I’m in Japan. The end of a long trip. The plane flies just above ground level, between two rows of concrete columns that seem too close together for the plane to fit. Below, so close I could touch them, there are trees and roads and houses. People walk on paths alongside the columns. I think how deafening the engine noise must be, but they seem undisturbed. Looking ahead, I see a dead end, a wall covered in plastic sheeting. It doesn’t look like we can stop in time. The plane banks right, apparently turning 90° by pivoting about the end tip of the left wing. Disaster is averted.
The plane fades and I am running along the ground with the other passengers. There’s a bridge, and two of them jump over the edge, into the torrent stream below. I hesitate. I become aware that I have no luggage, no passport. I wonder if I booked a flight back home. I walk along the riverside, rather than jump into the river. On a stone slab, mudskippers skip about. I remember watching a Ren & Stimpy episode with The Muddy Mudskipper Show as a component part. It made me laugh, and the memory makes me smile.
I enter a Japanese village. I’m staying with a Japanese detective. Not a Chinese one, like the 80s tv show. I believe I can help him with his current case, and I produce a small, demonic, imp, who offers to help. The imp is an expert on critical theory. The detective is not impressed. The imp quotes from the detectives favourite critical theory book, and explains that the inspiration for it is a book chained in hell, a master for all critical theory books.
The house becomes my home. Friends visit. I show them kitchen gadgets that I’ve bought. My friend Boo is tired. I tell her to rest. As she falls asleep, I flick through a stack of batik cloth prints. One is of the moon above a grassy hill. I lay myself down to sleep upon it.