A Nightmare Worth Writing About

Hola, fellow Watchers!  I apologize for the hiatus of art lately.  But on the bright side I'm writing this on my new laptop!  Alright, last night I had a dream/nightmare/reverie that sort of stuck with me throughout the entirety of the day and I thought I might share it;

    

            I stood under an outsized, white tent pitched up in a field of green.  The sun wasn’t excruciatingly unbearable for once; it didn’t beat down into your very flesh and cook your innards as per usual.  It was, however, in the nineties.  At least forty others had joined me under this tent, amongst them my younger sister Ryllie.  The custom of this strange event was black tie; every person here wore something under the category of formal; including me – a form-fitting, black dress.  Scattered about were gurneys and various people had claimed them to sleep in. 

            “You should find a gurney,” my sister said to me from on my right.  She sat atop one, a blue, hospital sheet draped around her shoulders.  Her legs hung off the side and her flats dangled from her toes precariously.  I nodded in agreement and scanned the underneath of the tent; no unused ones in sight.  The atmosphere had descended into twilight; the air was tepid and clammy, an insinuation of the day’s scorching sun dancing in the fragile air currents that drifted in and out of the tent. 

            After doing another 360 degree scan of the tent for a free gurney, my eyes landed on somebody – or something – at least thirty feet from my current position.  A man, completely bathed in white, knelt down in the grass, his hands fiddling with something, his slender fingers toying with an object.  He wasn’t “white” as in Caucasian white; he was literal “absence of all color” white.  He was stark nude but he lacked genitalia.  His eyes seemed too big for his face and were in a perpetual wide-eyed stare, never once blinking.  We locked eyes and for a moment I felt absolute inner terror.  Could nobody else see him?  But then the fear subsided and washed away, leaving a residue of serenity.  Next to him was an empty gurney.  I strode over and pulled it back with me, pushing it beside my sister’s.  I crawled ontop still donning my dress and shoes, and pulled the hospital sheet up to my chin.

            The next morning we were all gathered out onto the field, the sun still sweltering.  The tent had disappeared and only fifteen of us remained.  Including the White Man.  I found him crouched on the grass, his hands on his knees.  I ambled up behind him and reached my hands under his arms.  I picked him up, his body still staying in the crouched position.  My hands sunk into his flesh, almost as if he were a giant stress ball.  Rubber balloon skin, sand interior.  I began walking across the field and everything vanished.  It was like being thrown into a cataleptic void of nothing.

            I was suddenly in an old pick-up truck down a country road, the field far off to the left.  My sister, however, was driving.  I sat in the passenger and leaned across her, staring out the window.  “Look,” I said, awkwardly pointing.  Standing out in an open pasture were two White Men.  “They’re doing a gag.  Something like Charlie Chaplin would have done with Chester Conklin.”

            “I was going to say it seemed like Chaplin,” Ryllie chimed in.  I stared at them; both wore farmer get-ups, one in overalls and a red Stetson (why a Stetson, I don’t know), and the other in a straw hat and boots.


I'm assuming he was completely white because I recently saw the "Little Baby's Ice Cream" advert.  Here's a link, just go watch it if you haven't already seen it.  And if you have, just watch it again.  It deserves to be watched again.  www.youtube.com/watch?v=erh2ng…