by Dan Nishimoto

29 August 2005


Only in Dreams

They were attracted to the outline.

Hard to find because when the three first entered the house little stood out in the sea of blackness. Of course, all the pretty things were present: boots and dye, ties and hoops, studs and 10s. A singular smell arose, a harmony of homogenous odors. The din of bleats and beats beating beleep beleep beep were all too familiar. Then out of the pitch black, a glimmer of product glistened like a glitch in time. Brightness had blasted from beyond the back of the stage, accentuating an impression, an image, an ideal. And it was then that they decided to stay.

cover art



US: 2 May 2005
UK: 17 May 2005

They felt the urge. It began as it always did, a trickling faucet leaking petals of soft down bled red to flirt with the porcelain. But the climax came quicker, exploding quickly into a Jello geyser, almost suffocating with its viscous texture. It was a Need. A need to… know? No, a need to embrace back; quid pro quo, if you will. Yes, so calculatingly impulsive, the life of Bass Lovers. Cabinet Freaks. Drum Junkies. And so they pushed and they breathed. And they pushed and they breathed. And they pushed their way forward. Running, reaching, screaming their way into her arms. Their ears pressed deep against her ample chest, they listened for the message. However, her sternum had led lectures to countless before them, cartilage grilled like cobweb with imprints of her past brood. So, all they could make out were her accents, sparks in the darkness.

Proximity did not equal intimacy. So sideway days for their sideways gaze. I think it’s raining outside, one said nervously, shifting listlessly. That doesn’t mean we have to leave, said another, not about to be bothered. In fact, I think things are only getting better, said the third, eyes big as almonds. And before another word could be shouted, it came again. This time, like a flood, a broken dam unleashing the cleansing that they had been waiting for. A coolness breezing past the rocks, now let’s watch it in fast-forward, they yammered. Rewind, selector. Third verse was certainly different from the first. Scanning the scene, it all seemed familiar: black clothes and photophobia, hardly out of the ordinary; goth rock and cock rings, it ain’t no big thing; but mad canines and a chronic iron deficiency? Rock ‘n’ roll and vampires, now that’s where it’s at. Lusting for life, they knew there was no turning back.

Camera cut: Corbijn and Tarkovsky in soft focus. Don’t forget your jacket, the voice whispers, a bike ride in the cool night air will do you some good. After all, Maddin ain’t mad at’cha. A great escape across a post-Chernobyl landscape. Did you zip up? The fog is especially thick this time of year. Ghost Riders in an April storm, Jim Morrison on E. Seaward bound, land ever on the horizon, stay the course.

Back to black. They stumble out the backdoor, gasping and grasping. A break from the air would help. Breathe in, should I stay? Breathe out, should I take a breather? Each keels, finally finding their mutual prayer. But no one speaks. Words now bare the weight of three-dimensions in bold and come crashing down at the pace of Tetris level 10; expressions of the incomprehensible. Crumpled in an alleyway, one wonders where is my Kirsten Dunst? Another pines for Toby. The last simply wonders how is it possible for the logical to be so incomprehensible. Breathing slows, they each turn towards each other slowly. Fade to white…

Finally, liftoff. The wheels bounce here and there, but a bumpy beginning promising new and better things; acceleration to move past yesterday’s turbulence. The friends sit side-by-side, middle aisle, leaving behind gravity’s discomfort. How’s the air up there, their friends will ask? Fine, thank you. Won’t you come join us? On second thought, we’ll be moving along; catch us if you can.

Cut back to first scene. One teen atop a stage. Turns out his wishes were already there, in the spotlight, all eyez on him. It’s his moment of clarity, his moment of honesty. Would you like to sing along, he asks? A melody twinkling like gilded wings on an angel. To the beat y’all, and it don’t stop. And when I swell, you swoon. When I croon, you purr, pussycat. Was it as good for all parties involved? A most satisfying meal with the best of company. Swirls of peppermint secrete red and white candy stripes, coating the tongue with a slow pleasure. Shards form like acne pockmarks along the surface of the Man on the Moon, dipping in then jutting sharply. Audience cheers fade out.

Sebastian Tellier on the closing credits. Organic liveness for the post-popcorn coitus. The feature is always Focus vagueness; the lights aren’t even back up, but it’s back to basics. A dream from the life of Superpitcher. And you’re invited.

But what a dream.



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