Friday, July 10, 2009

Dream movie #2

Let's get right down to business!

It starts with a painting. It's a beautiful painting, and if it exists I want it. It shows a straight line of horses, face on. They are all in full flying gallop. They are a range of colours, but mostly blacks and browns. I figure they're thoroughbreds because of what happens later. The background was a confusion of vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows: a recollection of flames. The story was mostly seen in paintings actually.
A group of young children were at an old-time sunday school picnic. Think of the ones in Tom Sawyer and it was that exactly. They had been playing tag, and stopped to rest. A wealthy middle aged gentleman waddled over. He was very fat, and had a grey suit that looked very posh on him. Golden rings on his fingers and golden hair on his head, he made a considerable impression on the pile of panting kids. He spoke to them with a solid southern accent and a funny trick of speech that made all of his s's sound like sh's. Despite of the lisp, every child listened with wide, bright eyes; no one laughed.

"Now, chil'ren. I 'shpect you wouldn't mind hearin' a shtory. I have a shplendid shtory about a shplendid horshe. The ger-ate-esht hoshe, it may be, of all time. In all of hisht'ry there have been, I admit, a cullec'shun of nutmegsh and shinnamonsh (here he indicates the painting) and each, I shuppose, has made hish or her mark. The greatesht horshe you will ever have heard of ish thish great black one, here, on the end."

The horse at the end of the painting was stunning. A wide, solid chest above wide, solid feet. It's neck was arched and spotted with white sweat. His eyes were gaping open with what in a lesser horse would be fear, but was merely his excitement of the race. There was in them a gleam of lucid thought. He knew how to race and he loved to race, because that is what his father and mother and all of his ancestors had birthed him to do.
The painting's background behind him also left its confused, firey theme and was a sort of muted white and green.

The scene then changed. The voice of the lisping narrator flowed on, while paintings stylistic of colonial America showed scenes of a young boy and his mother and father. The mother carried a parasol daintily in the sun, as was proper. The father held a paper under his arm and had an aging, respectable grey silk top hat. They were strolling placidly, and the boy peeked over a fence into some green pasture with a look of freshness and excitement. He has on a grey felt cap, jacket, and breeches.

The man continued, "But he, dear chil'ren, wash not the fashtesht. The fashtesht wash owned not by shome old rich man, who cared about 'horshflesh' and timesh because they meant dollersh and shents, but by a young boy in Dover. Hish family weren't rich, but the boy loved horshesh, sho hish father and mother shaved (lolz!) every extra penny to shupprt hish horshe. The boy figgered the horshe wash calm enough. It came when he called it and walked pleashantly along the shtreetsh of town and wash never known onesh to be nashty.
The boy never knew thish horshe wash anything 'xcep'shunal. He only knew that when there wash an open field or farm or laneway, horshe would tug on the bit, and the boysh handsh would looshen and he would lean for'ad in the shaddle, and then horshe would fly. Both the boy and the horshe lived for theshe timesh."

And that is all I dreamed. The art was particularly beautiful. I would have bought any of it. The narrarator's speech is almost verbatim. If it's hard to understand the way I typed it, I'm sorry. I wanted to give the idea it gave me when he "shpoke". It's almost the perfect beginning to a movie. I have a faint idea of what would happen later. The boy would be seen tearing across some meadow by a man who knows enough about horses to realize this one is exceptional. After several offers to buy it are turned down, he lets the boy run the horse in a race himself. They are a sensation and rocket immediately to the top of the racing world. But the boy and the horse are unhappy. A few years pass and the horse is more dejected every race. The boy doesn't seem to notice anymore, because money can corrupt and blind anyone. Then horse gets sick. NO cause can be found. The horse dies, and the boy, now without his famed mount, returns to his life before all this started. He realizes he killed his dearest friend and runs away. I think he becomes the narrator.
Anyway, that is all.

1 comment:

  1. I envy you for your abilities to remember dreams so vividly, and for your ability to have said vivid dreams...mine are so mundane.
    For some reason, whenever the narrator was speaking, I imagined him as the walrus from Alice in Wonderland (the cartoon, and the walrus who tries to eat all the baby clams)
    Lol, sorry if that ruins your dream. I think that the little boy turning into the narrator is a very plausible way for the story to turn out.
    Whatever you're eating before bed, keep munching it, because I like to hear your dreams becx ;)