Sometimes I walk in the woods, and it’s so peaceful and quiet that I could hear a butterfly’s wing drop in the grass. Those are the times when the little folks wake up and start whispering, “Listen to me, listen to me! You are going to have to hear this story. It is important. She is trapped and in need of your help. We are too little to help. You are big enough a person—just what we have been looking for! Bend down here, and we will tell you the full story of the lady in the air!”
And I bend down to their level, even if I can’t see them. I can only hear and feel their presence. “Where are you? Who are you talking about? What lady?” I don’t see nothing. I don’t hear nothing. The little voices have gone as quickly as they appeared. Complete silence has fallen. Suddenly I can hear them again. “You will find her when you follow the trail of white feathers. Hurry now! She needs you! We cannot tell you more, or we will be trapped, too.”
Then the voices are gone again. They have been doing the same for three days in a row now. They never tell me exactly what they mean. What white feathers? I don’t see no white feathers. “I can’t help you or her if you don’t tell me more,” I shout into the grass, but they never tell me more about the lady in the air.
Night comes. I go to sleep and try not think too much about the happenings of the day. I sleep badly. A nightmare comes after another. I wake up to a breeze of air on my face. A feather hovers above me and settles on my chest. A big white feather that's purer than my love's thoughts and softer than her hair. If that's possible. “Where did it come from?” I don’t get no answer.
Another feather falls down. I stand up to scan the open sky. The open sky? Surely it was a ceiling when I went to bed. A third feather falls down. I quickly put on some clothes and then, as if to test it, carefully step on the feather. And it lifts me up in the air! This is scary, but I can't just stand here. I have to step on another feather, or I'll fall down as they move. Step by step I get closer to the gate. The gate? Surely it was a dark sky when I looked up.
I'm in the sky, standing in front of a gate. What's this? How's this possible? I knock on the gate. “Hello, is there anyone there?” The gate opens. “We have been expecting you,” the angel says. The angel? Surely that was a star the last time I looked! “She has been expecting you, too,” she says. And I walk in. After all... What choice do I have?
Elliot: “Lately I had two nights full of nightmares. In the first night there was this serial killer who followed me throught the night, in three dreams.”
Elliot: “I could never tell what exactly he looked like, or if he was male or female. But there was this huge chess board – in the second dream of the first night, I think. I don’t remember the first dream anymore. But he was in it too.”
Elliot: “The chess board was full of people pinned on it. They where absolutely terrified. The serial killer whacked them one by one, but he left every second one alive – for the moment. He laughed at them.”
Elliot: “I was afraid that he’d notice me at any moment and pin me on the table. So I did what a real coward does. I ran like hell! I woke up and fell asleep again. I went to the same room I had escaped from. There were no victims there, only the murderer.”
Elliot: “Somehow I had pinned him on the same chess board he had killed people on. I stuck more and more giant needles in him… in his eyes and everywhere. Then I left, satisfied that the murderer had gotten what was coming to him.”
Elliot: “I woke up in the morning feeling terrible. Then the next night there was another murderer in my dream, but this time I did something else… I didn’t run or kill him. I tied him with a rope and called for help. That made me realize that you’re only as good or bad as you make yourself out to be. I had been bad, but I wanted to be good, so I succeeded in it. I didn’t feel so bad when I woke up again.”
In the Street
Elliot: “Back in Memphis I was offered a recording deal if I’d quit drugs and smoking because they would be ‘bad’ for my voice in the long run. So I did that. I spent five months in rehab, then came to ask about the recording deal. They offered me some veeeery cheesy songs.”
Elliot: “They didn’t allow me to record my own songs, so I told them to SUCK it – very nicely of course. Then I figured maybe a change of scenery would be in order. So here I am, doing my own things. Not something that somebody fucking tells me to do.”
Elliot: “Besides, I’ve always believed that addictions are either something you have or something you don’t admit having – but you’ve got ’em anyway. Whether it’s music, collectable figures or something else… You’ve still got ’em. It’s the matter of being true to yourself. I ain’t got much, but at least I’ve got honesty on my side and courage to admit my addictions.”
Things to Miss
Elliot: “Sometimes I really wonder what I’m doing. Where I’m going to. What I’m running from. Was it all worth it? What is life? How to get back things I’ve lost? Do I even need them back?”
Elliot: “Then I have to stop and look back. Life is suffering. Life is regretting. Life is an endless longing for something you knew and then lost. Then it hits me; I really don’t need it all. My flat could burn tomorrow with all my instruments, and I wouldn’t give a fuck!”
Elliot: “It’s all materiaI. It doesn’t matter. It’s the people that are harder to gain back if I lose them. Hmm. I’ve lost all my important people. I couldn’t get some of them back if I tried – not ever. They ain’t replaceable either. Those are the things I miss.”
Elliot: (deep sigh)