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It’s like this, and it is no dream: First off, a plastic palomino and itsstiff-armed rider float above a toybox. The rider is a dyed Custer, andeverything’s red. I mean boots and kerchief and holster and eyebrowseven. He is one ruined and reduced cavalryman, he was poured andsolidified with horribly bowed legs, simply because his only reason forexistence is to straddle the palomino. Denied Comanches. But the horseand rider float and revolve anyway, on the lookout for marauders. Theyrotate at about a revolution a minute, as per specs. Also: a velourbasketball, half the size of a real basketball, hangs mid-aired over acrib. In the closet, the arms of tiny jackets and sweaters wave and salutewildly. The threads of the carpet flatten out like grass under ahelicopter, and then circular waves run outward from the middle of theroom. When the waves die down, it’s just a regular carpet again. Thewhole cycle takes three and a half minutes. An empty rocking chairrocks faster than any mortal granny could.Out the wide window across the room, it’s a crescent moon in bough-crook kind of thing; caramel lights through sectioned panes in housesof white wood, trees blown and slanting like smoke. Windows anddoors of the houses wide open with Trust. Children breathe pillow air.Hills roll away behind the row of houses in a fairly pastoral manner. Itis a kind of smooth blue Ireland. And the blue is in the room too. It isthe blue of night scenes in animation. The cloak of night and all that. Itis very much like the nights when little kids point at the moon and sayodd things. There is the smell of very clean carpet. There is no sound ofbugs and no sound of rocking chair or wind or of anything scraping thewindowpane. But you can hear the air conditioning. I rub my windowclean and enjoy a soft drink.Here’s something, basically the abuse of an elderly couple. Watch:when they first step in, I’m not worried. They stand in the doorway. Hepushes back his baseball cap. She goes for the camera and says, “CryPete, woudja lookit all this…” All is well. His hands are behind hisback and he steps in, to figure out how it all works. She inspects thefinish on the dresser. That she can touch. I have no problem with that.He gets closer and closer to the window (and the village of the caramellights) and, by gar, it still looks real. It even looks real when his toestouch the crib. Which sits protectively in front of the window. But thenhe puts his dusty boots on the crib, and his hands on the window frame,and pulls himself up, leans in close to the pane. I cannot have that. Ikey the mike: “Please refrain from interaction with the components,sir!” Is that any way to talk? Still, it’s a living.


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