"I see an office scene that's sort of a carnival version of the 3/4 size floor in Being John Malkovich.
Ceilings that are only about 6 feet above the floor; which itself has an intoxicated cant of about 22 degrees...Tables and chairs move; sliding slowly, seemingly at random intervals throughout the day. It is almost as if the office was adrift and listing. First to port, then, slowly, agonizingly, righting itself for a moment of feigned balance, and then, seemingly rethinking the whole affair, giving in to the inevitable pull towards starboard. Listening intently, and if one could find a moment of repose amongst amidst the cacophony of the machinery coming from just beyond the next door, it seems possible that one can make out the distant sounds of rushing water; the popping of rivets amidst the crumpling of bulkheads...
There is a centrally located main office, that is undefined in size, yet giving the impression of being possibly several football fields in area....
An endless sense of movement; of beehive-like activity pervades, yet it is diffuse, unfocused, almost as if knowledge had just arrived of the next world, but there are no words for it; nor is it possible to summon an image of it; a sense of running in circles while becoming gradually aware that there is no such thing as geometry....
A low hum, close to 60 cycles, provides an undefined aural glue, a mechanized stickiness, if you will, which somehow performs a function akin to gravity. There is a subliminal sense that if the hum were to stop, even for a moment, the furniture and the occupants of the space would begin to float away from their assigned areas. Pencils and paperclips would be catapulted into lazy trajectories by interrupted thoughts and half-formed words...
In and out of these rooms go an endless stream of runners. Infinite in their variety of size and color. An orange midget does cartwheels down the middle of a room, a path opening in front of him mysteriously amidst the crush of p.c.s, shredding machines, and modular cubicle components. Then, just as mysteriously, closing back up behind him as he moves quickly away, receding into the distance, becoming smaller and smaller, until he is just a pinpoint, one dot among others; indistinguishable.He is followed in the next moment by a woman on stilts, careening from side to side as she dodges paper airplanes and delivers international magazines with one modification, which is that all of the Ps are missing...
Of course, that was one image.
The other that I entertained for a moment and then just as quickly discarded was so:
I see a room full of various people, all wearing 1962 vintage B-52 bomber headsets, a la Dr. Strangelove*, ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts and lipstick smudged coffee cups crowding the tabletops. Suddenly the door swings open and brandishing a riding crop, you stride to the middle of the room, climb up onto a chair and speaking nearly perfect German with a clipped accent, you bark, " Nur darf ich stream of consciousness-Technik als Schrift verwenden! Verstehst du?"
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*I read that when Stanley Kubrick filmed Dr. Strangelove, he didn't tell Slim Pickens that it was a comedy. So whenever I watch it, I imagine Slim taking his role seriously....
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