Archive 501
Vivian Galván García
This little dream of mine
By Samiera Abou-NasrThis sky is dark, so dark, the flattened night sky is black behind the amethyst haze of city life illuminating the distance. Yet, it seems at once endless and constraining as I stare into the void of night, the echoes of obsidian before the morning dawn. I am untouched by the biting winter air as I walk through the knee-high snow.
The knee-high snow, my skin, my legs naked beneath the dress barely holding in my chest and the dyed faux fur coat open on my shoulders. The bulging plastic bag draws my attention, is this supposed to be heavy? I check inside. Silver? Silver knives, forks, spoons... there are so many spoons and maybe a bracelet tangled within the table wear, maybe it is a necklace.
The night is so quiet in the early hours of morning. I can hear the wind whistle and whip past my ears, I can see the vapors of my breath retreat with inhalation. The walk from the suburbs will be long, these ready-made homes in neat tidy rows spread apart in privacy, there are people sleeping inside. What would they think of me? A ghost in the cul-de-sac, a walking apparition of their dreams. Maybe the sidewalk is better? Okay, there are none. How about the street? It’s shimmering in the lights towering above me, wet with ice. The homes are disappearing now, the night is closing in...
A field, is this Tarkovsky? There is a familiarity from somewhere, a nagging curiosity that this field and I have met before will not leave my mind, or rather the hum of my stomach.
The grass is high and dry, it seems I was in a forest, heading across the plain towards another but never closer. The sun shines down on me, it looks warm, as the blades of fauna that bend in the wind, my skin feels nothing, my ears hear everything. On my right a man, distressed, bloody and breathing heavy, stabbing himself repeatedly, slowly with intention in his stomach. I can hear the silver of the blade. How interesting it is to see someone hurt themselves and not know why. On my left, a child with pigtails (this must be Tarkovsky) she looks like a Russian farm girl with golden pigtails hanging down on each side of her serious yet cherubic face. Her identical doll doesn’t even look played with- why is she looking at me? The bulging plastic bag draws my attention, is this supposed to be heavy? I check inside. Money? Money of the American kind, Benjamin, and Andrew... there are so many Andrews and maybe a George floating amongst the other bills, maybe there is an Abe. Crunch. The soil is so dry, it's fissured in dehydration.
Crunch. I’ve stepped on a glass. It's green, maybe a Heineken. Let’s make sure there’s none stuck in my shoe. The cement floor glistens under the club lights, red, blue, all lighting up the dullened reflections in mesmerizing patterns. I look out in the emptied warehouse space, the familiar and tired sight of sweating dancing bodies, a DJ on a platform and in between all that, temporary couples of the night making out. I think I know that girl.
I feel anxious, the feeling is building. Am I anxious or excited? Who cares, it feels good, so good. My body vibrates with the hum of the dulled bass in my ears. I lean back and open my chest to the chimera of lights, my rapid heartbeat to the currents of sound in 16:4.
I am dangling in the quantum realm beyond the confines of a body no longer my own. I step forward, he steps forward, a familiar face I yet again, cannot place. This is so annoying. He says “this is not you”. I don’t care I feel great, I finally feel something. I feel chaos around me swelling in the air stained with salty debauchery. I start to sway with the ocean of soft bodies. Faces melting in the heat of movement, teeth barring smiles deranged, and contorted. There is darkness, no! I want-