Without trying your patience anymore I guess it’s time to confess who I really am. I’m a professor of new media and the avant-guard at the Chicago Art Institute http://www.saic.edu/ and my experiment over the past couple of days has involved blogging under different personas. Specifically, I’m interested in the ways that the gestalt of identity is reconstructed after we find out someone has been lying about who they are. Readers of this blog over the past three days have been challenged by stories from three different identities. In order to understand how people have dealt with this switching of identities there is a form to fill out at the end of this entry for people who’ve followed the blog. My sincerest thanks.
     My other main interest is in surrealism and to that end I’ve written a short narrative about the ghost of Salvador Dali living in Dallas. This is an experiment in surrealism within language and if you’re in my “Slashed Eye of the Beholder and Bunuel” class I’d like a 300 word written response to this story by Friday’s class. Thank-you.
 

photo of Dali
 
 
                      Dali Does Dallas


            The ghost of Dali sat at the curb of the intersection. Cars drove over the ends of his      feet which he stretched out but he didn’t feel anything. The people in the cars didn’t see      anything. They weren’t the right people.
             Dali slowly spun the left tip of his curley-cue moustache while he looked up and            studied the fonts of the street-signs: Oak Grove Avenue, North Hall. They could use              some elongation, he thought to himself. The perfect city would consist of tall letters that      were only legible if you looked up at them from a certain angle and from that angle the        impossibly tall letters would shrink into view. The perfect city. Utopolis. 
        “You-topple-‘is and I set it right back up,” Dali laughed towards the roar of the cars.           He liked puns and there was no one to correct him.
        A mile down the street a face in a car suddenly came into view and Dali stood up from    the curb. Dali’s eyes squinted beneath the sun and sized the man up. Here was                        somebody who was too literal, too serious. Dali could see into his heart a mile away. Dali would have his way with him.
    “We’re going to need the specs by Friday now. I know it’s bumped things up a bit but hey when the going gets tough.” The man was not a tall or large man but he spoke with a deep boom that seemed to come from some unknown size. He spoke every word with weightiness as if he were dictating words to be carved on his tombstone, to be remembered for posterity. The man also had a moustache but that did little to endear him to Dali.
    “What a pick. What a prick. What a prick,” Dali said in a trot of “t”s and “d”’s as he concocted some spell in his subconscious, something to give the man another way of seeing the world. A vision of salvation in madness. Against the man’s boulder-sized head his cell looked ridiculously small. 
   As the car passed through the intersection, Dali’s moustache stretched out like a whip and reached out to sting the man in the car. This wasn’t necessary but Dali liked the theatricality of it. The notion of inserting an idea as a kind of venom.
    “The Anderson account will have to be closed by next Wednesday,” the man said into his cell only it was no longer a cell but something cold and long, drooping down his arm. The words that came out of his mouth started to take physical form and create a thick web between his mouth and the end of the cell. A tiny spider-like version of Dali appeared on the web and a fly with the man’s face buzzed into the sticky trap. 
   The car swerved and then righted itself as the man shook his head and returned to normality.
   He would never be the same.
   Dali stood at the Dallas intersection and burst out laughing. Dogs all around the city started to bark for no apparent reason.

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