Michael Eisner and the FBI

A Dream knot not:

My family and I had just been stopped by the FBI. We were in some sort of city and had a terrible time hailing a cab. Eventually my Dad noticed a parked car in the adjacent lot and ran over. After a moment's chatter, my Dad signaled to my Mom, my Brother and I to come over. Hauling our bags over to the big cadillac with neon yellow highlights, we prepared to leave, but had to go through customs first. At the customs window, the man in a United States blue uniform asked me if I knew where Chrystal was. I feign ignorance saying, "You know I'm sorry. I know Chrystal, but I just can't remember where she lives. I don't know her address". Smirking, the man told me to come to the back of his office. I quickly went back over to the cadillac with my family's belongings in it and began to shut the trunk when Mr. Eisner's face appeared just to the right of the trunk. I shut the trunk and said, "It's a pleasure to meet you Mr. Eisner. I really admire you work". He smiled back at me in his afternoon special smile, and guided me in the direction of the FBI. In the office, he briefly gestured that I should sit down with his cartoon hands. I sat down to face Mr. Eisner, his goon and the two FBI agents in black. They continued to press me about the location Chrystal. I stuck with my story even though in the previous part of my dream I had just come from her house. I knew where she lived, but didn't know the address. The FBI were not sticklers about such caveats so they ended up letting me go on the mere formalities of unknown addresses.

The scene shifts and I am back in Chrystal's apartment. I am lazing around in the couch with a couple of Chrystal's friends. The basement has the opium den feel about it, dark and dubious. I am affectionately cuddling and caressing a sturdy, handsome, Russian looking fellow when I decide to get up and find Chrystal and deliver the bad news. I make my way upstairs to the kitchen and find her shucking corn and tidying up the place. I tell her about my parent's inconvenient experience with the cab and tell her about the run in with customs. She continues to shuck, shrugs off the news simply by saying, "I know". Since Chrystal seems so indifferent about her wanted status I decide to go back down stairs to the den. I stay in the basement with these fugitive Russian types until dark. Feeling as if I had just woken up from a nap, disheveled and disorganized I begin to make my way up the gray stairs, holding to the cheap wooden rail. The lights are off and in the twilight of the afternoon I can just make out the peeling lime green paint that lines the stair well. As I approach the landing, I hear a cacophony of flashing bulbs and become temporally blinded by all the light that is pouring in from outside. Shielding my eyes with my hands in the direction of the glaring light I realize that the light is coming from many an illuminated camera. There are men outside. I do not know if they are FBI or paparazzi, but I look at them with my hand sort of covering my face and ask if we could possibly reshoot. I tell them that their lights have surely blown out my face and that I think it would be better if we could light from inside. I walk over to the hall light and turn it on and say, "you see, the light is much better like this. And if we turn on the light in the kitchen I think the effect will be much more flattering for my face". The photographers agree and I go back downstairs with the intention of walking back upstairs, pretending that the photographers are going to catch me unawares. Making my way back up the stairs, I just get to the landing when there is a great swelling of flash bulb light. They have ignored me and I wake up. It is ten in the morning and bright out. Finally a morning of sunshine, at least a brief respite of the gray haze.

The Navy Yard

The light pours in and the sadness evaporates out in dust particle light. Lindsey and Gautier tend to the avocado, the smashing, processing, blending of said avacado. Bella blurts out in high pitch five year old, "the avacado's on the floor"! and a love grows.

I sit here in the Navy Yard, sitting in a chair, green paint peeling and cover exposed to the threads. I look out the window. The pale blue and faded red cranes sit a top their gridded bases, hibernating, waiting for spring to come. "The hounds of winter are upon us". Lindsey imagines them as tiny houses, tiny houses that follow the sun. I miss the sun. My apartment is so dark. There is no light in the kitchen. Florescant and suspended on high.



It is so lovely here now. Egg nog and southern comfort. Coffee and rolled drum. Tin and tinfoil. This foil drags on, drags into lungs and exhales as smoke whispers, sursurring us pleasant in ink blot afternoon. The first layer, gray and awaiting the murky blue sea of evening. Lake and lack. Luster and star brooms. Bristle into the hair, stand on end. Stand up into the ink blot sky. Nether nebulous afternoon star. Pervasive inchoate moon. Drizzle into skin. Seep. seep, seep. drizzle. piano. and oh. oh where ink blue. you who now come and go with the alternative movement of industries excursion. excursive and cursive. I want to roll out of here, roll back into a void indiscernable. There is no light in here. wavering flame to wick. bic moments in augenblick mountains trailing in indian paint brush. The path is granual. gradual decline. slipping upon the rock worn grains of over used heel and toe. Toeing a line that doesn't pick up. Pick up. Pick up bones and walk into crane days. augur well. augur. rotate in tomorow's subway train. JMZ. abayent JMZ. obeyed. obey.

In solitude it comes, leaning into the ear. cupping the ear in stiff hand, lego yellow, whispers over marble shoulders. surrsurs. surreptitious. steal away back into black nebulous comfort. black. aurora black. dark days. these are dark days and the sky hangs limp.