Waking Finnegan

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

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Location: zurich, Switzerland

Monday, March 07, 2005

Rice Cracker Dream


Looking through Tages Anzeiger classifieds with Cécile---everything written in dialect because too many umlauts---looking for little homes in Ticino or Vaud, but prices way too high. Dreams of future happy lake views with juicy vinyards, whirlygigs and windchimes all down the drain now---she says Swiss are up in arms about beaucoup rich Americans having left because safe-tax haven and too many babies from swarthy-types now making demands for bigger roads and more American amenities, Costco, Walmart, Burger King and I can see those names standing out from the text in angry bold. She's angry and throws the paper at me and I'm limp, defeated.

Poking through big impressive raku bowl---frustrated with Japanese rice crackers mixed up with potato chip shards---can't stand the bad visual aesthetic. Need to get those chips out. Sudden rustling sounds. Snow outside. I'm nervous. Who's there? I wait. Then slowly put the bowl...coffee table. What's that sound? Need to move carefully towards floor lamp across the room; turn it off, because my shadow---my silhouette. Tiptoeing slowly...crunch...what this? Oh Jesus the cracker chip chunks...all over the floor! I don't remember spilling. I get down low; spying for more rustling noises....there! Now I hear it coming on louder. It keeps...is that scratching? Moving slowly towards the lamp now, chipshards clinging. Feet feel sticky. Something's wrong---little holes pierced. Blood. Reach back to pick out pieces still careful not to make a sound. Face down low now looking for glints of glass and oh jesusmoses, there's an archipelago of crackerglass all the way to the lamp! I stop to pick out snacks and slivers, but the light not showing...too far away; can't see. Wiping the blood with the floor rug but blood oozes from invisible seams. Something is wrong with my right heel, it's much too soft and pliable. No heel bone. Thick silicone. I feel queasy. I don't care now about the sound outside. My foot! What? How? I walk around and it's definitely not right. I stomp and now my whole foot...but the ankle...how am I able to stand up? I move gingerly; closer to the lamp with tiny stickyblood slits and I know it with a sickening dread 'If I don't keep moving my foot will scab to the floor'.






4 Comments:

Anonymous heather said...

this is wonderful

10:05 AM  
Blogger finnegan said...

Why thanks Heather! Very nice of you.

2:22 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Very strange and shardy and sticky, in keeping with my day, I love it. Think your writing is incredible and beautifully strange and disturbing.

2:25 PM  
Blogger finnegan said...

What was it...let the chips fall where they may? Or am I mangling idoms here?

2:28 PM  

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