The Holes of the Frame

In the box, down the hall, or in the hole, down. Through scarves and feathers, tatters of fabrics, looking at or by or maybe on the side of a frame we think window, and in which we see nothing but a dark reflection of us, we impress the lens. To a film? Huh. Not anymore. Processed by a chemistry that only existed, we still want to be seen whereas at the end, we only stand in a cloud which they say is real. Pellicolla is only a vague memory. The legend talks of a cloud where they keep us organized in zeros and ones, on discs, locked in concrete. But we never really know who or what we really look at and where we really go. We never know who we really are once we offer the lens a piece of the soul she never asked for. What do we see? A black mirror, a corridor of postiches, masks and pearls. A brouhaha of feathers, a tongue in a mouth we call a kiss and maybe three words on a page we call script, we call press, we call story. Maybe we try to look at a place where no one has never gone to. A field of princess dresses laid on grass where the river flows and welcomes our fingers to sink in her mud. 

There, were struggles and conversations about warmth, and life.

Last night, like all my other nights, my brain and the magic particles of the universe which inhabits it, took me by the guts to my other life. I never have the choice, and that's fine with me. There it goes. On our way to an event, I felt the impatience of a group of friends waiting close behind my back as I was figuring out what I wanted, leaning over the counter of some sort of game tickets reseller. The clerk and I talked change, or money bargain, when I realized that he was selling candies, in separate containers, like the ones of my childhood. I extended the wait and my friends patience, by wondering what candies I wanted. I got excited to find Haribo brand ones. "How many caramel "flan" gums, 5 or 6?" I was counting in my head. "Who will want some?..." Oh, and in a back container, I could see my favorites, black liquorice tubes stuffed with pink sugary paste, the famous Cocobats! But they were much bigger and made out of a strange airy foam, like hard cotton candies or a sweet version of Trader Joe's Snap peas. I got them anyway... They now looked like the Haribo little boy figure. Are we going to share the boy? Blank.  

I'm now in a room. I'm missing the beginning of the sequence, but I find a smaller person, like a doll-person with a small head, seated dead and sharply decapitated. The head is still hanging attached to her neck skin. The cut was smooth and red but no blood was flowing. Someone else is with me. I woke up in terror. The dark still bathed my bedroom. My ovaries contracted under fear pressure. It was the second time since Charlie Hebdo shooting, that I have murders nightmares strong enough to wake me up and squeeze my guts. For Charlie, it was before I knew anything, between 5 and 6am PST, only a few hours after the Parisian event. That dream was terrifying and thematically connected to the attack, also involving cut heads, but a chicken one, and a wild cat attacking me on the roof of a Parisian building. Eerie.

Back to scene... I barely woke up, hesitating between opening my phone to google "decapitated/news" or going back to sleep. Sleep took me first. I then saw myself in a big mansion. I was there to work, to write, I think. Before that moment, lots of events unfolded regarding the people in the mansion, gardens, camping, a pool. A strange mix-feeling of cosiness and survival floated in the room. There, were struggles and conversations about warmth, and life. "We" (who?) wondered about setting up lodging, where to sleep, the purpose of our presence in this place. In this big room, laid 2 huge wild fireplaces, in which logs, coals, and ashes were spreading on the tile floor like an outdoor bonfire. Was I in a castle or squat? I took care of the big burning logs in the first foyer then happily discovered the other one. We would be warm, at least. I could see the beauty of the fire, and thought that I was good at taking care of it.

I forgot some interesting details, but I know that, in this space, people were related by creativity and the purpose of life was questioned. I then walked to another room, where a women (a friend?) laid on an elevated bunk resembling the animal through of a barn. Two donkeys stood on the lower part of the room, muzzles to her feet. I was amazed. She explained that she found that the animal breaths were the best way to stay warm. I thought "Genius!", before I even penetrated that my brain had created the strange version of a biblical scene.

Illustration: Donkey- A Midsummer Night's dream by Jane Norheim

A strange Dream is a Tautology and I Breath Water

I'm not waking up anymore. My dreams won't stop. Madame Night extends her fingers into my breakfast soup, juices or teas, and sucks them with her big mouth in front of my sleepy eyes. There's nothing I can do but watch her pointing at my inward, speechless as she caresses my tongue in circular loops. "Tell yourself the story again", she says, even though I haven't caught my breath or figured if it's Monday or Saturday yet. "I can't speak with you inside my mouth" I retort. Pause. She whispers: "Of course you can, turn up the low frequency amp and talk back to yourself. I don't need to hear you, I just watched you sleep." Barely breathing through my congested nostrils and my morning asthma, I oblige. I flip my third eye and re-run the run. The three acts, again. I derail for a bit, leaning on the left side of my bed-boat, to reach the morning sky, searching for air. Well, all I see is a beautiful cenotes, colored in deep green and blue tones, inhabited by a family of merpeople looking at me, through the most transparent liquid. What is that water? Because around it, on the road above from where I'm standing, everything is a grey/beige dryness, cracked stones and sticks of antique Bruxelles in ruins. Old Europe in future decay? My subconscious designing a neo-antique future, like they do in those sci-fi post-apocalyptic movies. What a strange dream... Splash! I'm inward again. My bedroom window is pushing me into the wet hole like a teen friend at the public pool. "No pushing!" Says the guard. Which guard? Too late, I like the jump anyway.