24
Aug
09

The human Darius attributes (2) – a journal of dreams from old age

I am on a tram, at night. There are few people around – I take a seat in front of a middle aged man, wearing a suit and worn briefcase. I see that he looks at me intensely and I avoid his stare as best I can. Then he offers me a plastic water bottle with a few sips left at the bottom. He says it is ambrosia, the drink of gods. He says he knows I find it hard to believe, it was passed on to him also, a few hours ago. He drank and he felt it was way too powerful for him. In fact, he was so afraid, that he cowered under a bench in the park and staid there until it wore off. Of course, there is a chance the man is crazy and there is a chance the whole thing is a prank or even worse – I think to myself. Then all of sudden I realize that I am on a dream, so I relax and drink the ambrosia. And then I wake up abruptly. It wouldn’t be such a special dream, but something happened the other day. I felt I was in a dream also, but I was not. It was the same kind of certitude, the same relaxed refusal of reality. I must train my mind to resist this temptation, to be moral and responsible even in a dream, because real life is made of irreversible changes. And then I asked myself: what happens in a dream – is that reversible? Will not a dream change my life permanently, just as well?


I am in a small street paved with square stone slabs, it is just before dawn. There is debris and trash on the ground. A few steps ahead, two men appear from a side street, struggling. One man stabs the other with a large knife. The stabbed man falls to the ground and his killer looks up and comes towards me. I walk back, looking him straight in the eyes, as you would look an aggressive dog in the eyes, to keep him from charging. He stops and says, in a thick Arabic accent: „Why you don’t laugh? Why you don’t be happy? I killed an Arab!!”
I reach a wall. He stops, grins, turns and runs away, carefully stepping just nearby the puddle of blood growing around the dead man. Then he disappears through the same side street from which they both had appeared. A pause for a second, then I walk to the body, I kneel, i put my finger on the dark red ground, then in mouth – and I taste blood, salt, foam from the sea, sand, vodka spilled, mixed with sand, shards of steel, shards of glass, perfume on a woman, sweat, honey, cotton, oranges, shards of stone, small flakes of torn skin as you would get from making love on a bed covered with coarse fabric.


I am in Amsterdam, walking by the Red Light District at night, between two endless rows of dim lit red neon lights, above windows where the prostitutes show off. I wear a light fabric dark blue suit, a striped shirt and a black hat with a ribbon. I am freshly shaved and my body smells slightly of expensive perfume. I walk into one of the sliding windows, without asking any questions. I pull the curtains closed – then I take off my hat, I take the prostitute’s hand I kiss it. I say my name and present my respects. She smiles, understanding what I am and bows in a cheerful yet elegant manner, in acknowledgment of my secret. I take off my clothes and arrange them neatly, while she prepares a small cup of oily tincture, with mint leaves, alcohol, strong smelling spice and the burned ashes of some unknown herbs. She dips her fingers in the mixture and touches me, whispering in my ear – on the eyebrows „…that you want to keep your eyes shut”; on the lips „…that you want my lips on yours always”; and on my chest, in a straight line from the neck down „…that your heart beats faster, faster”. She takes some more and touches herself on the back in two places, then puts my hands there „…that you want to hold me like this”. And I feel making love as a force of gravity, with my eyes closed, my lips entwined with hers and my hands radiating a burning sensation from her back. Then I feel I am breaking apart, in minuscule parts with odd shapes engulfed in light, immensely bright and warm.
When the light dims out, I am on a prison corridor, walking slowly. Inmates on both sides make noise, cheer and quarrel – „Best damn death I’ve ever seen”, „Dying in bed sucks, man!”, „Do the heartbeat trick again, dude!”



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