Itâ€™s like this, and it is no dream: First off, a plastic palomino and its
stiff-armed rider float above a toybox. The rider is a dyed Custer, and
everythingâ€™s red. I mean boots and kerchief and holster and eyebrows
even. He is one ruined and reduced cavalryman, he was poured and
solidified with horribly bowed legs, simply because his only reason for
existence is to straddle the palomino. Denied Comanches. But the horse
and rider float and revolve anyway, on the lookout for marauders. They
rotate at about a revolution a minute, as per specs. Also: a velour
basketball, half the size of a real basketball, hangs mid-aired over a
crib. In the closet, the arms of tiny jackets and sweaters wave and salute
wildly. The threads of the carpet flatten out like grass under a
helicopter, and then circular waves run outward from the middle of the
room. When the waves die down, itâ€™s just a regular carpet again. The
whole cycle takes three and a half minutes. An empty rocking chair
rocks faster than any mortal granny could.
Out the wide window across the room, itâ€™s a crescent moon in bough-
crook kind of thing; caramel lights through sectioned panes in houses
of white wood, trees blown and slanting like smoke. Windows and
doors of the houses wide open with Trust. Children breathe pillow air.
Hills roll away behind the row of houses in a fairly pastoral manner. It
is a kind of smooth blue Ireland. And the blue is in the room too. It is
the blue of night scenes in animation. The cloak of night and all that. It
is very much like the nights when little kids point at the moon and say
odd things. There is the smell of very clean carpet. There is no sound of
bugs and no sound of rocking chair or wind or of anything scraping the
windowpane. But you can hear the air conditioning. I rub my window
clean and enjoy a soft drink.
Hereâ€™s something, basically the abuse of an elderly couple. Watch:
when they first step in, Iâ€™m not worried. They stand in the doorway. He
pushes back his baseball cap. She goes for the camera and says, â€śCry
Pete, woudja lookit all thisâ€¦â€ť All is well. His hands are behind his
back and he steps in, to figure out how it all works. She inspects the
finish on the dresser. That she can touch. I have no problem with that.
He gets closer and closer to the window (and the village of the caramel
lights) and, by gar, it still looks real. It even looks real when his toes
touch the crib. Which sits protectively in front of the window. But then
he puts his dusty boots on the crib, and his hands on the window frame,
and pulls himself up, leans in close to the pane. I cannot have that. I
key the mike: â€śPlease refrain from interaction with the components,
sir!â€ť Is that any way to talk? Still, itâ€™s a living.