Author: Davey Dreamnation (page 137 of 240)

Sparks flew off the gravity wheel as I lay still and hungry in the dark. Couldn’t sleep, or thought I wasn’t dead. The sound of Jay Leno made me want to throw my crash test dummy away, buy a car and drive it straight at him (sans headlights). Lying there with the earplugs drilling deep into my brain, monitoring my heartbeat for irregularities. The caustic combination of vodka and soda water, that grumbling fountain of bubbles and home remedies. Homeslick. Barren graves and sudden power. The special aura created by dancing children. The eternal street, of which Pynchon wrote, stretched out before me like a body. Minions dealing insults, pizza shops that never seem to close, or sell pizzas. Groups huddled in cars, wolfing down space food meals. Robotic marsupials performing their own special Chipmunk version of my life story, featuring two banjos. The pantomime’s intermission that allowed me to sneak backstage and find out just what “behind you!” actually meant. Then it was one in the morning. The woman behind the bar was calling me “honey” and did so again as I left. She’d asked what kind of gin I preferred and then added “don’t say Bombay”. I said, “okay”. It wasn’t for me anyway. I bought it as a bribe for the man who introduced the world to Catholic Autistic Terrific. The man who bought a badge-making machine and started pumping out tiny tributes to David Niven during his “kif” period. But back to the hunger. The invisible evening meal. Something Phillip K. Dick might have invented, were it not for his epiphany (which we mistook for the complete breakdown of moral order). Well, despite the radiant glow of the moon this morning I awoke, as usual, in Switzerland. Nothing unusual there. My body clock, however, had turned to wood. Damn worms. But back to sleep. To speed and sage. To parlour games and snorry mouths courtesy of Mercury Rev. To tumbles and whipcrack nouns. My name translates as “solemn nonsense”.

I’m David Niven but I can’t say who you are. You’re the mystery light shining from a great big star. I’m a top gun actor but I’ve gone and lost my lines. You’re the only script writer I’d entrust with my life story. I’m dabbling in moustaches, drowning in pink gin. You’re looking cool in Errol Flynn’s swimming pool. I’ve got a yacht. You’ve got a lot more than that. I’m toying with the idea of learning Esperanto. You speak a language I’m just beginning to realise is poetry. I got a cramp last night, in my right leg. You skip and you can dance on your hands. I’m up and I’m down then I’m somewhere in the middle. You’re lava. I’m about to say something silly. You’re listening. I’m listening. You’re about to say something lovely. I’m right here. You ride your bike through springtime streets. I listen to the radio. You could burn CDs with your smile. I’m compiling a mix tape for our dizzy reunion. You stole feelings from the moon. I wish I owned a telescope. You laugh. I’m seriously delirious. You do not own a tiara. I dust off my wrinkled dinner jacket. You recall, of course, the night we heard Frank Sinatra singing to the sea and to the moon. I remember it well. You drank champagne as if it was starjuice. I ate an entire champagne glass, stem and all. You said something about holding onto everything. I translated that as meaning me. You may have meant something else. I like whirlwind romances. You saved the evening from drowning. My middle name is pink gin. Your name rhymes with many words, including love. I’m David Niven, looking up at the Hollywood skies. Our children search for a great big star whose twinkle reminds them of your eyes.

He was unknown to me, a phantom bird. Our flight paths intersected momentarily, somewhere over a sandalwood sea. I dreamed of empty hotels in the desert. Stories that never seemed to begin or end. The virus came and I was stranded in an airport, feeling lonely. That much was real. My heart was bruised. His heart was an empty hotel. Someone said the oilwells were on fire. I laughed and turned to the sporting pages. Extinct frogs. The coffee grew bitter and cold in its porcelain cup. I drew moons on my breast in the dark. Echoes riddled my fever dreams. A sniper drew out my tongue and bit it off. Confiscated it. A thud, inside the theatre. Detonated bombs. Now I circle the lobby, translating his dim messages into the code I use to breathe. The smoke from the sabotaged pipeline, like evidence of cigars in a private club. Plans for my eventual evacuation, on hold. I tuned a radio to their world service, laughed again at the inaccuracy of the reports. Still, in the empty hotel, when I found him, the music screeched. I remembered a dance step from my youth and drew diagrams in chalk on the marble. Commenced my private hopscotch. Incredible, isn’t it? In the magazines that arrive daily, always a month ahead of schedule, I see my own words and blanch. That final interview. His strangled noises. Bi-planes and Range Rovers. Sweet whispers. Do not assume that you know me, empty hotel. Who he was, who I became. I shall be my own search party, walking down corridors drenched in sweat. Perhaps the pool is still there. My heart is still there. My mirage, my embrace, my death wish. Stop the atomic clock. His heart, my heart. Tell me one day this will stop. Tell me I’m still here, inside the empty hotel, praying for their surrender, our bypass, his feelings, my sandalwood bird.