Dear Arabella,

How is Arcadia?

I’m missing you too much.

I think I’ve been on the road too long this time.

The dream has no beginning or end and I always wake up at the same time: just before the door opens and the tall man is about to enter the room.

The experience never lasts beyond this point and there is no continuation.

But it is the way with dreams that the dreamer is both actor and director and knows every aspect of the script.

I know that the tall man is beyond the door.

I know his tuneless whistle and dry cough, the bad tattoo on his right earlobe, the jingling of loose change in his trouser pocket against his thigh as he walks and I know that seconds after I wake he will be in the room and the pale, red-haired girl will blanch even paler and the young man in the light-weight khaki Summer suit tied by his hands and feet to the chair will scream.

And though I have never heard that scream I will always remember it.

And the dreamer will be gone, running through the dimly lit corridor into the lobby, past the fat key-man sleeping at the reception desk and out into the driveway like a tabloid sensation, into the road, crossing the intersection, caught in the squealing headlights, creased by the slipstream.

But there is no freedom.

He might run this road forever and never be even falsely free.

To run is not to find freedom.

To run is merely to express the desire for freedom and desire is of no consequence.

We are simply protozoa bursting, vainly attempting bifurcation, hopelessly blind to the impossibility of success.

I will never know why those people are in that damnable and accursed place, will never hear their names in anything but hellish tongues, will never know why the bed is strewn with spent matches or what it is that makes the girl turn away from the window and smile just before the door opens.

But I will sleep again and dream again and again and again and I will shiver.

The chill in that room: the same chill that lives in the marrow of the dwarf’s spine.

And my heart pounds with the relentlessness of a living steam-hammer, the shock-waves like bullets striking my synapses as I struggle to take in the scene from my hide in a corner somewhere deep in that room that has no right or reason to exist for anyone but me and the dwarf.

The Amok-man scenario, the Mexican Motel room sequence played in dumb-show by crippled actors on a broken set to a symphony of traffic whooshing through the rain and meeting and parting at the intersection.

The same monstrous tableau with the unmade bed in the smoke-filled alcove, its pale, dirty pink candlewick coverlet awry and its faded paisley-patterned mattress exposed and littered with spent matches, a purple wash in a jagged wedge of luminosity from the down-lighter.

And everywhere the chill.

A chill of homelessness and late night early morning train stations, of highways, of strange bedrooms and other lives and other dreams, of the commingled breath of unknown lovers…

A witch freezes the dwarf’s semen, murders his sperm moments before he comes.

Will write again soon.

Love,

Jon.

Advertisements