Without. In our consumer society exists a subculture of without. It’s unusual to go without. Those who go without meat are vegetarians. Women who go without mates are spinsters. Men who go without clothes are nudists. Doctors who go without borders are Doctors Without Borders. In our consumer society, I go without television. What am I called? You might say I’m a dreamer. It’s not that I’m against television, it’s just that after 30 seconds of moving images I am thrust into my own self-created world of good and evil, mystery and lust, sin and redemption, followed by the occasional setback of even sinlier sin.
I walk past my office to the kitchen for a little social lubricant, which also serves as an effective writing lubricant, and almost never as an actual lubricant in the pure sense of the word. I am drawn towards colorful sounds and deafening images from the living room. I only catch a moment’s worth of televised fantasy, but it’s enough to launch me across the astral plane that barely separates me from the mere mortals of Americania, mortals who, undoubtedly need my assistance, mortals who consist of slovenly, neglectful men and curvaceous, scantily clad women asleep on lily pads. I know that in this world I must find such a woman and rescue her from her unsatisfying existence and give her, if only for 1 minute and 38 seconds, a reason for breathing. Sweaty, startled breathing. I must give it to her.
I drink from the potion labeled ‘Drink the Other One, for God’s Sake’ and then chase that potion with another labeled ‘Windex,’ and strip down to my battle loins, for flexibility is a requirement in this world of ogres. Miniature villages block my path, and I must enlist two fat-bellied hobbits to guide me to the damsel of the lily pad. They speak unintelligibly and tug at the flaps of my loincloth, and I see that they are hungry, so I strike at the nearest animal, a wolf-like creature which dodges my blow and runs yelping through a tiny door to an outside world where only a fool creature would dare tread. The hobbits must go hungry for now.
They are of no use. But I am gifted with a magic wand that glows red when damsels are near, and it leads me to a closed, wooden door. There is a knob, but in this world, all doors are locked, so I don’t even try, but instead beat the door down with a swift kick. The hobbits scream.
The lily pad fills the room, and I am able to leap to it from the door.
Funny how your feet in dreams never touch the earth.
But I land on top of the damsel’s leg and it startles her. She rises, grimacing like a wounded bear and strikes me, knocking me from the lily pad. Now the hobbits are laughing. And the blow from landing suddenly allows me to understand their language:
‘Daddy! Why are you running around in your underwear?’
‘WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU KIDS DOING IN MY DREAM?’
And the ursine damsel climbs off her lily pad and charges.
‘RUN CHILDREN! THROUGH THE ASTRAL PLANE!’ I scream, their welfare my only concern.
‘Vut zee hell are you doeeng? Can you not let me sleep for teen meenutes? Vy don’t you go vatch teevee, or zumtheeng?!?’
‘Yeah, okay.’
These dreams go on when I close my eyes!
Every second of the night I live another life!
These dreams that sleep when it's cold outside!
Every moment I'm awake the further I'm away!
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