the other side. There are some books and a toaster oven on a bedside table, and a a sheet and blanket thrown across a mattress. On some white bookshelves are jars of peanut butter and gourmet crackers. A small tub of olive spread and a tin of fois gras lay half eaten on a cushion. Have I somehow wandered into the service area where the workers and staff make themselves at home? I don’t remember going through any doors. I hear the elderly couple again and drop the shower curtain and head back towards the sound of their voices.
Jim is a man of about seventy, who, like the young man I’d seen among the pillows, wears a natty new suit, and he too looks like he’s been sleeping in it. There are a few stains on his pant legs, and a pair or scissors and a small kitchen knife stick out of his pocket. Likewise, Meg is dressed in a crisp new outfit that seems lightly askew and has a torn hem. She wears brand new running shoes and carries an extremely stuffed pocketbook over her shoulder. It doesn’t make sense. They seem too old to be staff, but what else would they be doing here?
“Hello. Do you folks know if there are any elevators here?”
“Not working” said Jim.
“Hmmm. Well, I seem to be lost. Can you point me towards an exit? Any exit?”
Jim looks at Meg. He extends a slightly grimy hand.
“Jim Forester. Hello there. This is Meg.” He motions to the woman.
Meg nods a little nod of acknowledgement and sits down on a box.
“I think I’m lost, can you give me directions?”
Jim looks at me and walks over to the down escalator. He motions with his head that I should follow.
“Down there” he says, peering at the floor below. “I think it’s down there.”
“Thanks,” I say, though I was kind of hoping for something a little clearer in the way of directions. “See you.”
“See you,” says Jim.
I go down a couple more floors on escalators that all seem slightly different from one another. There is one with pounded tin patterns on the sides, and another has large Ms on each step, formed out of variations in the metal grooves. Some of the grooves are partly filled with what looks like food remnants. I try to avoid stepping on these. I arrive at a floor where there is a gourmet deli, and I see two Asian men trying to open a can of spicy beans. The food stuck in the escalator stairs must be from here. I wonder if the staff is aware that customers are opening food packages. I approach the guys, but they don’t speak English, so I move on, looking for someone else. I see a large red headed salesman over by some flat screen TVs. He is watching a Bruce Willis movie playing on four different screens.
“Hi. I think, well, I know I’m lost. Can you give me directions?”
“To where?”
“I need to go out, to the exit. 7th Ave would be best, but whatever.”
Bruce Willis is being chased by a bunch of cop cars. Red presses pause on his remote.
“Oh, OK, you need to get over to the fashion levels. This is electronics.”
“Are those nearby?”
“Sort of. They’re on level three. Did you see those escalators?” He cocks his head towards where I’d come from.
“Uh huh.”
“Take those to level three and ask someone there — they’ll help you.”
He punches the remote and Bruce Willis’s car slides across an intersection scattering a bunch of Christmas decorations.
“Thanks.”
I head off. Now we’re getting somewhere, but now I am getting a little worried. I pull out my cell phone. Maybe I can get my office to postpone my meeting, as for sure I am going to be late. “All circuits are busy, try again in a few minutes.” Damn! Well, maybe I’ll get through when I get to the third floor.
I go down a couple of flights and don’t see any signs indicating which floor I’m on. There are children’s clothes here. Could these be fashion, sort of? I ask a woman who is holding a coffee maker that isn’t in a box. What is she doing with it in this department?
“Hi. Do you know where the fashion department is?”
“Uh hmmm. That’s the third floor, I think.”
Oh shit, I think.
“What floor is this?” I ask.
She looks around, a little startled. “I think this is seven.”
“Really?” I am stunned. Have I come up that far?
“I think so,” she says. But she doesn’t sound too sure.
“OK, thanks.” I figure even if this isn’t seven, the third floor must be down a little more, so I circle around to the down escalators.
On the floor below, the lights seem to be flickering and it seems to be mostly filled with kitchen furniture: tables, armoires, counters and cutting blocks. I continue down. It must be getting late, but there are never any windows in these places so it’s hard to tell how much time has passed. They design them that way, like casinos. At first it felt good to have the world shut out in here, but now I’ve had enough. With all this tromping around, up and down, my new winter coat is getting pretty hot, so I take it off and carry it over my arm.
The next floor has some beds and sofas. I sit down on a beige settee for a second and try the phone again. “That number has been changed…” How could I have misdialed my own office? I try again. It just rings and rings this time, no one answers. Someone must be there. It can’t be after six yet, can it? I look at my watch — 6:15. Damn. I’ve been in here for two hours now? Is that possible? Whew. This sofa’s pretty comfortable.
I didn’t realize I’d been asleep until I wake up and look at my watch. It is eleven at night. Nothing has changed; the lights are still on everywhere, as bright as ever. I’m getting kinda hungry. That gourmet foods section might not be such a bad idea. Nah. This is crazy. You’re probably just a couple of floors or levels away from fashion and the exit. Funny, no one has called.
I go down a couple more floors and still no sign of men’s wear or fashions of any sort. This floor is tools and hardware. I’ll have to remember that in case I need to get one of those cans open, I joke to myself. There doesn’t seem to be any sales staff around. Well, it’s almost midnight! No wonder!
I decide I must have wandered over to some other section of the store at some point early on. So rather than going down any more flights in this section, I decide to explore horizontally. Maybe there will be something familiar, or a bank of escalators different from that on which I came down. Who knows? I pass some refrigerators and freezers. Further on, lawnmowers and leaf blowers.
Wait. Is that another set of escalators over there? Yeah! I run on over. This could be good. It’s strangely quiet. When I reach the escalators they’re not moving. Oh well, that’s OK. I’ll just go down a flight or two and see if anything is familiar. Clunk, clunk. It’s always a weird feeling walking up or down these things when they’re not moving. The steps are oddly spaced and one’s feet hit awkwardly.
The floor below is filled with sports shoes. Did I pass these before? Or was that dress shoes? Or was it children’s running shoes? Whatever. I realize that now my feet are getting tired and a little sore, so maybe a pair of these shoes wouldn’t be so bad right now. There are some new Nike models that look like they have plenty of support, but the design is pretty damn wacky. The Reebok’s are a little less show off-y, so I opt for a pair of those. At least the black ones won’t look so weird with what I’ve got on.
Shit! Fuck! All the shoes on display are in small sizes — they must seem less imposing, more elegant, less like small boats that way? Is that the idea? Or is it so no one will steal them? Am I going to have to find the stockroom around here in order to find my size? Well, I guess so, why not?
There’s a door behind the cashier’s desk — that must be it. Oh my God. It’s a warren of shelves and boxes. Huge piles of tossed empty shoeboxes from people who wanted to wear their new shoes home. Home? Some people must have actually gotten out of here! I’m still joking, I think. I have no idea how the sizes and models are organized back here. Wait. OK. Here’s some organized by size. Look. That’s a 9 ½ — that’s my size. What kind of shoe is that? I pull one of the boxes. Model 7732-Zephyr. Oh, it’s one of those design-y Nike ones. Well, that’s OK. What the hell.
I try it. It fits pretty well, and it’s REALLY comfortable. Whatever. This will at least stop my feet from aching. I’m gonna look all mismatched, like Jim and Meg, but whatever.
With my new shoes all laced up, I decide, what the hell, I’m hungry; I’ll head up to that gourmet food area, if I can even find it again. I find one bank of escalators and begin my ascent. It doesn’t seem that familiar, but then I’m not sure what I’ve seen or where anymore. I wander a floor again. Yes. There’s another set of escalators over there — I must have come down on those, right? Maybe? Worth a try anyway.
These escalators aren’t moving now either, and going up all these floors is getting pretty exhausting. I know I should think it’s free exercise, but it’s pretty late and I’m hungry.
Oh my God! There it is. I’ve actually found that gourmet food section. Whew. Weird. A lot of the packages seem to be missing. There are gaps on the shelves. Mostly cans and stuff that need cooking fill the shelves. Hmmm. OK. Here are some beans. Oh yeah, no opener. Ummm. Hey. Back there, behind that box. Ahh. Some crackers. Way the hell back there. I reach way in and can’t really see where I’m reaching then I suddenly hear a sound from what must be the other side of the shelves. I jump back. What the hell! “Is somebody there?” I yell. I slowly edge towards the crackers, but they don’t seem to be there anymore. “Hey! Those were my crackers!” I head to the end of the aisle to run around and see if there is someone one the other side. I hear a sound again. Someone — with my crackers I guess — runs around the corner and disappears.
(To Be Continued)
I’m in a shopping mall, in the food court. From around the corner, some distance away, I can hear the sound of throbbing rock and roll guitars. No distinct rhythm or melody, just a low ominous churning rock and roll growl, getting slightly closer. The others in the food court seem to know what it is, and they stand up, abandon their half eaten chicken salads and burritos, and begin running in the opposite direction of The Rock and Roll Monster.
I do the same, but being unfamiliar with what it is, I have what I think is a smart idea. I head into a boutique and run in and out between the racks and display cases towards the staff entrance in the back. I go in, and sure enough there is a hallway that leads to stairs I can take down and out of the building. The stairs lead to a small alleyway, where a few of us convene. We breathe sighs of relief — we’re free and clear. Whew. I guess we outsmarted that thing, whatever it was. I never even saw it.
Now, somehow, I’m back in the food court or some other public part of the mall. Once again I hear the ominous thrum getting closer and louder. Some people run, but I’m too slow this time. Here it comes from around the corner. It’s twisting and turning, snaking down the central aisle, like a giant serpent. It seems to be an endless tube of clear plastic, about four feet in diameter, and filled with giant versions of either those translucent cups you get at a water cooler, or the ones you get when giving a urine sample. Only these cups are so large they almost fill the writhing plastic tube, arrayed one behind the other. It’s as if it is some weird, enormous intestine made for a school science project, but on a too-large scale. It has that homemade, ad hoc, do it yourself vibe. But it wriggles and slithers as if it is alive.
Somehow, in this dream, I am terrified, but I am also aware that the Rock and Roll Monster takes many forms, and all of them share this quality of looking homemade and rudimentary, yet somehow animated, these pedestrian objects coming to life.
A bird flew into my home/studio yesterday. Not that surprising, I guess, it happens in NY now and then…except the little incident was somehow like a dream. It was a little finch (?) sparrow (?) and the window was only a little bit, a very little bit, open. (The loft is not a big veranda with large floor to ceiling windows so it’s not an indoor/outdoor space.) I was over in the music studio nook working, looking the monitor, and talking on the phone, when I noticed the little creature a couple of meters away, very close, and looking at me. We glanced at one another, and then it flew back to the ledge in the “living space” near the open window, hesitated a moment, then flew back out the window. (In my past experiences birds indoors have become trapped, confused, flying against window panes frantically — but this one knew its way out and in a moment it was gone.) How did this one instantly know its exit? It was like a little “Hello, I’m with you, I’m aware of you, you’re O.K.” and then, perfunctorily, gone, goodbye. Isn’t the bird a symbol of the soul in paintings? Is it crazy to project a real event as if it were a dream event?
I immediately thought, what it the symbolism here? Was this a good sign? A visitation? Did I see this? Did it really happen? Is the bird in a house a soul come to say hello? My own soul? Is it good luck? Bad luck? An omen? A message? A messenger? A metaphor? O.K., it might sound crazy to read so much into a random unexpected occurrence — it’s simply an odd NY thing — but the incursion of “nature”, the wild, the beautiful and fragile, into the urban workspace is so unexpected (my loft is 6 flights up.) It did seem like a dream image, a symbolic metaphorical image, come to life.
Here to meet with the McSweeney’s folks about our long-discussed plan to do a book of the “tree” drawings. As often happens, in two separate meetings we got sorted what had been languishing for at least a year, with various e-mails going back and forth. It’s going to be called Arboretum, appropriately, and will be simple looking, though making things look simple and straightforward is never as easy as it seems.
826 Valencia was buzzing — there were writing classes in progress, people milling about the pirate supply store up front and the tiny back office that amazingly manages Believer, McSweeney’s and now Wholphin (the DVD magazine) was filled with activity and the desks were overflowing.
This bunch has good ideas — their comments and suggestions are spot on — we plan on the book hitting stores and other outlets Aug–Sept this year.
It was raining, but the next day the weather cleared up and this city sparkled with that crystalline Northern California light that makes everything pop out with hard edges. The folding bikes came in handy, though due to the X-mas plane traffic Continental charged for overweight coming here and a surprise “bike charge” ($80!) returning. This has never ever happened to me before. I think the X-mas spirit vaccine didn’t take on the airline check-in folks — they’re probably totally overworked this season. (The “bike charge” must have been meant for people who don’t have folding bikes; the airlines sometimes add a charge for wrapping a whole bike in cardboard, understandably. But these were in suitcases, so the rule was inappropriately applied. Ahem.)
There’s lot to see between meetings — Robert Adams’ sad but chaotic and beautiful photos of clear-cutting and Kiki Smith’s retrospective at SF MoMA and two lovely pieces by British artist Cornelia Parker at Yerba Buena Center for the Arts. One piece was made of the remains of a church struck by lighting, the other of a church burned by arson.
Here’s a picture:
And a short interview: BF: Obviously with Cold Dark Matter: The Exploded View, you actually blew up a building which was probably scarier for everybody but you. What was the motivation for that?
CP: I had done the piece with the steamroller-Thirty Pieces of Silver-and the piece with the train running over coins — Matter and What it Means. I was thinking of different ways of killing something off. I think the explosion was another clichéd cartoon death. At the time I was living in a house that was due to be knocked down for a motorway in a few months time, but it kept getting postponed for another six months and so on for almost ten years. I think because of living for such a long time with this constant threat of demolition that is where the steamroller and explosion ideas came from. But it wasn't a home I blew up; it was just a garden shed, a surrogate. It's another British institution, the garden shed.
BF: It feels more like J.G. Ballard than T.S. Eliot somehow, doesn't it? It has more of that kind of wit.
CP: I think it came from all kinds of places. It's a modern condition: the threat of bomb scares, and the fear it symbolizes. From seeing explosions on the news and all the time in films you sort of think you know what they are, but really your firsthand knowledge of it is very limited. I realized I'd never walked through the detritus of a bombed-out building.
BF: It's almost like you believe things are animated. Or that they're potentially animated. That they're sitting there still but if you do something to them then they're going to be animated.
CP: I like the life/death resurrection bit, which is very Catholic, something dies, but it's resurrected in another form.
Then there are the restaurants. Admittedly a foodie thing to do — but this seems to be the place that has become a center for food tourism — the produce is so fresh and it’s served in mostly casual unpretentious settings and mixed in imaginative combinations — it’s a gut-busting, wallet-thinning kind of place for a visitor. The Slanted Door, Delphina, Foreign Cinema, Luna Park, Blue Plate, San Juan Taqueria, El Farolito Taqueria, Blowfish Sushi, Greens, Zuni and Liberty Café. Most of these are in or near the Mission district, which was convenient to the hotel and to 826 Valencia, but there are many many more. Every one a winner. Not always cheap — for being in a sometimes-funky neighborhood some of these mission joints have uptown gourmet prices, but the food quality and relaxed vibes are better than many fussy uptown hoity-toity places.
Saturday is a day off so we take a bike ride with Dave Eggers in the Marin headlands. Load the bikes onto a MetroMuni bus, all of which have bike racks up front, and head across the bridge. After a little rain it turns into one of those gorgeous days that are such clichés to describe, so I won’t. There are bike trails all over the headlands and around western Marin, much of which has been left as National Forest, so there are hawks and vultures and mountain lions and seals.
With the brisk air and the mist it reminded me of the bleak but beautiful Scottish highlands, though the rain drizzles less often here.
Dream: Jerusalem Mobile
…a dream at night of a woman with very short salt and pepper hair whom I meet and we chat briefly in a field as we walk together…then we part…but I obsessively must see her again…I end up in Jerusalem, where I need to be according to some itinerary, and where I hope to find her…but at the border where I am detained a fire breaks out in one of the buildings where we’re being questioned…along with the crowd of Hasidic and other men (noticeably more relaxed and friendly than their NY counterparts) I rush out of the burning room, down some outdoor stairs, we’re all jostled and smooshed, and ominously I hear a crunch. I am wearing a yarmulke. I rush out, in the lead, through the immigration gate, followed by the others. Smoke and flames billow behind, I am clutching my (unstamped) passport…the guard waves me and rest quickly through…we pour into the streets.
I reach for my mobile to call this woman, only to find it has been crushed, and as I try to hold its pieces together to find her number it slowly crumbles and nasty chemicals leak onto my hands, Chinese characters appear briefly on the screen…all I want is the last number I dialed, which was hers, but the phone is disintegrating in my hands. I imagine I will lose the love of my life. A feeling of desperation.
I save the SIM chip and some other parts and determine that maybe if I buy a new phone and insert my memory chip then I will be able to call her, as I have her number in there — and she lives here.
…
Had dinner with another ex-Talking Head, Jerry Harrison and his wife Carol, who are just back from the massive Consumer Electronics show in Vegas. Jerry won a whole bunch of awards for his and ET’s surround sound mixes of the Talking Heads re-releases, so he’s suddenly a tech expert in that area as well as being a successful record producer. He therefore gets invited to these kinds of confabs and we discussed the news reports about the IT companies jostling for positions in the upcoming convergence of TV with the Internet.
Some reports imply the creation of a two-tiered internet — one fast enough for TV streaming and the other like what we have. Naturally the high speed one would be proprietary — you’d have to pay to get on in — so the Internet would only be partly free, and just as Apple used to offer free viewing of music videos but now charges, little by little the corporations will find ways to lock up and charge for the world wide web.
Jerry says there are lots of fiber optic cables laid down that are unused, or not used to anywhere near their capacity. And that the dot com crash hurt the backers of this infrastructure more than it did anyone else, as they never even got their stuff truly up and running. Now might be the second chance.
Last night I watched a part of a nature documentary (The Trials Of Life) that featured leaf-cutter ants. Their behavior is, to me, pretty bizarre. They carry the huge leaf bits that they have gnawed off for considerable distances, then clean them and take them into their nest, where smaller ants take the bits into the larder. The leaf bits are inoculated with a specific mold, allowed to ferment. And the spore balls are what is eaten. The leaves themselves are inedible.
Anyway, the ant specialization was the impressive part. The littlest ants, members of the same colony, are the size of grains of sand — they never ever leave the underground area tunnels. Neither, of course, does the queen, who in this case is as big as a mouse! Other ants’ sole job is to keep her clean. Others’ sole job is to catch the eggs when they ooze out of her backside and to gently take them to the nursery:
Soldier ants with huge jaws protect the colony, biting any intruder on the surface, locking their jaws and hanging on even if their bodies are separated from their heads. As with all ants, each one’s function and body and will in life is determined by what they are fed as grubs — their makeup and job is then fixed, and cannot ever be changed.
Then after watching the documentary I had the following dream:
I’m in a place with some business people. Sort of a furnished apartment, seventies style carpet and sofa. Big picture window. Unknown to my host, or at least unknown to him during our previous encounter, some of his visitors — a group who mysteriously keep to themselves and seem very single-minded — have invented a kind of “dry water”.
This is apparently a sensitive subject and a big secret, and though I can’t describe what it is, it is obviously something very special. I somehow get wind of its existence, or suss it out somehow. I tell my host of my discovery, though he doesn’t believe me. Ah, but he believes me now, now that the true nature of the visitors is becoming apparent.
These visitors also have with them some docile humanoids. Also businesslike in appearance. Given a command, these “zombies” attempt to commit suicide in sometimes preposterous ways. Awkwardly sawing at their own arms near the shoulder with a huge saw, their bodies awkwardly contorted, trying to both hold the saw and reach high up the arm. There is no blood and these serious though bizarre attempts never seem to amount to anything. But they are taken at face value and seem very serious. We are all very impressed.
For some reason this makes these compliant humanoids (they don’t speak or act on their own) feel sort of dangerous, even though we have only witnessed them attempting to harm themselves — but the message is clear.
Later, I try to sabotage the visitors by surreptitiously pulling on some sort of levers that are in the partially curtained-off bar nook of the residence(?) where we all are. The levers are near the ceiling and at first they don’t see me pulling them, one by one, as I foil their latest demonstration, but eventually they can tell that something is amiss, they look around, and they catch me — the game is up. Bad.
I woke up, heart racing, in fear of a little virtual man I had created. He was like a green translucent Gumby, but shaped more like a generic men’s room figure. Thin, maybe an inch think, somewhat floppy, like a giant almost flat gummy worm person. It had no features or expression.
It was terrifying the way things are for inexplicable reasons in dreams. There was no clear threat or danger. Puzzling, too, that a virtual figure could have somehow taken on a life of its own, and equally terrifying was the knowledge that if I chopped or sliced it the pieces then, hydra-like, might multiply into more of the green men. It also seemed somehow a precursor to more virtual events and creatures “leaking” into the real world. Silently entering the world beyond the confines of the monitor. These leaks would be material, but not 100%. Like ghosts, it seems that — if this were indeed happening — the creatures would exist in some in-between world — a world partly of the makers’ imaginations and resulting computer iterations, and partly in a form in which those immaterial forms then take on lives of their own, independent of their creators — sort of as ideas do. If the forms visible on monitors are the result of the meeting of the operators’ imaginations and the algorithms that render them into visible shapes and forms then they are like representations of ideas. They are the physical manifestation of imaginings. And like all imaginings they have a life of their own. Yow.
Guardian U.K. — In a U.S. senate report it seems most of the illegal food for Oil money was actually being handled by the U.S., with government approval and sometimes even backing. So, criticisms of Kofi Anan and the Europeans will now seem awfully hypocritical, with 52 percent of the illegal arrangements being with the U.S. (This is virtually unreported in the U.S. press.)
U.S. military ask the people yet again to fund a star wars plan — lasers and rockets in space. In trial after trial since Reagan it has proved both unworkable, expensive, and impractical. But that’s in a “reality based” world, I forget. Looks like Baudrillard was right — a fictional reality trumps the evidence every time.
And then there’s the fact that it would completely upset any perceived balance of power — it’s about American Empire — complete and total hegemony. The world won’t be very happy about that.
Of maybe they know it will never work, and it’s all about pork barrel voter stuff — creating massive contracts for GE, GM, Westinghouse, Martin Marietta, etc.
And now there’s the Newsweek Koran flushing article that sparked riots and angry demonstrations across 10 cities in Afghanistan and others in Pakistan last week. (A former Guantanamo detainee described in Newsweek how U.S. military flushed the holy book down the toilet in an effort to humiliate prisoners.)
Interesting that this act, an act that wasn’t about physical or overt mental cruelty, should be the one that triggers the latent anger. I suspect this act — I have no doubt that it happened — is viewed as confirmation that the infidel Americans have no respect for Islamic thought, religion or peoples. That fairness, freedom, democracy and human rights are all lip service – and this proves it. More so than physical torture — which is expected and almost natural in wartime — this is like spitting on the deepest and most cherished beliefs of a whole segment of humanity. It proves, to them, that the Americans in their midst really are devils.
The fact that the Bush administration's reaction is to deny it, then to pressure Newsweek for a retraction, rather than to instantly apologize, shows how much they think it is possible to control the media and twist public perception away from “reality based” to pure fiction. That by saying something didn’t happen will make it go away. Didn’t Stalin used to try this? Will the images of U.S. politicians and businessmen embracing Saddam taken years ago be erased, as Stalin did?
I suspect the genie is out of the bottle. That as prisoners are released they will all confirm tales like this one, and that the rioting and anti-American fever will spread and increase in Indonesia, Syria, Turkey, Algeria, Malaysia… no one will believe the U.S. denials, the behavior is too consistent with other American stuff. Yikes.
Cassette copy dream — jotted down in April?:
A vision of a precious audio cassette that has to be listened to VERY carefully, with dedicated ears — and is very rewarding as a result. A second cassette tape, a copy of the first one, is slightly less delicate, though still somewhat fragile, but not quite as rich or deep and experience, and doesn’t require exclusive attention.
Our hotel, Paris, seems to be about romance and weddings. My daughter and I think that’s their theme. Or at least that’s one guess, as every hotel here has to have some gimmick — dancing waters, a shopping mall’s worth of shops, shark tanks, an erupting volcano, huge elaborate shows, major stars in residence — and other than the Queen musical (We Will Rock You) and a Filipino variety act (Lani Misalucha), this hotel seems mainly to be about simulating Paris.
The in-house cable channel that tells you what’s going on at the hotel is narrated by actors faking French accents. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what country they think they’re from. Lots of couples get married here — and have their photos taken with the Eiffel Tower as a backdrop. Women in wedding dresses float though the lobby and into the drive-up area. A romantic Parisian wedding without the hassle of dealing with foreigners, passports and possible gray skies — as here they’re almost always blue. There are brides trailed by photographers and family members everywhere.
The U.S. Army envisions a techie Star-Wars-Empire-style future for itself, including its own proprietary internet. All the easier for malicious hackers, “insurgents”, discontents, rebels and nuts to wreak havoc. Someone is making a lot of money and getting a lot in contracts from these boy toys. Here are the illustrations form the Times. Does George Lucas get a percentage?
A new government report places the “blame” for faulty intelligence about Iraq on the CIA. Blaming the messenger is an old trick — especially when the Bush administration didn’t want to even HEAR information that didn’t justify an invasion, and there was actually plenty of it. Data mining it is called — selecting information from whatever source justifies your position, and ignoring anything that might differ from it — that’s what the Bush crew did in the run-up to their invasion and now they are hoping to once again make the CIA their fall guy… but somehow manage to still avoid the issue of whether the U.S. should then, if there was actually no reason for invasion, actually apologize and pull out. Unbelievable. Especially if the U.S. media and public fall for it. And to think that the CIA is now appearing to be sort of the good guys here — not for giving faulty information, but for saying that they had their doubts about its authenticity and reliability.
Tom DeLay, the super visible Republican advocate for leaving the (sadly late) Florida Vegetable plugged in, unplugged his own dad years ago after he was seriously injured. Hypocrite? Sudden change of heart? Opportunist?
Dream:
Paul Simon and I are walking outdoors. In a city — New York, maybe. He has a weird bandage around his head, covering one side of his jaw, like those old cartoons of people with a toothache. When we near groups of people approaching he pulls up his shirt and covers his entire head — only one eye peeking out.
I ask him to “come up with something” and he somehow strikes up a percussive groove (on what? Not on guitar. Somehow the sound I hear is like congas, but there are none visible.) I catch the groove and begin to dance a weird step (surprise!) bouncing on alternating feet from side to side. Eventually I get the hang of it and we proceed down the sidewalk, me slightly in front, doing my boppy dance.
Paul compliments me on my dancing and I return the compliment: “well, that was a great groove.” Whereupon Paul relaxes and removes some of his head wrap to reveal a horrible elephant-man-like growth around his lower jaw and neck. It’s huge and fleshy, pendulous, pink. He tells me “it’s a goiter” — which may be true but I’ve never seen one like this. His voice is surprisingly normal sounding, which is incredible too, given all that stuff hanging off his jaw and throat.
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