Dreams
Dream:
I was sitting in a packed theater watching the premier of a film that I had starred in, but didn't even remember making. I can't say who I was sitting next to, but they felt very familiar. On the screen I was driving a stylish little convertible with a stylish little Latina girl sitting next to me. The scene's establishing shot began on a camera that was mounted on track that started behind us so that at first you would be looking over our shoulders at a long, thin road that vanished into a perspective point, wheat fields ungulate in pale orange light. I squirmed ing my Arlington Theater seat (somehow I knew it was the Arlington) "fuck," I thought "I didn't comb my hair in the back. It's sticking up funny...like it always does but shouldn't in a movie" By this time the camera is almost parallel with the sides of our faces, but not quite. Suddenly the Latina girl waves a potion under my nose, (I hear girls in the audience start to giggle, and I shrink deeper into my seat. I try not to look embarrassed) the camera then pans fully around and you can see my face, I look oafy and ridiculous. The perfume had sent me into a coughing fit, and the slow-motion didn't help. Slow motion is a cinematic gimmick that brilliantly accents "good bye" death scenes and Rambo, not violent respiratory upheavals. By this time the audience was exploding in loud smokers-wretch laughter all around me. I knew my poor acting was the laughter's target, not the film. I clung to my severed dignity, but like a child's loosed balloon it disappeared into the ash-grey cigar smoke that whirled overhead like the meteorological components of a malicious Kansas sky. After that I'm not sure what happened, but I think a cyclone emphysemic smoke sucked me up, tumbled me about, and left me lying in my own bed.
I woke up and started to cook a meatball and bell pepper breakfast. Put my dream down during it simmered, ate and contemplated the rest of the day.
I love days off. Okay, I think I'm going to buy things for another painting.
I was sitting in a packed theater watching the premier of a film that I had starred in, but didn't even remember making. I can't say who I was sitting next to, but they felt very familiar. On the screen I was driving a stylish little convertible with a stylish little Latina girl sitting next to me. The scene's establishing shot began on a camera that was mounted on track that started behind us so that at first you would be looking over our shoulders at a long, thin road that vanished into a perspective point, wheat fields ungulate in pale orange light. I squirmed ing my Arlington Theater seat (somehow I knew it was the Arlington) "fuck," I thought "I didn't comb my hair in the back. It's sticking up funny...like it always does but shouldn't in a movie" By this time the camera is almost parallel with the sides of our faces, but not quite. Suddenly the Latina girl waves a potion under my nose, (I hear girls in the audience start to giggle, and I shrink deeper into my seat. I try not to look embarrassed) the camera then pans fully around and you can see my face, I look oafy and ridiculous. The perfume had sent me into a coughing fit, and the slow-motion didn't help. Slow motion is a cinematic gimmick that brilliantly accents "good bye" death scenes and Rambo, not violent respiratory upheavals. By this time the audience was exploding in loud smokers-wretch laughter all around me. I knew my poor acting was the laughter's target, not the film. I clung to my severed dignity, but like a child's loosed balloon it disappeared into the ash-grey cigar smoke that whirled overhead like the meteorological components of a malicious Kansas sky. After that I'm not sure what happened, but I think a cyclone emphysemic smoke sucked me up, tumbled me about, and left me lying in my own bed.
I woke up and started to cook a meatball and bell pepper breakfast. Put my dream down during it simmered, ate and contemplated the rest of the day.
I love days off. Okay, I think I'm going to buy things for another painting.