Reoccurrence

Allergy season means poor sleep. It means tossing and turning all night in a daze of half oblivion and total awareness. It means I sit at this desk, in this house and fall asleep upright while listening to fiREHOSE. I decided today that I was gonna take a nap. Why fight this madness with energy drinks today. I don’t have a job, fuck it. My responsibilities are to me and me alone still. So I headed for bed.

I couldn’t sleep for the first hour. I got a phone call and a text message that broke my shit slumber daze. I tossed and turned. I felt chased and strangled. I could hear the fluids in my head break and crackle and settle. It was disturbing and disgusting. There are no worse sounds than the sounds of one’s own body. The fluids, the veins, the bones, it’s awful.

Finally I fell asleep. But it wasn’t a good sleep. I had that recurring nightmare once again. I’m walking in Washington DC, and I turn a corner and suddenly I am greeted by hundreds of severed heads of statues and I look up and their will be some huge, terrifying sculpture very close to me. This time it was some fucked up penguin, laying on its side, paint chipped and eyes drawn by some schizophrenic in the middle of an episode. It has a giant fin extended up to the sky and it’s wrapped around a large stone hand, that of god I suppose, just emerging from the clouds. Nothing that notes it is man-made, except the cold grey and its lack of movement. I see other monoliths now, emerging and growing up from the earth. Obelisks reach up past the clouds. Around me the heads are now statues, some grotesque and weird, some just broken and ancient, but others just normal castings of humans, supposedly famous. This time, the statues come alive. Men in suits begin playing soccer using some of the discarded heads, they laugh at me as they are kicked.

I hear, from some sound system pleas for money so that this junkyard of statues can purchase some finding that will re-create some epic moment in history. I don’t pay too much attention because I am trying now to get away from the moving statues. I weave in and out of corridors and emerge back out into a big field of hills. There are giant statues in the distance and lining the middle ground is a holocaust of statues. They all feel alive and violent, as though they are near animation, and thus an uprising of annihilation. I am the only living creature present and they are all fixated on me. Giant heads of buddha’s start to turn in the distance. And though they are so far away in proximity, the largeness of them makes their angry facial features fell close and real. The fury is about to be unleashed. I am terrified. I wake myself, sneezing, saved by allergic reactions to the pollen that covers me.

Giant statues have always frightened me. I fainted the first time I went to the Statue of Liberty as a sentient human (I was there once as an infant, clearly, I have no recollection of that trip). Tall buildings fascinate and mortify me. These man-made structures that pillage the sky and defy gravity with intense engineering. I wish for them all to fall. And yet I am fascinated with them. I want more of them. I can’t marvel at the beauty of nature, the Sandia Mountains behind my home now and not see even larger, terrifying images over us. I am no christian, but a statue of Jesus, much like the one in Rio seems appropriate.

There is something about these offerings to these gods that I find appropriate. They are fearful for a reason, because we fear these gods. And while I would also prefer other images over taking our horizons, these gods make sense to me. This need to see what is on this planet and a wish for more is in some way my need to face this odd, irrational fear. All I know is I haven’t felt right all day since waking from this nightmare. I fear my sleep tonight. I should like not to spend hours haunted by this graveyard of our idolatry. I should like to find peace instead.

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