Sunday, January 25, 2009

Dreamovie 71

Nancy and I are trying to avoid certain people, though it is not clear why. We spend the day driving and somehow are able to drive all the way to Minneapolis in the same day.

It seems that I'm going to give a reading there in a place where I've given one before, but the venue we arrive at does not seem familiar. As we stand in that space, a hot air balloon rises out of the floor. I ride atop the balloon for a little while unable to hinder its progress. The balloon reaches the ceiling, where it pauses, stuck. Those of us in the room begin to work on moving the the balloon up and out of the building, through the window.

I'm in the parking lot of the venue, and Jim DiZ drives up and parks. Soon, Siobhan shows up with their boys, and we all go into the space.

The space is supposed to be inside a building, but it seems like the outdoors in parts, with grass growing on the ground. A stage backed by a projection screen sit at the back of the room. We sit down on folding chairs in the audience. Where the floor was flat before, the audience is now seated on tiers.

As I sit there, I realize that I haven't brought anything to read. I decide that my solution will be to read poems off my computer, so I pull out my laptop, but it's not mine. I've picked up Tim's by mistake. I give that one back to Tim, who is suddenly with us, and I start opening my computer to decide what to read.

We are now on the side of the room, rather in the front row of the audience. We are sitting on folding chairs in the grass. As I work on finding poems to read, I realize that I haven't produced the audience booklet I usually produce for each reading I give. I think, briefly, about producing one but realize I do not have the time. I pull a poem up on the screen of my computer and decide that I'm ready, assuming I can pull up others as need be as I'm reading.

I need something from Tim's computer and he has some kind of storage device with comblike attachments. Somehow, the thick almost brushlike combs of this device are where data is stored. I pull off one of the combs expecting to be able to use it, but it's obvious I've just broken that, so I throw it away. Tim is upset with me, but I cannot fix the contraption.

When I go up to read my poems, the arrangement of the room has changed dramatically. The stage faces in a different direction, and now there is a small blocky white table that I can put my computer on. I do not plug the computer into an outlet for power, and I do not attach it to a projector, but somehow it can project through me to the screen behind me, where a visual poem appears. I begin to read my poems aloud.

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