A zone sometimes when I'm away writing: I sometimes don't know what pours through me is my stuff or someone else's, like I am a radio antenna. I wake up with heart wide open.
I felt like that today when I woke up with this dream. I don't even know if it's my dream--I think it might be Bjork's dream? We can dress these weirdos up in bear suits and shoot a video. Here:
A woman won the lottery. The big Check finally came in the mail. She was so pretty and so sweet and just a bundle of fun, light energy--in fact that's all she was, like a double helix of energy or something, black twisting lines--very yummy, but at this high frequency and not really in a body. Energy, not a real woman. What she looked like was: ink lines twisting around, and also like musical bars and notes stood on end, moving and alive. You just want to trail after her, everything is okay and nice when she is there.
She went down to the Office to cash the Check. So pretty and fun and sweet and just lovely--everyone on the street turned and wanted to follow her, this feminine, twisting column of ink lines and quarter notes.
The poor plodding Man at the Desk at the Office was maybe even more dumbstruck than the people on the street. When she handed him this huge Check the lottery people had sent her--these people were of course a higher authority than either of them--this plodding slow fuck had no idea what to do. He stared at his desk autistically and sweat formed above his ears.
She sort of smiled and didn't understand, her hand out with this check. The lines of her twisting and breathing and smiling. He could see himself going by normal procedure--getting the money from the vault--and it even made him giddy to think of doing something so great for her, but he was frozen. He stared at her and he shook his head: sorry. Can't do it.
She was so sweet though and there was such a warm lightness to her, she was a little confused but this is not a woman who even knew how to resort to Retail Screaming. She didn't even understand he was blatantly refusing to do his job--she was spaced out and sweet and happy and just sort of stood there with the check believing in him and waiting. She was so light she didn't even notice what a freak he was being.
She grew prettier and sillier. The poor slow man at the desk grew more and more grouchy and stupid. Like a troll, stuck, a creature made of earth and rock, refusing to move from his bridge underhang. She very sweetly sort of twisted up next to him (this of course delighted him and terrified him and he could barely stand it) and she said, don't worry, come on let's go, I can share, it's a million dollars! His eyes lit for a second, even she saw it. He knew then that she was used to these checks showing up on a fairly regular basis, as needed.
Why had he been coming to this Desk all the time?
She slid her hand into his hand, and her spaciness was replaced with something like delight from looking at his earth and rocks shifting and moving--he was amusing and sweet, she thought. Of course, it was all a little too much for the Plodder. He did manage to let her hand rest in his for a second, and felt suddenly space to move, to breathe, in a way that was new for him.
He inhaled and felt a little high from her hand there. These things are possible. His sad little apartment and the ceiling he put on his life were unneccesary. Even this job was. Why had he let them pen him in all these years? That Aimee Mann song: condemning the future to--something--to protect the past Was that it? He could cash her check for her. Her little hand there. He could see the curve of her arm and her waist starting to form. Like nothing he'd ever imagined. Sweat pooled, his heart jumped as he watched her spinning lines start to become a real, human leg as she led them out the door.
The pretty, strong arc of her ankle.
His big heavy earthen hand in her little nimble one.
I woke up then, but I know he didn't go with.
He stayed in that office. I got a flash to the end. At the end he was not made of rocks and earth but sweaty, clammy, pink skin and a big NO. A can of beans waiting for him in his apartment, a clock to watch, containment. Couch. Lies so big about what was possible that they seemed like furniture or love. His biggest thrill in life, what he will hang onto, is "being honest" with himself about how much he hates Lyle Lovett. (Don't ask me--I just dreamed it!)
She was sad for a second, in a kind of a quizzical way, when she felt his hand fall away, but of course all this unneccessary drama was the Plodder's, not hers. There is always another bank down the street with much better customer service. In fact I think there was one right next door.