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NON-DREAM DREAM

The hall way resembles an indoor skate half-pipe (perhaps influenced by Lucy Hall telling me a few weeks back about the photographer’s collection of bedroom half-pipes in Japan), and I seem to be running, while walking heavily down the steep corridor, a couple below me who are friends, I intentionally scare him by pretending to land on his shoulders from behind, as the hallway levels out quickly.


I then remembering lying on my back with a skateboard under my feet, feeling self-conscious that I need to prove myself, like my reputation amongst the other skaters who might be pass by and spot me momentarily, trying to pop an olley solely by force of my ankles and knees, which I do finally without too much practice.


Then I seem to be standing over a large black and white photo of a famous internationally-renowned skater from yesteryear lying in a stretcher covered in bandages looking at the camera expressionlessly. It manifests as the beginning of a video documentary on a horrific accident he had which ended his career, a view of cascading balconies of a resort hotel leading down to the blue-green waters of a lake, a helicopter hovering over the water, shadowed by a large stain of bright red blood, when the protagonist comes over, parachuting in like a bright orange hang-glider, from behind me, the commentator responding with genuine horror, anticipating that the man is flying too low, before he impacts with one of the balcony railings below, the commentator making references to his career during the excitement, painting the man as an expert, having won every type of major award, interrupted by another accident, the man apparently falling again horrifically, describing with panic how the man is next dragged by his parachute through the rotor blades of the helicopter, then across the blades of a second helicopter hovering nearby, just outside of the original field of vision. Finally the man lands and appears to stand motionlessly, covered in the deflated parachute, standing in the shallow water near the edge of a beachless cove, although no blood or shredded material is visible, suddenly begins shrieking, growing in intensity with each new breath. I wake up to the sound of the Cockatoos shrieking in the tree outside my window.