I had a dream. So strange I had to take it down. Although
there was not much speech in the dream, the little there was of it was in
English, and I felt I had to do it in English.
Suddenly, as happens in dreams, I was in this
post-apocalyptic world. And I knew it was that kind of world not by way of any
particular, tell-tale signs, but with a knowledge that emanated from the vision
itself, and came to me impersonally. A stark knowledge, standing apart, as if a
thing in itself.
There had been a sickness. Strange and relentless, it had
swept through the world, emptying it of its inhabitants, reluctantly sparing a
few of us; perhaps to bear witness.
And there was a building, a high-rise building. We
were in the building. It had staircases, elevator shafts, and metallic service stairways.
And we were always, all the time, in these in-between spaces that lead to no
discernible living-space. It was as if the in-between was the natural condition
of our new dispensation, and we didn't even know it was new. Remnants of
technology hung and sprawled about, ignored in every sense of the term; nobody
knew what they were there for. Elevator shafts had no elevators, and they were
not missed.
There was someone who looked like me, albeit with a
little bit more hair on top of his head, but he was not me. Didn't feel
like me. But there he was, working with serene fury, lips pursed tight, eyes
glinting in quiet desperation, like a mad scientist, on something that just might
save the world.
And there was a couple; the man, to all intents and
purposes, was Brad Pitt. Only he was not the pretty-boy actor, but an
ordinary-looking middle-aged man, who cannot even be described as handsome. He
was altogether much too human. The woman was visibly older, but he loved her
with all of his heart, and was always trying to win her love. Yet she rebuffed
him, with a barely-concealed revulsion at his man-breasts.
Suddenly Brad Pitt appeared on a metallic stairway,
pulled the plackets of his shirt apart, to reveal his chest. There were tiny surgical
scars on the outer sides of each nipple and blotchy bruises around the breasts,
now properly manly. He had had breast reduction surgery. The woman let out a
squeal of delight, and held him to her tightly, making a strange, mechanical
and very orderly noise: tat-tat-tat-tat-tat. He asked her why she was crying. She
said she was laughing.
There were children, two or three or four or five of
them. One of them stood out, a girl of about eleven or twelve, with a long,
innocent and pale face, and that devastatingly bright look of intelligent children,
too intelligent for her own good. I felt sorry for her. Mad Scientist came on,
beaming with a fierce knowledge. He had completed the thing that just might
save the world.
Bright Girl: But will the antibodies hold?
Mad Scientist: Oh, honey. As long as we're not sick,
the antibodies are holding.
In the end the children were laughing.
My eyes fluttered open. I was panting, heart thumping.
And for a brief moment, while my waking consciousness was flickering on, I felt
like I was all of these people, and not quite certain I was me.
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