Westworld Dream

A few nights ago I had a vivid dream which has stayed with me. These are the details:

I am standing on a beach with a film crew. It is just after dawn. The sky is overcast, and the white clouds press low and heavy over the scene. The waves are little more than soft ripples of foam that slide up the beach and barely kiss our bare feet and rolled up pants. There is a breeze that is too slight to kick up any sand. The only indication is that the hair over our foreheads shivers now and then. Otherwise, this beach world is still, quiet, and antiseptic. We are all in a vaguely pretty place, but there is not enough life to inspire any passion. There is no mirth, not even where the coffee and donuts are handed out at the craft services table. The crew huddled here and then in their loose, white, beach shirts and rolled up sailor pants whisper half sentences and sighs, or remain silent in their own gray thoughts. We have all done this gig a few thousand times before. Even before it has started, we are all sensing how much better if would be if we were now packing up our gear and heading back up the hill to the parked trailers.

A short, pudgy man in an ill fitted, white suit escorts a tall, statuesque, dark haired lady down the hill. He has the mannerisms of a persnickety queer. She stares blankly out to the sea like a woman who is either clueless or drugged. She is wearing a white, race car driver’s jumpsuit with a red handkerchief tied around her lower neck. She is wearing also red high heels that are totally impractical out here on this beach, and so the persnickety queer spends much of his time and focus in correcting her balance.

As the lady approaches the film crew, I can see that she resembles the reality TV star, Kim Kardashian, and yet there is something that tells me that this is not the real person. Her skin is a little too gray and waxen. Upon closer inspection, what passes for her eyes are nothing more than two black X’s sewn into her eye sockets. Her lips are turning blue, and so a burly crew guy hurries up to her, injects her pouty lips with an oversized, plastic, pink syringe, and steps back so that we can all see her lips are once more luscious red in color. This elicits halfhearted applause, and the robotic Kim Kardashian lifts up her right hand and waves slightly in acknowledgment. There is no change in the expression that is pasted on her face, though, and I cannot tell if this is because she is actually a robot or if the real life Kim Kardashian is so self-absorbed the woman who is playing her now feels the need to stifle even the slightest facial twitch.

I look up and see the same DeLorean that had appeared in “Back to the Future.” A man in a yellow ski mask is driving it down the hill towards the set. The film crew steps aside so that he can park the sports car beside Kim Kardashian. He leaves the car idling, while he steps out and passes Kim Kardashian and her persnickety queer friend. Another man in a yellow ski mask walks up to Kim Kardashian with a little, blond girl in hand. The girl is dressed in a cute Winnie the Pooh dress, and she is sucking her thumb with her other hand. She looks like she may be tired or frightened, and she looks like she is about to burst into tears when the yellow ski mask man places her hand into Kim Kardashian’s. There is absolutely no chemistry here between Kim Kardashian and the girl, and so the persnickety queer walks up to the yellow ski mask man and berates him in front of the film crew for bringing the “wrong girl.” The yellow ski mask man simply shrugs and then walks away, while the persnickety queer continues to follow closely behind him.

Kim Kardashian sits behind the wheel of the DeLorean. The girl sits beside her. The two of them are buckled in tight, and someone shuts the door. With cameras rolling both in and outside the vehicle, the DeLorean picks up speed, and thrusts out to the sea. There is technology that allows the DeLorean to drive across the surface of the sea like tires on asphalt. A helicopter flies overhead to capture dramatic aerial shots. I look at one of the TV screens beside me, and I see that Kim Kardashian’s DeLorean skims over the frosted waves far from any land. It is supposed to reach Honolulu by nightfall, and I understand that there is another film crew out there ready to capture footage from when that occurs.

I am a guest at a lavish cocktail party after dark. The party takes place on a series of soft, rolling, green hills beside a Bauhaus home. There are tiki torches here and there. In the glow from those torches the guests look like well-sauced devils in white Colonel Sanders suits. There are no women, but the men are merry enough with their tinkling drinks and robust repartee. There is a swimming pool closer to the patio, and guests start to wander back from the hills toward the pool. There is entertainment planned, and no one wants to miss the show.

As we all gather around the swimming pool, a robot Arnold Schwarzenegger steps out from inside the Bauhaus home. He is dressed in nothing but a loincloth, and he looks like he did when he was the seven time Mr. Olympia. He flexes his muscles to the ecstatic oohs and aahs of the devil smirking guests. As planned, he grabs one of the guests at random, and tosses him into the swimming pool. Everyone else cheers in part out of a sense of relief that they were not the one chosen. The robot Schwarzenegger jumps into the swimming pool and pushes the drunk man down, so that he cannot get his face up and out of the water. While holding down the man, Schwarzenegger looks around at the guests and smiles as if to ask them, “Should I let this little girly man live, or should I just drown him like the little runt that he is?” The guests are egging him on, and the robot’s smile widens into the Joker’s maniacal grin in response to all that adulation.

At some point, the robot is supposed to yank up the drowning man, and throw him out of the swimming pool. No one is supposed to drown for real. This time, though, the robot is intent on killing the man. Seeing that this is not going as planned, human security guards from inside the Bauhaus home jump into the pool, and try to wrestle the drowning man away from his would be killer. The guests go wild, and they start to throw their cocktails at the guards in an effort to prevent them from saving the man.

Published by Michael Sean Erickson

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

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