by Alan Hanson
It is twilight. You are living inside of a prism beam. You are slowly falling through a prism beam without worry and with a satiated stomach. All of your childhood pets are running toward you in slow motion and they are hungry for your love. Your favorite blanket is playing your favorite instrument on a bed of newly fallen autumn leaves. Insects do not exist and yet, the ecosystem remains beautifully balanced. Your boss who respects you very much enters your line of vision and unrolls a long scroll. She reads from the scroll. She reads all of your favorite words, slowly, then disintegrates and is carried off by a warm wind. You have never had a parking ticket. Your dentist is in awe of your brushing habits.
You are folding laundry in the laundry room of your modest suburban Colorado home. You are pleased with this zen task. A cool breeze fondles the lace curtains of your open window. The crisp midday air begs you to inhale fully, which you do, and this also pleases you. Suddenly, but without startle, a marble-worker’s firm hands delicately grab your waist. You are flush. You are dreaming. You decide not to wake up. You see where this goes.
3. By The Seaside
You are Tom Cruise in Cocktail. Except in this version of Cocktail, the film starts right when you arrive in Jamaica and ends right before you stupidly flex your man-pride and show off for that older woman at the tiki bar, you know, just to prove you could get her? With that improbable match trick? Leaving poor Elisabeth Shue pregnant and betrayed? That part never happens. You don’t even think about that part. Instead, you perpetually live in the waterfall where your passions grow. You no longer require food nor drink to survive. Love and a crooked smile are the only forms of sustenance you need. The soundtrack is updated. The swimsuits are not.
2. Night Owl
YOU ARE THINKING ABOUT DANCING. NO, YOU ARE GETTING READY TO DANCE. YOU ARE NOT YET DANCING, BUT OH BOY, YOU SOON WILL BE DANCING. THIS PREPARATION UPON ENTERING FULL DANCE MODE IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN THE ACTUAL ACT OF DANCING. YOU ARE WARMING UP. YOU ARE ‘FEELING IT.’ YOU ARE TAPPING A FOOT, NODDING A RHYTHMIC GRIN. YOU ARE NOTICING THE FLUID PROPERTIES OF YOUR COMMANDING AND GLISTENING LIMBS. SOME OF YOUR FRIENDS ARE STILL AT THE BAR, IDLY TWISTING THEIR COCKTAILS IN THEIR HANDS, UNSURE IF THEY ARE PREPARED TO ESCALATE THEIR LOITERING, BUT YOU, YOU HAVE TAKEN FOUR STEPS TO THE EMPTY SPACE BETWEEN THE BOOTHS AND THE HALL LEADING TO THE RESTROOM. YOU WILL SOON COMMAND THIS 8’X8’ ARENA. YOUR EYELIDS SLIP INTO A SEXY POSE, DIMMING THE LIGHTS A BIT BUT STILL SHOWING A BRAVE GLIMPSE OF LOWER EYEBALL, THESE SULTRY, WET PEEPERS SAY TO THE CROWD, “I AM ALMOST READY TO DANCE, AND ONCE I BEGIN IT SHALL ENTRANCE YOU FOR A MULTITUDE OF ETERNITIES. UNTIL THEN, YOU STATIC, STATIONARY PEONS, YOU WILL WATCH MY GROWING SMOLDER AND PANT.”
You are coasting down the main drag of your small town on a scooter. But in this world, scooters are not universally mocked. Scooters are the smooth, gliding chariots of the respected. It is a balmy, spring afternoon. Your favorite townspeople eagerly wave to you from the storefronts of their successful small businesses. You are magnificently happy to see them. You are content with the world. You have never heard of war, never have you seen the film Crash, not once have your gorgeous and soft ears fallen prey to the gnashing and soulless sounds of Sleigh Bells. The band. You pause your ebullient gliding at a water fountain. The pressure and temperature is ideal. From a nearby bench, Ernest Borgnine motions for you to join him. Yes, he is still alive. Also, he has baked a pie.