Shrink to Fit–an Omen

28 Jun

In the truck there are four of us. All boyhood friends from the time we were in middle school. All immigrants. Ian is driving the giant SUV. From the left side a car approaches with an attractive, blonde girl leaning out the window and gesturing at us. It seems like she’s goading us, only we cannot hear her; both cars are travelling fast. Ian looks. “That’s the…” he says. “That’s the girl we met earlier tonight,” someone else says from next to me. I cannot tell who it is. Jay? Stan? Ian stares at the girl in the adjacent car. “Listen,” I say, “you better look ahead and watch the road because…”
For the millisecond that passes between my last word and the impact I can see and think lucidly. I catch the grill of the tractor trailer hitting us head-on: Peterbilt. I know it. Headquartered in Denton, Texas. A division of PACCAR. Founded in 1939. One of its manufacturing facilities is in Sainte-Therese, Quebec. I know this because I just saw something on Peterbilt on the National Geographic Channel. Ian is ejected through the windshield. I don’t know what happens to Jay and Stan. It happens fast, and contrary to how it usually is reported, nothing stands still for me. I see it and process it all within the ferocious half-second it takes place. I am ejected through the roof of the car, going through the metal like a bullet. I feel the burning on the skin from the chunks of the fusible, ductile substance, and suddenly the cuts on my left arm (which had healed) open up again and I watch myself bleed as I fly through the air away from the horrific accident. When I land on the asphalt I make a noise similar to a little matchbox car thrown onto the sidewalk from a second story balcony. A combination of plastic and metal hitting concrete. Strange. I am alive, but I am dying fast. I look up and Ian is gone. He is mutilated and lies in a grotesque position with his neck and spine broken. Oddly, there is no blood. Someone shuts off the lights. Everything does not fade to black, it just clicks off.

Then.

I’m walking with my father through the mud in his village. I am a boy. Maybe 8 or 9. I ask him if there exists a Hell. He does not answer. Suddenly, from below us, an unprepossessing pterodactyl-like giant bird extricates itself from the mud and takes flight. It is monolithic. It looks as if it sprung alive from a Bosch painting. It circles slowly in the grey sky, flying over us a few times–during each pass shaking off mud which rains down on us and hits our skin. It burns and the stench is horrific. I ask my father again about Hell but he still does not answer.

I hate these types of quasi-religious dreams. Especially the night before I’m slated to travel. I hate them even more for their typical, indoctrinated symbolism of Christianity, which I’ve rejected all my life. It seems they’re seeping in to affirm the banality of religion, despite (or in spite) of my efforts to seek better answers.

In all my dreams of death (and I’ve had quite a few) I am never scared, and hardly ever feel any excruciating type of pain. I am not saying that out of bravado, or to be commended. It’s just a fact. In my life, I’ve never been driven (or hindered) by the fear of death. It has always been in the background, waiting. I’ve come close to dying a few times in my (almost) thirty-eight years (Sunday, if you’re interested). Twice in car accidents, once via electrocution, once during an armed robbery, and once choking on mouthwash (go ahead, laugh). What is astounding to me is the clear-cut demarcation between life and something otherwise, as manifested in my subconscious. It’s simple. And easy.

As with any semblance or idea of an afterlife, I believe death is a subjective experience. Tailor-made. For me, all indications are that it will be anti-climactic. Probably as anti-climactic as my life. Which sets me into a tailspin about purpose and reason for life. Which sends me back to re-read Camus’ “Myth of Sisyphus.” And re-read Sartre. And Mann. And Kierkegaard. But I don’t want to. Not anymore. I’ve had enough of them.

In any case, throw some luck–the good kind–my way to-day from around 10:30 am-12:30 eastern. My preferred way to go is NOT in an airplane. It’s un-natural for Man to fly. Or ride in an SUV, for that matter.

I’ll have internets access so I’ll continue to post. I’m due for this 13-day vacation. My birthday is on Sunday. I was happy to be out of the country on July 4th–you all know about my pure hatred for fireworks–only it’ll be no better. I’ll be in Canada, and it so happens July 1st is Canada Day; their version of the States’ 4th. I’m doomed. I cannot get away from these bloody exploding things. Ever.

Ciao babies. See you on some other side.

Annotation: This is very weird. I checked CNN after I posted this, and it caught my eye. Strange, similar details. Just a few tweaks here and there. Bad Craziness.

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4 Responses to “Shrink to Fit–an Omen”

  1. Anonymous 28/06/2007 at 11:32 AM #

    Whoa! That must of sat you down deep into your seat. Weird, very weird.

    It’s quite annoying how those heavy dreams linger the next day. Dream hangover is the only way I can describe it.

    I like the new artwork. Love Kandinsky.

    Safe travels and be well, Lx. Hoping to see a few photos this trip!

    Eh

  2. slyboots2 28/06/2007 at 2:36 PM #

    I am really caught by the image of the bird rising from the mud. Scary.

    Have a good trip- and enjoy your birthday! Canada is probably as good of a place as any to celebrate- it’s who you’re with that counts, no?

    btw- nambly pambly Seattle doesn’t allow fireworks in the hands of the public. It happens, but they really nail the people who get caught. Unlike Montana- where fireworks rule.

  3. I.:.S.:. 29/06/2007 at 6:17 AM #

    I hope to embrace my death when it comes, smile and say ‘bring it on’.

    But I won’t know til it happens. I might pussy out completely at the last minute.

    I wish you a good death. Not now, not soon, you dig… I mean when it comes anyway…

  4. Lx 29/06/2007 at 10:24 AM #

    issy, amen.
    the rest…thanks.

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