[size=0]So I had this annoying dream that David Wenham was selling himself out on MTV, acting like an MTV reality-tv-show idiot or something. So I pleaded God for another dream, and I was granted my wish, even though it had nothing to do with David.
There was a smaller costco-warehouse-looking food store that I went in, maybe with some other person, to find a particular item. This store sold a very particular food item that is not usually sold in this way. The store, though, had a strong presence of the manager. Whenever you were in it, in the aisles, there was a sense of the manager and his superiority ontop of the chain of command. I couldn't find something, and the manager walked along the aisles and came to me, standing straight at attention with his hands behind his back, to command the situation.
This is mostly because the manager was an ancient, powerful king, modeled after Akbar the Great from the old Indian epic Mughal-e-Azam, but appearing like a more European king. More like one of the kings from the Fellowship of the Ring.
He was reknown for having an extensive, sucessful career of heroism and it was a fact that he had conquered nations upon nations, and he was a legendary warrior. Now he had white hair, and for some reason he was connected to this store. Nonetheless, he still wore his ceremonial chainmail and his swords at his side, as well as his crown.
Many things happened along the way, but we arrived at a sort of restaurant setting. There were many round dining tables with dinner parties sitting about them, drinking wine and talking, and the overall atmosphere was fancy and noisy. The king, somehow, was injured. I knew what had caused the injury, and I had clearly watched whatever projectile had injured him and even who had perpetrated it, but I forget now. The king was stumbling and on the ground. For some reason, I felt that it was necessary and that it was assumed the right thing to do to kill him completely now that he was lingering near death. Perhaps this was because it was shameful and undignified for a king to be seen by all these people as a staggering, wounded soldier. He must die nobly and fully.
He had two long swords. I took both and I plunged them all the way through his side. I remember seeing his awkward, stiffening motion, the rigid bulging of his eyes. I laid the swords vertically upon his chest, rather like in Boromir's death in the Fellowship of the Ring. I crossed his arms over the swords, and tried to make his position that of a noble, kingly death. Now I felt pure, raw emotion.
I made speeches on his greatness and I formally spoke to him what value he was, and that he was the Last Great Warrior. Like a granddaughter at a grandfather's bed side, I gently stroked his white hair above the crown and I felt genuine, familial concern for him.
All the fancy dinner people around their tables were watching, candles lit, forks suspended.
As he died, I felt the most pure, raw, intense, real emotion that I ever had in a dream. Lament, insatiable sorrow, and devastation rocked my body, and I could feel myself choking in sobs, and the wetness of my face.
I cried out loud, in the middle of that restaurant, "He was the last great warrior!"
I wailed, regretfully, "He was the last great warrior."
Later on, I'm not sure what happened, but it was the general situation that I was in great danger of being inevitably prosecuted for the man's death. I was a murderer. This might have had some connection to another part of my dream that I had forgotten. But it was really scary. I was wanted, and everyone looked at me as a murderer. I kept wondering to myself, will even these friends of mine and adults who have always looked at me as only a sweet, common girl from church, regard me so mercilessly, solemnly? I was looking at the world now in complete disbelief and dismay at an identity that seemed to be haunting me and forcing itself on me. It was a strange struggle in believing, first of all, that this situation was going on, and then wondering how I could get out of it.
Surely, I thought, I did not murder the person in cold blood. I had difficulty clearly thinking what had happened. Then I remembered, yes, there must have been a reason why I plunged the swords into the king's body. It was because someone else had initially injured him fatally. I was finishing it off, and I may as well earn a life sentence for finishing him off instead of calling for help. I was very worried that that was the case. I knew that I would be penalized severely for finishing off the death, and not calling for help. Then I thought about how I would convince the court, about lawyers, etc.
LadyStefania wrote:"The Proposition" opens in San Francisco this weekend. It's gotten a lot of good press, including a story on Danny Huston in the San Francisco Chronicle's lively arts section, aka the pink pages. If I see any write ups that are specifically about Dave, I'll let you know. Interestingly, he's got fourth or fifth billing in the advertisements, even though his part is small.
Arthur Burns holds dead Mikey Burns on his lap under the tree. The impression is strong that in saving one man by killing a few other men, the saved man dies as well. Both parties are dead - the victim and the opponents. The whole escapade is absolutely useless, with nothing but destruction as a result.
Stanley and Martha deliberately create a situation out of thin air of calm and ordered family life at the dinner table near the end. Arthur Burns sits next to his brother near the end, creating a situation of chosen brotherly bonding at a sunset all out of thin air. These scenes that are crafted by characters show how humans create things like dignity and civilization with their hands, with their wills, out of a messy heap of natural chaos.
Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 1 guest