Monday, March 18, 2013

Memory Agent Fur-Coat-91

In a dream the other night, the cute Kyrgyz one and I were walking up Second Avenue. I was dressed in my black wool overcoat, with scarf and baseball cap...essentially my winter uniform. As we walked, though, I noticed everyone else coming toward us was in shorts and t-shirts. Then I noticed I was beginning to sweat. 

"91 degrees and I'm still in my fur coat, " I grumbled, peeling off the obviously unneeded layers as we continued. My subconscious caught the mistake: you're wearing wool, silly, not fur...why would you say "fur"?

Cling, cling, clink, clunk, cling, ting, ting, clunk...

This clothing material error in my statement sent an opened, empty tin can cascading further and further down the interlocking miles of marble steps in my mind, deep into the recesses of my memory. 

Somewhere way down there, among the giant dusty wooden cogs with their heavy iron plating, it stopped, cranking up that long-forgotten quadrant of my memory, the noise of which, in turn, aroused a memory agent from his slumber. This agent was dressed in a vest with an old-fashioned tie and a distinguished-looking tweed jacket with leather elbows with an nearly indiscernible tartan pattern. He wore a matching worker's cap and carried a huge book with a thick, imprinted binding, like my father's family Bible.

Despite his musty appearance, this memory agent (let's call him Memory Agent Fur-Coat-91) shot like a rocket, heavy book in tow, back up through my memory to the periphery of my conscious, where he intended to come to my defense. Before he could, though, he was stopped by the Conscious Guard, a sleek, glowing robot-like being who moved so quickly and smoothly around the wide circle of my conscious, he appeared to be at each 360 degrees of it at once. Let's call him St. Peter.

Flickering because of how quickly he could move around the circle, even in between the syllables of each word he was saying to any given being wishing entry, St. Peter stopped Memory Agent Fur-Coat-91 even before he began his defense of my mistake. 

Speaking dryly, yet quickly, St. Peter announced, "Yes, yes, We are aware that originally fur was used for outerwear because of it's warmth-providing qualities. Today however, fur is more of a fashion statement, and so the error is indefensible. The Conscious must accept it was simply wrong. The defense attempt is rejected. Be gone." 

Memory Agent Fur-Coat-91 faded quickly back down into my memory, and St. Peter zoomed around the circle deflecting other thoughts he deemed rejection-worthy.  

Almost as quickly as he had receded, though, Memory Agent Fur-Coat-91 returned. This time with a posse.

Alongside him, each carrying a huge book, were a cave man in a fur poncho looking get-up, a Viking in his winter warrior garments, and a Czarina, dressed head to toe in luxurious mink. She in particular looked like she did not at all appreciate being dragged here from her previous engagement, whatever that had been.

ZZZZzwthipppp...St. Peter zoomed around and stopped them at the circle. He looked at the group quickly and uttered an almost imperceptible sigh. 

"Very well," he said dryly, knowing the mere presence of a rebuttal party immediately induced a formal procedure. 

The next moment they were all in a cerebral court room. Memory Agent Fur-Coat-91 and his fur-wearing sidekicks at the defense's table. St Peter and a few other beings who looked like him, glowing such a bright white they seems to have a soft blue outline, each of them floating above the floor, at the prosecution's table. The only question remaining was: who would be the judge? 

A series of possible choices glided past a small glass door behind the bench, including Peter Schjeldahl  (looking like a cross between James Joyce and Samuel Beckett) and (don't ask why) Mary Tyler Moore. Eventually, though, through the door came my friend Mike. A journalist in real life and an extremely level-headed, highly objective thinker, Mike as the judge, I assumed, would be to the defense's advantage. St. Peter and the prosecution, to my mind (heh!) were just being lazy. My mistake was defensible. Mike would tell them so and let the Memory Agent past into my conscious.

Then again, Mike is nothing if not practical, so perhaps he would decide that St. Peter was correct...that I operate on such a superficial level that even if it's true that fur were originally used for coats out of need for warmth, that today Memory Agent Fur-Coat-91's defense was irrelevant. Fashion was the impetus for my selecting the black wool coat and, given the availability of perfectly fine faux fur coats, barely entered anyone's conscious any more. I began to get doubtful.

I hoped Mike would rule in favor of the defense. It would convince me that I remained as sharp as I've ever been, and my mistake had a perfectly defensible rationale.

I may never know. Next thing, I woke up...


Anonymous Anonymous said...

Walter White wears Wallabees. I wear Wallabees. Carbide is my weapon of choice.

3/19/2013 10:50:00 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

You know, Prince Harry goes to Vegas a few months ago gets drunk and whips out his dick. Major News .The Queen Mum and the old man are not Pleased . Harry Gets Banished to AfGhanistan. The Taliban want A Trophy And the base is attacked were he is at, People die. I magine WWIII will start like this.

3/19/2013 11:49:00 AM  

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