From: exit2k@hotmail.com
Subject: whew …
Date: October 31, 1998 8:37:37 PM EST
To: horsestorideon@hotmail.com
if i had ever doubted that you had gained [not knowledge but] some
wisdom from your days, weeks, months, about a year and a half of
wandering from home2home2home2home, then i, the doubter, could be proved
wrong by one creation by you [thisis, ov course, now] that, intended to
communicate, does;
like that one.
that was my main impression.
so now i’ll give you what i told you i’d tell:
i’m just going to include all of my journal entry for today, because it
includes a dream you simply MUST hear! so, en joy.
ps if you think anyone else would be interested in the story, give it to
them. but separate it from the dream — i’d hate to bore.
Oct 31 1998
Had an amazing dream this morning. With two other guys, released from
jail. We decide to pull one final heist. We fuck it up somehow but get
away. We come back to scope the place out and see how we can get it
right, but we’re being really obvious and we’re going to get caught.
This woman who is there and was also in jail starts freaking out and
saying, “You guys are fucking up, you guys are fucking up,” and I think
she asks me why are we doing this, or why don’t we stop, or something —
and then this is the amazing part.
All this time I have been aware that this is a play and we are all
acting — except there is no other reality, everything is only what it
is, so being trapped in the play we do have something at stake. There
is also no discernable audience, thought the heist is in a museum and
there are all these glass walls and we’re walking inside with the
exhibits — so there’s an element of Who’s watching? Is someone
watching? Anyway, when the girl says Why don’t you just stop? or
whatever, I flash onto a great monolog I can give — so I do.
The basic idea of the monolog is whatever I spent all that time in
jail for, I didn’t do it. And I want my life back, which has been
destroyed by my jail sentence — and the only way to get my life back is
to pull off one final heist that will make me rich enough that all those
years of unjust imprisonment won’t matter. The monolog in the dream
consisted mostly of yelling “I didn’t do it!” and pounding on a table or
piano I was standing next to. But I’ll try to recreate what I can
remember:
“Why? Because I didn’t do it! What I was in for, all that time, I
didn’t do it! I didn’t do it! Maybe you do did what you were supposed
to have done, but I didn’t! I didn’t do it! And now I want my life
back … and this is the only way to get it.”
The main thing is that I made the monolog up as I went along, and I
had no idea what I had been imprisoned for, how long I had been
imprisoned, or whether or not I had actually done it. I just knew that
this was a great opportunity for me to give an angry, impassioned
monolog. My big moment.
As soon as I finish the speech the guy playing the policeman walks
in with no shirt (looking good) and thrusts a litlighter at my nipple
ring, as if to punish or capture me by burning my nipple. I hit his
hand away, and say What were you doing? and say Oh, I thought you were
going to burn my nipple, like this. We are starting to come out of
character, or he is, but I am also using coming out of character as a
method to keep the policeman-guy from knowing what I was just talking
about, what we’re diong — to keep from getting caught, just in case the
play starts again unexpectedly. I wake up.
* * * * *
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