“Dead End Street Of Dreams” —digital collage by AleXander Hirka

Urgently Going Nowhere

Over The Hurdles And Back To Apocalypse (Hopefully)

If they had prizes for Dream Directors at the Festival de Cannes, mine would have won many years in a row.
From the smart and dazzlingly apocalyptic (stuff CGI will never catch up with) — to eye-winking fourth-wall smashing metafictions.
(The former: The visual phantasmagoria when the earth’s center of gravity went off by a degree or two. The latter: Someone approached me in a dream, looking for a job. I pointed him towards an open garage door—explaining that they were hiring in there—clarifying that it was where my dreams were created.)

But then, a year or so ago—as Mr Python, Monty himself, had said “and now for something completely different”—some mysterious distributor brought in an ongoing agonizing series of B Grade dreams created in a New Wave Frustration NeoRealism style.

There must have been a reason or cause for these dark churning flagellations emerging from my hippocampus—but alas, the screenwriters were not making me privy. And Dr. Sigmund was on sabbatical.
I pondered setting up some fMRI scans to examine my brain activity. Maybe then a hypothesis would arise for this Ennui Festival that was now running nightly in my cerebrum cinema.