In the
dream, I didn’t want to do Mardi Gras but I was obliged to attend because of my
membership in a GLBTI martial arts club. It was a damn nuisance on a day
when I had so many other things to do and so many other places I wanted to be. And what’s
more, I was running late. I raced like crazy through hot suburbia to get to the
check-in booths, getting lost a few times on the way as I ran down the endless
nature strips of hot grass baking in the sun. There was no shade. Eventually, I
made it to the stall, which was attended by a disinterested drag queen, but when
I showed by woven rainbow bracelet for ID, she told me that the club that had
signed me up had already filled its quota of attendees and I’d have to wait to
see if there were any cancellations from other affiliated groups. It was exasperating
but at the same time, I caught myself thinking this might be an opportunity to
back out of this annoying commitment.
While I
waited for word, I noticed that Sandra
Sully was also in the area. She was getting ready to host the Ten News at
5:00pm and was wearing a large, unflattering pink and blue dress with white spots. It was her
newsreading dress, she told me. She revealed that she didn’t like the sports
anchor Brad Canning very much at all. In fact, no one did. As I saw him come
around the corner, wearing a light blue mink and ermine collar over his clothes
like some kind of pompous city mayor, I wasn’t surprised.
As we sat
on the bench on the side of the Pacific
Highway at my old high school bus stop, I noticed
there were sharks. They were flying through the air as though it were water -
or perhaps I'd been underwater the entire time and was just breathing it as though it were air. In any case,
these vicious monsters, though not tame, had agreed not to attack people -
although it was hard to put my faith 100% in that undertaking. Using a sheet
for cardboard to create a barrier and bop them away if they came too close, I
swam with the sharks of North Sydney.
Police
sirens rang out on O’Riordan St,
Alexandria. There'd been a robbery and I was right closeby. The getaway car filled with dudebros sped past me as I stood at the traffic lights and I got in. Everyone was really excited and we ended up daring one another to do the Ice Sheet Cold Swimming Challenge, which was an endurance test, swimming in icy-cold water for as long as possible. We went to the local pool in Lane Cove and got into the water. There were giant ice cubes bobbing around in it.
When I got out, it was dark and the big news of the day was that Lindsay Lohan had died. A video tribute was to be played as well as a publicly televised reading of her will - both of which I'd have to caption. Behind the scenes in the old house, I could hear the celebrities discussing the momentous event in hushed voices as they sat in the toilet cubicles. Kerri-Anne Kennerly told a friend that Lohan's family life had been disturbed and even though official cause of death was being ruled as suicide, everyone knew how it really happened - it was Bert Newton who'd killed Lindsay Lohan.She also whispered (I was eavesdropping on the conversation) that the evidence was still there to be found.
I went up the stairs to Lohan's bedroom and found it a mess. Things were scattered everywhere - a jacket, CDs, a pair of scissors, ribbons, rubber bands and a massage table. The scissors were suspicious and I knew they were somehow connected to her death. I had a psychic flashback and saw how the murder had happened - Lohan lying face-down on the massage table, passed out from taking drugs. From her perspective, I could see the scissors and ribbons on the carpeted floor through the hole in the massage table. As Bert Newton came into the room, the perspective switched back to the third person and froze as a tableau: Newton with the scissors about to stab down on Lohan's spinal cord at the bottom of her neck.
It faded to black.
Later, as her tribute video was screened on the overhead projector, there was some speculation about whether or not Lindsay Lohan had actually died at all. It was thought she might still be out there, waiting for the big reveal and so although the mood was sad, people still held out hope that everything would be OK. But the question was never resolved one way or the other.
When I got out, it was dark and the big news of the day was that Lindsay Lohan had died. A video tribute was to be played as well as a publicly televised reading of her will - both of which I'd have to caption. Behind the scenes in the old house, I could hear the celebrities discussing the momentous event in hushed voices as they sat in the toilet cubicles. Kerri-Anne Kennerly told a friend that Lohan's family life had been disturbed and even though official cause of death was being ruled as suicide, everyone knew how it really happened - it was Bert Newton who'd killed Lindsay Lohan.She also whispered (I was eavesdropping on the conversation) that the evidence was still there to be found.
I went up the stairs to Lohan's bedroom and found it a mess. Things were scattered everywhere - a jacket, CDs, a pair of scissors, ribbons, rubber bands and a massage table. The scissors were suspicious and I knew they were somehow connected to her death. I had a psychic flashback and saw how the murder had happened - Lohan lying face-down on the massage table, passed out from taking drugs. From her perspective, I could see the scissors and ribbons on the carpeted floor through the hole in the massage table. As Bert Newton came into the room, the perspective switched back to the third person and froze as a tableau: Newton with the scissors about to stab down on Lohan's spinal cord at the bottom of her neck.
It faded to black.
Later, as her tribute video was screened on the overhead projector, there was some speculation about whether or not Lindsay Lohan had actually died at all. It was thought she might still be out there, waiting for the big reveal and so although the mood was sad, people still held out hope that everything would be OK. But the question was never resolved one way or the other.
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