Dream #22: Dancing With the Planet
04.20.2010 § Leave a comment
They turn the ruins of the WTC into a T-Rex pen. The T-Rex is the size of Godzilla, though, towering over the skyscrapers. The woman character giggles incessantly, posturing about what a cute pet it makes. The sky is an Anselm Kiefer painting.
The Rex handily escapes by peeling away a warped end of the rusty woven fence encasing it, which had already been peeling away from the building it was supposed to run up against. No one is screaming; in fact, there is absolutely no sound. Alan grant was right there, so he is just fucked. The T-Rex is not computer generated, merely animatronic. At this point it has degenerated into a baby, both in proportion and size. It
hesitates for a long time to eat Grant. It seems to be really conflicted about it, even crying, bobbing back and forth pneumatically. It has dogs’ teeth instead of dinosaur teeth.
When it finally capitulates to its baser impulses, the shot is epically lame and unconvincing, like a jerky crane lowering its jaws around his body then carefully closing. It must be anti-illusionist tactics.
Then suddenly I am one of those precocious and magical schoolgirl characters like Matilda, and I am about to get into trouble but instead I look up at the globe hanging from the ceiling and it starts to glow. Then the lights fall off and we plunge into a musical number about how we shouldn’t repress ourselves, reconciling ourselves to whatever season it apparently “should” be, that we should instead grab the planet by the hands and turn it round and round however we feel like. I call it “Dancing with the Planet.”
Now I’m looking out the window as an adult man, arguing this same concept to someone important in a suit. Well, at least that our seasons would be more efficient at about half their present length, and that we can mitigate the transitional ecological pains of gradually shifting towards that cycle by raising the humidity of our atmosphere. He argues that raising the humidity will fuck over the Southern United States’ ranching.
So, cattle grazing over a lush plain. The sky is like a slightly lighter Anselm Kiefer painting now. In the distance this terrifyingly soulless Neo-Atlanta towers over the field, with no suburban buffer in between, just black and white, like the Star Trek reboot. The architecture looks more like a Tsukamoto fortress than a city, and when I get there I realize that it is actually a robot factory.
I really need to take a piss but the robots wake up, and whirring to life they swarm me, shoving me into an elevator.
Flashback. I am in the park, hiding in the bushes, while my friend tricks Shane into answering a personal question about a decades-old drama from elementary school that he would have never told me to my face.
Back to the present. I crash for the night in the study of the robot factory. I realize that I haven’t brought a suit along, so in order to make it to work on time in the morning I’ll have to factor in at least an extra 45 minutes in order to stop off back home. But, I apathetically decline to do this, fucking myself over.