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

Sunday, February 26, 2006

Argyle Dream (The Other Side)


This is the last part of the dream. Scroll down to Argyle Dream "This Side" and work your way up.

I'm trying to locate the front side of the sac---find out which way it's pointed---in case of a sudden spring. But rather than positioning myself defensively, I sit down, feeling weary---feeling drugged.

The hump has morphed into a staring face with hollowed-out eyes. The animated surface I'd noticed
earlier must have been some sort of gathering together of its features. That same movement, which had earlier seemed like a heaving womb about to give birth, is now motionless.

As I stare back at the mask I become fascinated by the strangeness of its expression. "Greek Theatre", I say to myself. "Like tragedy and comedy as one". "Why are these two expressions separate?" "And is this convergence what the Zo-onna Noh theatre mask signifies?"

I can hear a muted gong coming from below the floor. Is it a funeral? A play? Questions.

As I begin to pick up the mask, a massive, heaviness slams down on my neck and shoulders and manhandles me to my feet. It's him again.

Man ~ "Drop it".

When he lets me go I quickly drop to the floor and roll my right ankle, falling into a crippled heap. The man feigns to jump at me, and each time he does, I kick up reflexively. I know my ankle is seriously twisted, but I feel nothing.

He laughs derisively and straddles me like a giant.

Me ~ "Are you Paul Bunyan?" "Are you famous?" "Could I have your autograph?"

My queries seem to confuse him momentarily. While he's ruminating, I try to kung-fu kick at his crotch, but his balls are perched too high. (Here I'm wondering how break dancers gyrate so maniacally, and how if they could couple those spins with Bruce Lee's moves it would be the perfect martial art. And why hasn't anyone thought of this before? Inspired by all this I try to spin around, using my hands to get up to speed, but it's no use. I have no clue. I'm all crossed up.

Man ~ "You damned fool!". "That ain't break dancing---that's broke dancing!" (laughs)

Frustrated and embarrassed, I try doing "new and improved" moves, but as soon as I think I've got it, he begins jumping over and around me like a potent manchild endowed with feline flexibility and strength.

Intercom voice ~ "Why don't you leave his sorry ass alone?" "Show us the mask trick".

The man suddenly stops, turns, goes over to the mask, kneels down (as if in prayer) and slowly picks it up.

With his back to me (I'm able to witness his actions reflected in the two-way mirror) he begins slowly fondling the inside of the mask as though trying to build up some sort of static-erotic charge. He then begins to press it to his face, making lip-smacking noises and darting his tongue through the voids of its mouth and eyes. He's like a lecherous carnivore about to defile something innocent. Mashing and pressing the guise to his face, he works it until it begins to take on the ruddy features of his earlier self.

And then he slowly turns towards me---laughing hyterically through an expression that is neither mask-like nor human. "You are possessed! Stay away from me!"

I try to scramble to my feet but realize they're fast asleep and also injured. I bang on them violently, trying to wake them up. It this how it feels to be paralyzed?

He's upon me now and so in my panic I close my eyes and begin flailing, kicking and yelling in a desperate attempt to ward him off. But nothing.

I open my eyes, expecting to be face-to-face with him, but he's no longer in the room.
He's once again a silhouette in that room full of others behind the two-way mirror. He's throwing his arms up in halleluja gestures, mocking my gestures and the break-dancing kung fu self-defense---heehaws and chortling all around.

Me ~ "Fuckers!"

In the middle of the floor is a gaping hole much larger than the diameter of the sockeyed object. I crawl over to it on my hands and knees and peer over the edge. At the bottom appears to be an undulating mirror like a pool of mercury.

Needing to "test the water", I pull off my dead-to-the-world rubber foot and drop it in, watching it bob gently on the surface for a few moments before seeing it submerge.

Sunday, February 19, 2006

Argyle Dream (That Side Part 2)


"One sometimes realizes, after the event, that one's consciousness has caught something unexpected on its outer edge, as though the two things had somehow got superimposed".
~ Kenzaburo Oe

The white floor and swollen undulating hump forms a large and horizontal abstract eye. Is this a butcher's...a hospital...a morgue? The combination of clinical, hard-edged sauberkeit of the space coupled with the damaged flesh makes my sense of nakedness palpable.

But then I'm laughing up my sleeve about "that darned sockeye". My internal giggling about the pun triggers television canned laughter in the antechamber. I'm not sure whether I should be amusing myself or the others (?) beyond the two-way mirror. My sense of security feels intertwined with this thought.

The salesman's voice returns through the speakers---this time with an urbane tone. "We appreciate a mind like yours, sir. "You are the preferred sort of customer" We just need to ask you a few questions...would you mind our mind survey?"

More laughter all around---I feel as if this were a stage---as if I were being watched by a very large audience whose feed were being transmitted through a surveillance camera. Have they been watching everything all along? Is this some sort of reality t.v.? I don't detect any mounted cameras.

But what about the transformation of the Republican into posh and understated gent? He's the same man who had earlier threatened me. A mean and nasty hick.

Me ~ "Were you acting for reasons having to do with selling off all the farm equipment and dealing with surly customers?" "I know farmers everywhere are being devoured by agribusiness goliaths".

A sudden biblical breakage---renting through a narrow isthmus and inundating the Aborginal European Mud People and their sad flocks of bleating sheep. I see hoards of field-hollering sharecroppers, un-landed and unforgiven trailer trash with everyone trying to stave off Simon Legrees who'd come to make manifest their destiny---to up the land-snatching, speculating ante. They came to kill the ancient souls of those who didn't know the concept of a fence. Kill their souls. Kill their soles. Filetted soles. And I reflect on moccasins, Rubber Soul, rubber feet and that infernal eyesac.

The man doesn't answer me, and so I rant something to the effect of "John Barleycorn and his angry and drunken square-dancing is like a lost coyote. He's not Mr. Blues who has helped stave off heartless shits like yourself who've never even had a soul to sell to the Devil!" I let out a bigger torrent of incomprehensible ravings and in the end am breathless and confused. A silence follows where I realise everything I cherish might be taken; that he'll "get away with it" if I don't change tactics.

Me ~ "Was it me or you who made everything disappear earlier? What about the darned sockeye in the middle of the floor?" "Will you play a fair game here and answer me with honesty?"

Man ~ "You need to look more closely at your mind".

Me ~ "Is that lumpy thing my mind looking at me?"

Man ~ "Something like that. It's known as Past Judgement".

Me ~ "You mean there's something in my past it wants to clarify, or something it wants to judge?"

Man ~ "To judge"

Me ~ "So what do I do?"

Man ~ "Examine it up close and peel it back" "You must confront whatever it is that emerges"


End of Argyle Dream (That Side Part 2)

Go to Argyle Dream (The Other Side)

Saturday, February 11, 2006

Argyle Dream (That Side Part 1)


While I'm pressing on my wounded foot, which makes a little hissing squeak whenever I release it, the man behind the mirror booms through the p.a. system. "Yer a dumbshit to be here....this ain't yer territory, an' yew know it. So why don' yew juss git out!?"

I begin applying an even firmer press-and-release on my foot, which makes it sing with an odd, lamb-to-the-slaughter bleat. The comic sound gives me the right clue, and so now I know with certainty that this ghastly foot isn't real. It's a magic store slip-on rubber fake which is covering my healthy foot underneath. I begin to ponder my little epiphany: "How could such a horribly real thing become so bogus? And why didn't I notice the metamorphosis while it was happening? Then I'm wondering if this fake foot coverall be marketed as a new-fangled sort of footwear? I'm sure it would sell like mad! But what would I call it?" More questions to answer.

Again lucid and aware that it's 4 in the morning, I begin to wonder about the many things in life that slip by our notice, such as moles, nose hairs and wrinkles, but I can't keep the thread alive and so I slip back into the same showroom with my faux foot and the Republican. Beyond the glass, he is a shifting, ghostly silhouette. And someone else is standing alongside him.

Everything is suddenly silent except for the muffled street honks and fluorescent buzzing.
I listen to these sounds while I force the whole perspective through squinted eyes. I know now that I'm in control of this dream, and so I squint to make the mirror retreat and disappear. I squint and remove the rubbery foot. The same with the tractor and the rest of the farm machinery. I get a huge rush as I begin to delete things from the dream diorama one by one. I make sounds like dumping files into the trash on my computer and re-arrange the look of the room till it looks like a Soho gallery. I'm feeling nearly omnipotent now. "The power to change is always right there in front of you". I feel a surge of joy rush through me as the room becomes an infinite white. I sense it is my personal Philosopher's Stone.

In the middle of floor is a little hump of something chromatic and alive. Up close it is a livid, undulating sac which vaguely resembles what was once my bloodied argyle sock. Could it be? It's like a living, breathing soft sculpture stuck to the floor at the edges like a scab. Something is trying get out.

End of Argyle Dream (That Side Part 1)

Go to Argyle Dream (That Side Part 2)