Outrage Signs Dream

Last night I had a vivid dream which has stayed with me. These are the details:

I am in the backseat of a limousine in heavy traffic. With my face pressed against the passenger rear window, I see the downtown Los Angeles skyline a few miles ahead against a cloudy, dusk sky. I can feel the heaviness in the air and know that soon there will be a downpour that drenches everything. I am on the I-10 on an overpass that is headed toward the I-110. Hovering above this overpass are several oversized movie screens. The screens are black, and for now the screens are hovering in place, but the sudden appearance on each screen of a horizontal blue line that divides the screen in two tells me that a message is about to be displayed.

The blue line on each screen morphs into a single word that fills that screen like a digital shout: Outrage! For a moment the Outrage! screens hover like accusatory gods over the bumper to bumper traffic. Then, all at once, the Outrage! on each screen switches from blue to yellow and starts to flash. As soon as the word starts to flash, the screens move through the sky in erratic patterns that look more cartoonish than mechanical. I watch the drone screens flying over the I-10 with increased fascination and concern. I sit back from the window, take a deep breath, sigh audibly, and nod toward my unseen driver.

I am on the floor of an overcrowded casino. People are pushing and elbowing their ways toward the game tables. Naked waitresses in elaborate Indian headdresses walk around the room holding up silver trays with champagne flutes. Flying in the smoke filled air just above the game tables are television sized screens. Outrage! in yellow flashes on each of the screens. The word now flashes so fast as to be almost a blur. It is like a yellow punch coming out from a black backdrop. I sense that the faster the word flashes the more the people inside this casino push and elbow their way to wherever they are going. The nude cocktail waitresses pick up their paces as well, and very soon they look like mechanized dolls whizzing around and in between their customers. They never splash a drop of their champagne, though, even as the voracious game players and watchers snap the passing flutes off the silver trays. I am not caught up in all this frenzy. I walk patiently through all this toward a private, black elevator that is going to whisk me up to the penthouse suite.

The penthouse suite is an oval track that wraps around a gold railing. If one stands near the railing and looks down, he can see the floor of the casino many stories down. If one stands near the railing and looks up, he can see a dark, minaret, glass dome that warps the appearance of the full moon in the night sky above. There are many people inside of this suite, but the mood is much more deliberate and hushed. Everyone up here is well dressed, professional, even courteous. The nude cocktail waitresses with their oversized silver trays are not wearing Indian headdresses. Instead, they are wearing Abe Lincoln top hats. They bend forward coquettishly when serving champagne flutes to the old men seated in settees. Everywhere I look I can see their upturned asses smiling back at me.

As I walk around the track I see Snoop Dogg alone on a white settee smoking a joint and staring blankly ahead. He looks like the oldest man in the word, and at first I think he is a statue in a dark suit carved out of aged redwood. I continue down the track, snatch up a champagne flute for myself, and see Stephen Moore, the American economist, sitting on a settee of his own. Unlike Snoop Dogg, who is alone, Stephen Moore is surrounded by a number of handlers, makeup artists, and hairstylists. A little, black boy in knickerbockers is even polishing his shoes. He is taking in all the adulation with aplomb.

There are television screens hovering above us here in this penthouse suite, but unlike the screens everywhere else the screens here are not flashing Outrage! Instead, there is on each of them a continuous, thirty second, video loop of beautiful flowers opening up their petals to a soft, warm sun. I sense that Snoop Dogg, Stephen Moore, and me are in this suite in order to deliver messages of peace that will cool down the temperature and restore order down there on the casino floor (and, presumably, everywhere else that has been ignited into a frenzy by those flying Outrage! screens). I take my seat on a settee of my own, finish my champagne, and wait for my own handlers to find me.

Published by Michael Sean Erickson

I write, act, and produce films in Los Angeles. Everything else is conjecture.

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