Dream Sequence

It's October. Not that it feels the way October does in the city. Truthfully I never have any physical feeling in my dreams. Just that that's the way the light falls on the street, in this particular dream. Nor does it being October have any real significance either, with the rest of the dream. As if notice of the month were in any way a significant part of it. But somehow when I wake up the Octobery residue of the dream is all that I can immediately remember. It's only by focusing on the way the light fell on the street, that I can begin to remember the rest. Why I should ever want to, I don't know. Anyway, I never realize this till it's too late.

So like I said, beginning from the beginning, it's October and I'm walking downtown. No, not walking, more like floating. Floating past shop windows set in old buildings. Suddenly the red brick of building gives way to an abrupt 90-degree turn into an alley. Not what the eye immediately takes in, but apparent in the background is litter, litter strewn all about. But what certainly catches ones eye, and draws attention away from the rubbish is a peculiarly placed easel. For here is an odd place to place an easel. But the painting placed on the easel is odder still.

A clown. Not that paintings of clowns are particularly rare, or odd. Perhaps odd gives way to curious apprehension, for the clown immediately appears menacing. Not in the white paint disguising the face of a middle aged man, nor the likewise painted baldhead. It's something in the deep dark eyes that show not childish joy, but betray malevolent intelligence. The canvas and frame hone courage, yet the animation portrayed in the eyes threatens to defy reality. The eyes, they draw, they hold, they challenge, daring me to look away. Suddenly a sense that I am evil and cruel overpowers my will, and I turn to flee.

Those eyes, where have I seen them before? I stop and turn back again to study the painting. But it is gone. On the ground, the spot where the easel had been sits a man. A vagrant, or transient, a homeless man, a bum, covered in rubbish and filth, dressed in what can only be called rags, a cup in his extended hand. And those eyes. The same ones as the painting. Had I actually been staring at this wretched outcast a moment before instead of a painting? Had I stared into his eyes with curious disgust and fear displayed on my face?

"What, what do you want!", the draggletailed tramp demands, "Do you have any change or not. Quit staring at me!" He continues his voice slowly rising with vehemence, "What do you think I am, a sideshow freak, a goddamn kiddy show clown?"

I stand there frozen. I can't speak. Shame and disgust are all I can feel. The man is still yelling, shaking his fist, and making an effort to rise. I see him placing his hand, and sickly realize, into a puddle of his own vomit. Now he's clutching at it, trying to pick it up. I start to edge back.

"Oh you're a dandy, look at you in your rich shoes. But you won't give a man who's down on his luck a quarter." The beggar continues while still attempting to scoop up his putrid vomit. "Get away!" he screams, "You make me sick! I can't stand the sight of you!"

Suddenly I’m extending my arm with a quarter in hand. I can’t bear to move closer, I drop the quarter, it lands at arms reach from the wretch, and I turn and run. I run into the October sunlight feeling helpless and sick. Then calm and secure. The hazy sunlight falls sofley on the street and faded red brick of old buildings, and then slowly fades.

Awake! Damn, it's Saturday and I forgot to turn the alarm clock off the night before. Fumbling in the dark at 5:00 A.M., the clock is shut off and I lay drifting back to sleep, thinking of October. I love October. It seems like anything is possible in that magical month. I fall back to sleep, peaceful and dreamless.

Zelig X
1993