A tyrant, who cheerfully calls himself The Tyrant, rules us by force. There's only one way to kill him. If a certain brick falls about seventy feet, he'll die. We don't have to hit his head; we don't have to hit him at all! He'll die if it even falls near him. It's the fact of its falling that'll kill him, not the impact. Strange but true.

Only... he knows it. To get him, we must all work together.

In the elevator, under the eye of the guard, I talk to his timid, dwarfed, beaten-down wife. Talk her into playing catch with me--with a brick. We toss it back and forth... and once the elevator's high enough, I ask her to toss the brick out the window! Incredibly, she does, without thinking. Or choosing not to remember. Did he bully her enough she'd want to kill him "accidentally"?

Her motives don't matter now: from afar, I faintly hear his death-cry.

When the door opens at the top, they inform her. She grieves quietly. A man says "Oh my poor dear" etc, gooing at her as if she's a lap dog, and tries to hold her. She stares at him blankly, then walks to the edge of the roof and deliberately steps off. She falls in silence. The man who cooed at her is shocked a moment, then he loses interest.

Writes her off as just another loss!

Only... she's alive. Fell just one story, to a ledge. And got up, walked in blind anger to the end of it, and off, determined to die--and fell just one more floor. And again! She falls on down, floor by floor, till she reaches the ground.

But somewhere in her absurd descent, she changed. Did she fall too many times on her head? Now she's happily crazy, not suicidal. She wanders, humming, trying to climb up into the building's windows. She's like a two year old--inquisitive, childlike. She needs a leash!

But you know, she's happier than she was. And frankly, so are all the rest of us.

IN THE MORNING

As I write the dream, I slip: write "prick," not "brick." A prick falls: the fall of patriarchy? Yep, that makes sense. She tosses out her husband's prick, and he just can't survive it.

Grief? I read some Romantic opera plots today. The girl always dies (or becomes a swan) and the guy grieves. Those 19th century women just toppled like bowling pins...

Small steps down from the top = jumping "to your death" off an opera set to the mattress behind? Well, anyway, it sounds like it'll take a lot of small steps to get out of this particular drama.

Play more, think less, I guess. Act out her happy simplicity, and maybe I won't have to whack myself on the head.

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