by Rob Marshall
At night – asleep – Alison’s dreams are scattered across the bedroom wall like grainy cine film; voices or sound do not accompany this nocturnal soap-opera, just the hum of Alison sleeping and the somnolent rhythm of the city. On her back, amber streetlights caress Alison’s nakedness – LIGHTS CAMERA ACTION – she dreams in colour, of ivory shoes on a bone staircase, of paper mouths kissing, of crashing planes, of children burning, of the house at the foot of her memory. In this dream landscape nothing makes much sense, but lately Alison dreams of a handsome man and groans deep into the night – legs up and apart – as her dream lover gropes, fondles and kisses her. It is not me. LIGHTS CAMERA ACTION – I want to shake her awake and ask who he is, but I can’t – I’m dead. She wouldn’t see this ghost on our bed: it is not me.
Rob Marshall, author of The End of the Beginning, is the 18th pale descendant of King Kong and sometimes dreams in black and white.