A dinner — outdoors. A picnic.
The man next to me is difigured. He’s cooking some kind of stew, or
chicken in sauce, in a giant pan.
Kari and I are at the laptop — I’m trying to find this video of Noam
Chomsky speaking at the World Social Forum, but am having trouble. I
eventually find it, and we watch the introductions — which last about
45 minutes, then it ends right when Chomsky is finally being
introduced. Kari is getting extremely bored and annoyed. (I am too,
truthfully.) The video is cut into two parts. Now I search for part
The disfigured man, by this time, has grown interested and has been
watching also — he’s a Chomsky fan, it turns out.
We chat very briefly.
We start part 2 — Chomsky speaks eloquently and with humor. But then
the video changes, and it is a man — extremely enraged, fighting —
or about to fight, and quite probably kill — another man. The
enraged man is John Turturo. I do not see who the other man is.
Now it’s like we’re watching a movie, but also I am there, in the
movie. I think I am Turturo, yet I’m watching him as well.
Turturo has the other man on his back, and is now pouring gasoline all
over a car, on the pavement, then on himself. A cop is pointing a gun
at him. He is trying to burn the man alive — even though the man is
hanging on him, attached to his own body — and he lights everything
The disfigured man — now much, much more gruesome. He is Turturo —
but now unrecognizable. A blackened skeleton with meat cooked over it
in a thick black scorched skin. His eyes are gone — just huge
cavities, like a skull but much larger and deeper, coming down on the
sides past the nostrils. He is a crusted cadaver made of burnt blood
and leather. His ears are still there — but like clotted scars of
tissue, not really ears, not sliced but rather rotted off. His mouth
always gaping — like “The Scream” but agony x10.
He sits in a chair, helpless, writhing some, looking at us now and
then. There is nothing I can do for him.
But he is not dead.
Now I realize he is not asking for help.
In fact, the man in the chair is somehow in charge — the Supreme
Leader. (Of what??…)
Neither is he telling us what to do.
He cannot even speak.
Even to say “He is looking at us” would be projection or exageration…
He says nothing. He merely sits there in his chair. Wagging his head, this way and that, looking about as one blind.
I do not wish to eat his stew, and he is offended, and dislikes me now.
That is all I remember.
(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn’t I.)