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.
