Ron Silliman Dream #25: The Bloody Tutu (Spork Confrontation)

by Rauan Klassnik

“We’ve got a problem,” says Andrew Shuta of Spork as he and Drew Burk guide me into a fancy conference room.

Ron’s sitting across from us, flanked by a couple of tough, angry looking lawyers. Ron looks absolutely soulless.

“Look,” Ron starts in, kind of beaming at me. “I’ll forget the $50 or so worth of royalties or the 10 or 12 author copies that you most certainly owe me but from now on I’m the cover.”

He pauses for effect and then continues: “yeah, from now on, kids, I want and require my precious mug to be on the cover of each and every handmade Sky Rat you naughty Tucson Cowboys turn out.”

Andrew and Drew lock eyes for a moment, clearly upset, but before anyone can say anything Ron’s leaped up on the shiny table and he’s got a violin and he’s wearing a pink Tutu (matching his bowtie) and he’s playing Kishi Bashi’s “Philosophize In It! Chemicalize In It!”

Wow! Just Wow! And I’m really loving it!

It reminds me of why I’ve fallen for Ron in so many cities and rubbish dumps. Like the red light district in Amsterdam at 5 a.m. Or that stone park in Kinshasa.

And it’s not just a decent version of Kishi’s hit it’s a rousing one. I’m entranced. I am floating. Love is tender. Love is sweet. Love flits about on such gorgeous feet!

Drew’s climbed up on the table and he’s slammed Ron’s head into the table. Down into the table. And down into the table.

Ron’s teeth are smashed, the violin’s broken and yet somehow the song keeps playing, more and more hauntingly beautiful.

Andrew, Drew and I are walking in the rain.

Suddenly Drew’s pulled out a blood-stained Tutu.

We laugh. But it’s not funny. It’s not funny at all.

 

Ron Silliman Dream # 2 (Batch 1, dream 2): A Brain Shot

 

George Orwell, Ron Silliman and I are walking into a village that looks like it’s been hit by a hurricane. Silliman suddenly chirps up in a kind of screech: “There it is! There it is!” and he’s jumping up and down like a boy at his first circus.

And, yes, he’s spotted the elephant–off to the side, grazing quite peacefully. It looks so relaxed and so wise.

A lackey steps forward with a gun.

Silliman grabs it. I try to wrestle it away from him, and we fall, locked, to the ground. As we struggle, panting and groaning, I notice Orwell’s sitting down, drawing.

He’s drawing the elephant and he’s drawing it all in blue, except for the eyes for which he’s using a kind of intense emerald green.

Silliman gets the upper hand and knees me in the nuts.

I’m next to the Big-Man in a helicopter and we’re coming down at a herd of elephants.

Silliman smacks the pilot’s back and shouts out “lower! Lower!” and he leans out and he’s firing.

A baby elephant, perhaps 6 months old, slides right down into the dirt. Red dust flares up.

Silliman’s screaming:

“Did you see that? A brain shot. A perfect brain shot.”

Pieces crossposted with Rauan Klassnik dreaming Ron Silliman

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About the Author:

Rauan Klassnik is the author of Sky Rat, The Moon’s Jaw and Holy Land. The many erotic and otherwise dreams he has had of Ron Silliman are chronicled here.