I don’t know why I called this post “The last thing.”
I had some sad dreams last night. Very vibrant and scary in their way. In one I woke up to find I had a telephone device embedded in my ear. I was unaware of this but upon discovery I accepted it as if it was a family member. Through the phone I heard the voice of my mother. I envisioned her waking up in her grave, turning over a bit to pick up her telephone, which would have been a traditional landline housephone. We spoke only long enough to confirm that we were talking to each other. I think the call transferred to someone else because there was another woman’s voice but I don’t know who she was.
In another passage I was assailed for my possession of a height tracker, whatever you call something that someone stands in front of to measure their height. It takew many forms. You see it at convenience stores on the door, so people can tell how tall a robber was as they make their escape. This measuring guide somehow came into my possession and for this I was assailed by a man unknown to me. He said the height chart was supposed to be used by his son to measure his growth, but the son was still born, and there were no makrs, no notches along the height chart to measure his son’s growth. The father wanted the chart back and I gave it to him. He kept studying it, looking for notches that were never logged.
In another passage I encountered a serial killer whose next victim was supposed to be me. He had plans for torture and slow, painful dismemberment. He wanted to make me cry because he knew, somehow, that I have an unusually high threshold for pain. He wanted to test that and break me and document my screams of agony, all while feeding me well and keeping me healthy so his artistry could continue indefinitely.
His plan was intercepted, somehow. He had committed other atrocities of this sort upon homeless and forgotten individuals but with me he knew there’d be at least a glimmer of fame and recognition for his work. Extensive audio and video of the torture would be made public on the Dark Web, introducing millions to the reality of live torture and brutality between human beings.
I don’t know why but for some reason I decided to confront him at his maximum security prison cell. He explained, with sentiments and details I cannot recall, why he had chosen me for his masterpiece. His anger at being imprisoned over this plot as well as his past forays into torture was unbounded. It could well have provided him strength enough to break free from this seemingly impregnable prison chamber.
In fact he tried to bust out as I stood there, just inches away from his hungry, angry face. He pounded on the bulletproof, hammerproof glass that stood between him and the more traditional prison bars. He partly shattered the glass surface and reached his hand out to strangle me. But I was too far away. I could only hope the door through which I entered this hell hole would open again upon my attempt to exit.
The force of this man’s anger shook me. Even now, knowing it was a dream and there is no threat from anyone planning to kidnap and torture me, it still shakes me to think that such evil might exist in our world, and becoming its target could happen to anybody.
…
In other news, from the real world, I rode a lot of buses and subways yesterday, playing a video game I cannot seem to get enough of. It features happily-rendered images of common household products and objects, including paper towels, bottles of dishwashing liquid, teddy bears, and toilet paper with which to wipe my ass from playing the game so long I shit myself. Okay, that’s a lie, but the presence of toilet paper rolls in this game does make it seem impossible for me to not have scatological thoughts about asswiping.
I hear myself thinking with this game. I think “Get more teddy bear,” “Where’s the other banana?” “Why no more coffee cups?” “I love you, teddy.” The infantile nature of the graphics has turned my brain into that of a 4-year old. I am aware and not concerned, though maybe I should be.
Once in a while a new object enters the rotation. Yesterday it was a tomato. It looked perfectly round and red, just like a tomato should. But I can’t eat tomatoes. I mean, I’m not supposed to. It’s become an occasional lunchtime ritual for me to artfully pluck out the tomatoes from store-bought sandwiches and wraps.
But these tomatoes are not that type of concern for me. I simply must line them up, three in a row, to make them disappear. They are then replaced by disorganized objects and foodstuffs like pineapples, bottled juices, large eggs, bags of potato chips, and chocolate candies. These objects and this game make me think and, internally, speak like a very small child.
