Waking Finnegan

“We are such stuff as dreams are made of, and our whole life is rounded with a sleep” ~ Shakespeare

My Photo
Name:
Location: zurich, Switzerland

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

Jeremy Irons Dream


Taking apart a Fed Ex box 'Too much packaging, dammit!'---inside it a strange contraption I'd ordered for my computer---it looks much too primitive tech, even gerrybuilt. Slathered over its entire surface is an afterthought coating of translucent waxy material and I say aloud and to myself: 'This could be a type of plastic, but could also be agar agar and edible---nothing will happen until I remove the coating'. But now it seems smaller; has shrunk since I'd first unwrapped it---now looking like the hybrid child of my video camera and an electrical current transformer. It has an overall boxiness, along with two wooden 'handles' for toting. Now I'm trying to get this surface coating scraped off with a metal kitchen spatula---now pulling apart the hinged handles and now I realize it's only a decoy housing for something else, because inside is a tiny brushed titanium or aluminum saucerian disk. Now puzzled as to where or why I'd ordered it. What do I do with it? What is it for? My computer? Is it dangerous? Where are the connectors? The disk is completely seamless; obviously designed for visual pleasure and so conclude it's a sculpture!' But now something's activating; a low whirring hum like a cooling fan is spinning, muffled---it's getting louder now; the pitch is now varying---rising and falling basso up through high 'c' as if it were singing some sort of metallic opera...alto, soprano, basso...and now a melody I vaguely recognize. It sounds like Mahler or maybe even R. Strauss---programmatic, romantic. But then it stops---dead silence---and something else is activating; a clicking, buzzing. My computer switches on. The screen is dull and dark but I see a sudden movement on the screenand it startles me; slowly an image is coming into view---a close-up---it's a man's face, icon-like, but then I see another movement---as the picture materializes, I see it's a man, and he's looking at me, physically, palpably right there and I know him--- but from where? He startles me completely by enunciating deeply and all the while smiling: 'Good evening my good man'. And now I realize it's Louis Raspa from Marshall High who's become Jeremy Irons. He starts to laugh and says: 'I know precisely what you are thinking. Is it any wonder? And have you any idea how far out they have really traveled with this technology sort of thing?' 'I too am a traveler'.

4 Comments:

Blogger Uncle Jack said...

save a life today,

thanks

Terri

2:01 PM  
Blogger finnegan said...

Whoever you are spam-posting here, stay the hell out. Go home. Be gone. Make yourself scarce. Adios.

2:32 PM  
Anonymous Dr. Pants said...

Nice entry... Just don't take too many goofballs while writing. Then the keyboard will start to melt..

Just added you to my links section.

3:50 PM  
Blogger finnegan said...

Thanks Dr. Pants. I'm getting drunk highballs right now in honor of the good Doctor Hunter.

How're you weathering the Norwegian ice blitz? Extra layers of fleecy discopants?

Btw, I'm linking your site as well.

4:20 PM  

Post a Comment

<< Home