In front of me, the hillside descends steeply, abruptly cliff-like for fifty yards or more, before gradually becoming a wide, sandy beach covered with a shifting mass of blurry people . At the bottom there's an large open stage, (although it's tiny from this vantage) backed what I used to think was the Pacific Ocean. This visit, I somehow know it's really just a hundred miles of unbroken water and then lots of nothing. Maybe a waterfall, but who cares?
It's a Flat Earth, I know that much, but I'm not overly concerned about falling off of it.
There's going to be a good show today; I've seen it before- on this very same day but in a different dream- but I can never remember who's playing.
Overhead floats a block-long dirigible in the shape of a cartoon pig. I wonder if this is a Pink Floyd concert from the Animals tour. I hope so. That was a damn good show, or so I was told.
Whoever is playing, I must be Hot Shit to get seats this good.
"You must be Hot Shit", says a familiar blond vampire using a fake British accent, "to get seats this good."
Damn. It's Spike from the old Buffy the Vampire Slayer series. He's reclining on a chaise lounge and drinking out of a brown bag. What's he doing here? I think I remember what happens next, but I'm distracted as a group of happy but featureless people walk by. One of them is calling my name but I don't know the voice and in a moment it is gone.
Maybe next time, I think.
I will be coming back, after all. I know that.
There's lot of people down there, but there's plenty of room up here.
I hear a cough beside me. Right.
"Well," I finally reply, turning to Spike,"It is my subconscious. I don't remember inviting you 'round".
Oh shit. I'm speaking in a cheesy Brit accent too. I hope I stop.
He doesn't seem to notice or care.
"Fancy a snort, mate?", asks Spike.
"No, thanks. Trying t' quit."
"Suit yerself", he says, swilling away, "y'wanna know something? Just between us?"
"What's that?"
He wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his trench coat, muffling his reply.
"Beg pardon?"
"It's all bullshit", he repeats, clearly this time.
"Bullshit?"
"Yeah. This bloody vampire crap and all the muddleheaded idiots who get all gooey reading Anne Rice and sleeping in coffins and the like. You won't see me sleeping in a coffin, nooo...not enough wiggle room ,ya know", he finishes by nudging me and winking.
"Spike", I ask, pointing upward at the blazing sun, "shouldn't you be on fire or something? You know, the sun, you being a vampire and all that."
"I told you it was all crap. Here hold this a sec' if y' would," he says, removing his coat and handing it to me.
"I'll show you."
With one hand, he grabs his forehead, his other hand clamps on his chin. He removes his face. It's just a mask.
Underneath, he's the guy who played Jesus in Mel Gibson's S&M torture movie.
He's wearing what looks like a diaper. It's not especially clean.
The bottle is gone.
Too bad for that, I think, suddenly ready to start drinking again.
"Excuse me", asks the imitation Christ,"but which way to the stage? I seem to be having a spot of trouble seeing."
He's got blood in his eyes from the crown of thorns he's wearing. Given the sunny weather, a ball cap would be more practical and a lot less painful.
I notice that the trench coat I'm holding for Jesus/Spike has changed into a clump of tissue paper.
There's a sticky wet spot on it. I don't think it's snot.
Gross.
I get ready to throw away the sticky mess when I remember the bloody-faced Jesus.
I'm not a believer, but I'm not a monster.
I'm not gonna let this poor dude wander around a dangerous cliffside half-blind ; son of God or not, he might fall and get seriously hurt.
I find a dry section of the kleenex ball and wipe his eyes clear.
"Thanks, man", says Jesus as he heads downhill toward the crowd and the stage.
"No prob."
I'm left holding a nasty kleenex that's soggy with the blood and jizz of Christ.
I am going to make a fucking fortune on eBay, I think to myself.
A few minutes go by and Jesus returns, this time heading uphill.
"Forgot something", he mutters.
A moment later he passes again, downhill, only this time he's got a wooden cross on his back. It looks as if he's fake-staggering under it's weight, like it's a Styrofoam prop.
At least no one's whipping him, although he's gathering a crowd as he heads downhill. Someone presses something to his mouth, but from here I can't tell what it is.
It might be a sponge, or maybe a pretzel. The soft kind that's good with mustard.
A woman's voice calls my name. I turn.
It's Willow, also from the Buffy show.
"Hey. I've been saving a seat for you" she tells me , patting the empty side of her hay bale.
"That's hay alright", I quip stupidly, sitting down.
"Every one's here", Willow informs me, gesturing with her arm. Sure enough, the whole Buffy cast is scattered throughout the crowd, along with every character on every TV show I've ever watched, including Ultraman-the real Ultraman- and Joe, the fugitive German Shepherd from the short-lived Run, Joe, Run Saturday morning TV show.
Willow passes me a perfect joint. Oh, yeah-that's the Pacific down there alright, I think as I briefly vanish into a sweetly skunky haze. As my headrush subsides, I wonder who's playing on the stage below us.
I ask Willow.
"I dunno. I was hoping you were."
"Really? I was hoping you were- that musical episode was funny as hell."
"Ooo...look!" She grabs my arm. I feel an intense tingle of pleasure from this contact. I like Willow and I'm glad she likes me.
Down by the stage, a group of people are dancing around a large bonfire. As we watch them dance, a wall of fog begins rolling in. The dancer's shadows get larger and more distinct against the mist as the fogbank thickens; in moments we are encircled by swaying, weightless giants.
I have never felt more safe in my life.
We are protected by beauty and power.
Willow says, "wow".
I agree.
