| Previous |
More writing by Bruce Taylor |
Next |
![[graphical bar]](../graphics/mmrbar5.gif){kind=small}
Kafka's Uncle: The Unfortunate Sequel
and Other Insults to the Morally Perfect
The Dreamscape
Anslenot realizes that he is tired. The undulating movement of the tarantula makes him tired. So tired, so sleepy.
"You should probably go to sleep," says the tarantula. "You must be tired."
"Yes," says Anslenot, "I must be tired."
"You are very tried," says the spider.
"Yes," says Anslenot, "I am very, very tired." "Sleepy."
"Very sleepy." The undulation of the spider, the bland whiteness of the snowscape, and for some incomprehensible reason, Anslenot feels a warmth.
"I bet you're feeling warm," says the tarantula.
"I do feel warm," says Anslenot. He looks down to his stained trousers, his dirty, threadbare jacket. He shouldn't be warm. But he is.
"I can't be making you warm," says the spider "We arachnids are cold blooded." And, after a pause, it adds, "Cold-blooded indeed."
Drifting into a deeper sleep, Anslenot says, "I know this. I don't know why I am warm. And sleepy."
"And sleepy," says the spider. "Very sleepy."
Anslenot feels his chin suddenly touch his chest and - he's gone. He hears the spider as if from a place a long, long way away from where he is: " . . . choose carefully, choose so carefully. Choose a dream but choose carefully . . . "
. . . all the ways to choose, thinks Anslenot. All the freedom to choose yet how do you choose given that you can't know all the choices available, what the consequences at any given time - the gentle undulation of the spider, the warmth, and he goes deeper.
" . . . deeper," says the tarantula, . . . just - go deeper. The rocking of the ride, the sound of my voice . . . "
Anslenot thinks, . . . since when could spiders hypnotize? How can I trust this - but he helped before . . . Suddenly a scene comes to him, a scene of himself on a bluff overlooking an ocean. The flowers around him are red, the sun, white, the sky, the ocean, blue. And as he looks around, those are the only colors he sees. He senses movement, and turning, sees the spider, wearing a floppy hat with alternating red, white and blue vertical bands of color. He hears the spider sigh, "We have met the enemy and he is us."
"Pogo," says Anslenot. "Walt Kelly."
"Correct," says the tarantula. "And can you guess who said this? 'Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it'?"
"Santayana," says Anslenot.
"You're doing well."
"Thank you," says Anslenot. He turns away. Then he hears, "And who said this? 'Those who cast the votes decide nothing. Those who count the votes decide everything'."
Anslenot glances back. The spider is still there, but seated upon it, dressed in red, the blue eyes calculating, the hair so white -
"Stalin - " says Anslenot.
"Yes," says Stalin, "yes, I said that."
Then he hears, "Sleep. Sleep. Just sleep. And forget. Forget it all."
The vision vanishes and Anslenot, in his sleep, asks, "Wh-why are you having me remember this - know this if you want me to forget it?"
". . . fun. . . " comes the voice of the spider. " . . . fun . . . how much are you willing to give up your perceptions to listen to the perceptions of others so that their opinion becomes yours?"
Anslenot drifts and asks in his sleep,". . . why. . . why would I want to do that . . ."
" . . . don't have to think. Don't have to know. Don't have to take responsibility. All you have to do is . . . sleep. . . "
". . . sleep," whispers Anslenot. ". . . sleep. How do I - sleep."
"Apparently quite well."
"Yes," says Anslenot, "yes - I - " He goes deeper asleep. Then he has a scene open before him. He sees a chorus line of men, dressed in pink ballerina tutus; some of them are bearded, some balding, one on the end has a bottle of Moosedrool beer in his hand; they dance to the music from the musical, A Chorus Line and as they kick out, their booted feet connect with boys and girls, children, dressed the same way. Some of the children cry, others turn about in rage and the fathers look to each other, with surprise, like they just can't figure out why the kids are crying. And suddenly, in Anslenot's mind he can hear them: "What's wrong with Billy?" "I don't know." "I don't know why Samantha is upset." "Kids." "God knows." "Treaten' 'em no different than I was treated."
The chorus line of males turn and, facing a chorus line of women, some dressed as men, some women, obviously having been beaten close up or god knows what else, dressed in straitjackets, the chorus lines, facing each other, kick the crap out of each other. And Anslenot can hear the women: "He's just like that." "He's just had a bad day." "He didn't mean it," and then Anslenot hears the men: "Must be her period." "What a bitch." "Just like her mother." "Don't know what her problem is." And then he sees the children run into the middle of the melee and he can hear their voices, "Mommy, Daddy, don't fight! I'll be good." "Don't leave me!" and "I know it's my fault! Please stop hitting each other."
Anslenot stands back and watches children being kicked and flying through the air, hears the smack of fists against faces, feet into ribs, the cracking of bones, the tearing of clothing - and soon - all that's left are two rows of raw and bloody hamburger, mingled with shreds of clothing and small blobs of shuddering flesh over here, over there.
In horror, Anslenot steps back. Distantly he hears, ". . . just sleep deeply - "
In the dreamscape, Anslenot says, "How can I sleep seeing this?"
"Everyone else sleeps seeing this. Why not you?"
"How can I sleep knowing this?" says Anslenot.
"Everyone else sleeps knowing this," comes the reply, "why not you?" A pause. "Just relax. This is normal. Just go deeper, deeper asleep."
Anslenot fights the urge, but succumbs -
| Previous |
Return to Top |
