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The Ambiguity is the Point of the Sketch

Date: 1-Dec-2008/15:10+3:00

Tags: , , , ,

Characters: her, me, woman, painting, cowboy

I was at my grandmother's house talking to people as a preparation for some Christmas celebration. Then I ran into an ex-girlfriend in the empty kitchen. She was standing next to the refrigerator and putting on some white pants. It was clear she was trying to be out of sight from the rest of the house and was tending some kind of spill on her clothes.
She sort of went with my embrace, but was hesitant because she clearly really wanted to do something about the pants. We moved into an adjacent room in the house, where people had cleared a place for gifts to be put. One thing that caught my eye was a book sitting there titled All I really DON'T want for Christmas (A DRM Story)
her: "I need to go out to my van and get another pair of pants."
At this point, the rooms adjacent turned into something like a store at a mall, though the room we were in stayed constant. I was rather disgusted at myself for the feelings of affection toward her.
me: "I know this isn't real. AND I'd never go back to her in reality, you can be sure of that. I was just indulging my impulses for some reason. Which are really stupid, because there are a lot of girls just as good-looking or more, smarter, and who don't operate like she does."
Rather than going to the van, the character sat down on a bed. As I talked about how she could be "better looking", she morphed around a bit through some various appearances. Eventually she settled on a sort of relaxed-seeming woman with dark hair and glasses...as if she'd picked a stereotypical therapist.
woman: "You have attachment issues, it's not that big a deal. You just get dependent on things and then don't see the right time to let them go. What you should do is get out a big piece of paper and write out your thoughts, do better next time."
A painting on the wall of animated characters with huge eyes began to speak.
They looked a bit like the Powerpuff girls...
...and there were two of them, although as I inspected it I could see those two were merely the closest in a very long line of such creatures you could see in 3D from different viewing angles.
painting: "Don't listen to her! It means something! If you got that far once, you can get farther again."
me: "All right, that's it. Who are all of you? Are you supposed to be my subconscious?"
I waved out at the seeming-department-store, which now had some grocery aisles and snack products. It was a bit like a 7-11.
me: "I mean, is this the grocery store inside my head? 'Hey, everybody, look lively... we've got a clean-up on aisle me!'"
The therapist laughed, and got up...morphing into a kind of short black woman. The room started getting a bit louder, as if I'd kicked off a party and someone turned on music.
me: "Glad you like it, but I need to know how this relates to me...if it isn't me."
woman: (pointing) "The answer is out there, in the fog."
She walked me through a door to an outside area where there were lots of people, and it was raining and foggy. We could still see some mountains in the distance.
woman: "This level is one of the hardest missions."
me: "Okay, level? Wait, so, does someone come here and give you a mission? I mean, there was no mission."
woman: "Ah, the ambiguity. Well, that was the sketch--the whole point of that level. Which part were you on?"
me: "Earth. I was born in 1975. I was not-dead-quite-yet in 2005. Sorry, I meant 2008. Memory issues."
As soon as I started saying that I felt a tug at my wallet and some stabbing pains in my arm. I turned to face the small man who was stabbing me. Somehow I had a weapon as well, like a ball point pen. I began stabbing him and managed to hold out during the attack. He fell to the ground and shrank, my wallet was on the ground. I picked it up.
Most of the people who had been outside had disappeared, but there were some old cowboy-looking guys on a bench.
cowboy: "You're bleeding."
me: "Thanks. I'll live."
I spoke too soon, as I walked only a short bit before waking.
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The accounts written here are as true as I can manage. While the words are my own, they are not independent creative works of fiction —in any intentional way. Thus I do not consider the material to be protected by anything, other than that you'd have to be crazy to want to try and use it for genuine purposes (much less disingenuous ones!) But who's to say?