I wake abruptly into a dark space, responding to some dull sound, some impact, I can only sense the aftershock. I do not know where I am, a flat, low bed, no light, I reach out clumsily to find a switch, any switch: light, music, electric shocks, trying to find a way of altering the room’s energy, of adding to the available light. I want to call out names, requests for reassurance, but stop myself, afraid of unwelcome answers, or of no answer. Increasingly frantic, I knock things off a flat space near the bed: something small and hard that rolls across the floor, and what sounds like a pile of papers. I pull myself from the strange bed, feet tangled in the dark with sheets, thick blankets, I pull and stand, my left foot is still held, and I fall head first into something hard. Dazzled by rich pains, sitting on the floor, legs, thighs still imprisoned in cloth. My hand holds my forehead in place against the pain that tries to explode it outward. Where is everyone, why am I alone, what is this place? Hard surfaces and no light. Though my sensations still have a bright, sticky glaze of pain, I stagger upright and disentangle myself from the sheets. Moving through the dark, hands in front of me, wooden doors that open with clothing behind them; further along, something hung on the wall, that falls with a crash when I knock it sideways; and another door, with a handle, great relief to find it is unlocked. Opened to reveal a dark hall, a glimmer of blue light at one end, I can barely see it through the orange haze on the side of my circle of vision, from where I fell. Moving toward the blue, I see it is a window let into a door, dim street lights beyond the shabby curtains, spotted panes. I turn the knob and push, it must be bolted, someone has locked me in, I yank at it in frustration, it gives way when I pull. I stumble down a couple of dirty concrete steps to pavement, still barely able to focus through the orange haze, but this street, these buildings, I know them somehow. I realize I am standing outside in chilly air with only a flimsy armless undershirt; it has holes in it as though someone has worn it for a long time. I stumble back past the door, and find a light switch: a kitchen, shabby, dirty dishes piled up, the reek of onions, cabbages, who would live like this? and why have I been brought here? But I have seen something like this before, and I turn off the light and walk the creaking boards back to the first room, the one where I woke, and the dream is fading quickly now, a flash of bronzed flesh, the great house and gardens, the sound of kindly laughter, it’s all going away, and as I find the light switch for the bedroom, I, filled with dread, see the trap: this is my room, I went to sleep here, and nothing has changed.
[Los Angeles, 6/13-7/27/90]
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