Where cool is meaningless and meaninglessness
is ever cooler.
#dream #film #noir
An extremely vivid dream last night.
Awoken from a deep sleep by Mrs Monk I knew that I had to write it down immediately or it would be lost forever.
In my subconscious state I imagined that I was reading a book, and one that I dreamed, an aberration but nonetheless one of sublime clarity.
I unconsciously attributed the following title to this book.
Unhappy Ever After
This was at first imagining, a romantic and comic tale of two twenty something men on separate continents courting the same twenty something woman in turn. She would be a small town pretty American girl, an undemonstrative Mary, unusually shy for an American girl.
The story involved two romantic weekends that went sour due to petty contrasting and conflicting arguments about who should pay for the trip and other twenty something issues like who is cool and who is not cool, and who is far too cool.
One young man was a mean American John and the other was a British romcom candy wet Hugh.
The book was a best seller and the movie of the film was much anticipated by the coolest of the cool clique, with sequells and prequells planned for Channel 5, where un-cool is cool, and even your grandma knows that is so.
And where cool is meaningless and meaninglessness is ever cooler.
You can't get cooler than that?
The movie of the book of my dream then took a twist toward hard core Lynch, David Lynch, of the Eraserhead dream and the subliminal erotic metaphor of Twin Peaks, or is it just me who saw it that way?
I found myself, a Brit, in America alone, without Mrs. Monk, in a hotel bar trying to converse with a stranger, a very stranger man with gothic hair, not quite Eraserhead but getting there.
"Have you read Unhappy Ever After", I said to Eraserhead, not quite.
He blanked me.
I then recall from my dream a scene at a private seedy party where underdressed half wasted girls were draped over soft furnishings, where spent heteros gasped for air and gay guys danced with Warhol bathhouse "fag hags" from the seventies. (Not a term I would use today, but I did not write the damn book, I just dreamed it.)
I returned to the bar and sat next to Eraserhead who had no company, save a glass of whisky. I continued our one-way conversation.
"If you haven't read Unhappy Ever After it is an hilarious story about two men failing to impress a very sweet girl called Mary, ..." said I then pausing....
Eraserhead was unmoved.
I continued ...
"The big oaf called John was particularly stupid," I said.
"He certainly did not deserve to get off with Sweet Mary".
I laughed out loud ostentatiously, unmeaningfully failing to lighten Eraserhead's mood.
I gave him time to respond and watched him raise his whisky glass.
Before he took a slug he turned and faced me and gave me an indifferent stare, not ice blue cold, but turquoise.
That would be the moment I realised in a flashback to the seedy party, to that the girl slumped back over the harlot red chaise lounge with her right breast released from the sequinned strapless bra-less zip-less fuck-me frock, she was of course the very same, recently ravished, sweet Mary of Unhappy Ever After.
What a dream? But then I turned to face Eraserhead and stare and stare and unpick the image, the high hair, .......the broken-hearted oafish American John and "not quite Eraserhead," were of the same flawed dream.
Eraserhead took his slug of whisky and then adopted the same lonely pose.
"Nice meeting you," I said as I made my leave, exit left toward another chapter of my unconsciousness.
The third movie genre of my dream was a hybrid of Film Noir and Transformers.
I found myself in a "Third Man" Graham Green high contrast monochrome night-time setting looking into paranoid moving shadows as passing old Sedans with gleaming headlights shone on wet cobbles, imminently fearful and palpably in awe of the clearly unhinged, "Not quite Eraserhead." So convinced was I that he would be after me, I panicked and climbed a telegraph pole, so to be out of his reach. From there I watched Eraserhead appear and then transform, "Transformer" style, into the grandmother of all "Transformer" regurgitators.
Dear surfer, I will spare you the gore but it was not I that Eraserhead had it in for, but Sweet Mary. As with all horror flicks it was the gal that got it bad to the N'th degree.
I climbed down the telegraph pole and as I made my last step, Hugh the wet Brit stepped out of the shadows like the cat in "The Third Man."
"What Ho?", he said.
"Wake up" said Mrs. Monk with a double espresso and perfect timing.
Dear Mr Freud, what would you have made of this dream disquised as whatever?
Unhappy Ever After