Seattle Press on Line - Westward Motion of a Dream

Westward Motion of a Dream

By Terrance Brown

May 03, 2001 -- Julie Toledo, unaware of the microbes and bacteria lurking in the cushions of an oversized couch, lies face down. Her feet, gangly and unappetizing, hang over the armrest. Her head, shelved between the rightmost of cushions and the center cushion, is littered with brown and gray hair.

Her husband takes a picture:

He calls it Westward Motion of a Dream. This concept, however, from the centering of the woman to the contrast of purple (his wife's blouse) and green (an oversized couch), has been replicated, in a way, by a French Photographer.

The proverbial replica is of a nude model:

She lies face down on a green couch in a room decorated baroquely. Adorned and wonderful, the studio is lighted well by halogen lights and other assorted illuminating devices. The model, the third daughter of an Italian florist, will remain passionately beautiful for seventeen more years and remain plainly beautiful for the rest of her life. She lies face down on the couch, her head turned away from the camera. The artist has painted a single purple stripe down her nude back with Crayola Washable Paint, which will, with soap and water, come easily off. The session lasts four and one half hours and tires no one.

The photographer earns 70,000 dollars for the piece; he wins photograph of the year. This turn of events skyrockets his career, earning him millions of dollars for his endeavors. All of his assets and worldly possessions are thus from people who wanted one of his photographs. A Photograph from the man who shot Westward Motion of a Dream. Henry Toledo, who had also captured Westward Motion of a Dream would, however, disregard his picture after hearing several of his wife's complaints:

That's a terrible picture of me, you can't even see my face.

&

Henry, why are you wasting film on pictures of me sleeping?

In Julie Toledo's photo album reside hundreds of landscapes, family photos, and other assorted memories. Fourteen pictures have a thumb in the upper right hand corner. Sixteen are out of focus and a small percentage—no larger than fifteen percent but no smaller than four—are red eyed or blurry. Viewers are oblivious to both ailments for sentimental reasons.

The shower in the Toledos' house is great: It has enough pressure as to not dribble but not so much as to wear a bald spot on Henry's chest. And it's not only a shower: It's a Tub/Shower. This does nothing, however, to hinder the shower's ability to clean, and in fact the dualistic nature of the shower adds to its greatness. As for the cosmetics of the shower they are this: It is a white porcelain thing with silver dials and knobs. A green-apple green plastic shower curtain encircles the entirety of the tub, hung on imitation silver pipe that also circumnavigates the tub. The shower head, hanging nicely from the same imitation silver piping, spits water at a pressure deemed "perfect" by Julie and a bit weak by her husband, Henry. The tub (its decor and its basic look), is considered regal by both Henry and Julie.

They never shower at the same time, although they often share the bathroom. They share the shampoo and the soap and they share the same washcloth that hangs from the piping that encircles the tub. Henry sometimes shaves when Julie is in the shower, but he often waits for her to finish showering. Julie never shaves, but instead has had her legs electronically enhanced. Hair will never again grow from her legs, regardless of changing fads.

Julie and Henry make love in the mornings.

Julie and Henry do not have a child and will never have a child. This child will never take its first steps, will never speak its first words. This child will not have his first day of school, get his license, go to the prom, lose his virginity, go to college, fall in love, get married, buy a house, try new foods, make a major stock exchange, have children, have grandchildren, retire, or die. This child will experience no worldliness whatsoever; Julie and Henry are very happy for their child and still make love in the mornings.

Henry has taken only one prize-winning photograph, for which he was never recognized. He has, however, won three bowling championships in fourteen years. He swears to god that he has a seven ten split. He has, in fact, pulled the shot off a number of times but he is more or less consistent in missing the shot as opposed to actually pulling it off.

Julie drinks beer when she craves alcohol and Henry does not; Henry drinks whiskey. They've only been drunk fourteen times together as of 1992. By 1998 that rate will be increased by two: sixteen. They are invited to weddings and anniversaries and other assorted gatherings. At the wedding of his wife's first cousin, Henry once talked about a photograph he took called Westward Motion of a Dream. He'd drunk a little too much and was in the mood for talking about his art. The man he was talking to, Porter James, didn't understand the significance of the photo. Henry was pretty sure that he understood it and that, with minimal description, could make Porter understand, but he didn't press the issue. They spent the rest of the night talking about bowling and showers, both topics being ones that both Porter James and Henry were proficient in.

Porter James, who had spent most of his night talking with Henry Toledo, drove home from that party and pulled into an Irving station so that he could use the bathroom. When he was throwing his urine away in the toilet he flushed twice: once halfway through the urination and again at the end. The toilet was quiet and powerful but Porter was unaware of it. He just waited, bored and alone, thoughtless and impotent, in the immaculate room, to finish. And then he left. He didn't wash his hands, he did not thank the woman at the register, and most importantly of all, he did not crave chocolate milk and snacks.

Porter James thinks a lot when he's not using the bathroom and he decided to do so after he left the Irving. During this particular moment he thought about when he used to smoke a lot of pot and about the thought that had helped him get over such a problematic and euphoric habit:

Chemicals Shmemicals, I say! Ha! Milk and snacks are better. You've nothing to lose with milk and snacks!

So Porter walked back into the Irving, said nothing to the clerk, and grabbed a snack from underneath the counter. He walked to the back of the store and grabbed a carton of chocolate milk and returned to where he had grabbed the snack not moments before. He bought the stuff.

Julie would not be disgusted but would merely think of Porter as a hungry person with a deep down and unquenchable craving for chocolate milk and snacks. Her husband, Henry, on the other hand would be aroused. He'd ask Porter for a bite or a drink since he, too, felt the same as Porter about snacks and milk in general: They were good and deserved much attention.

Porter James, a former conspirator, watches television every night. He mostly watches prime time but has no certain agenda; he flips through the channels at will. Porter was offered 214 channels by a satellite salesman once, and Porter took that offer. One night while flipping through the channels he came to an art special about a French photographer. The photographer had tragically died and all of his pictures had drastically increased in their worth. Everyone around the world who has his photographs is very sad that he has died but very happy to have such expensive pieces of his artwork to remember him by. Porter's wife walks in with his dinner and he tells her that he'll never understand why people pay so much for this crap:

A picture of a woman, nude. She is lying on an oversized green couch and has a purple streak running down the vertical trough of her back.

Porter tells his wife that he could take a picture like that. She nods and disregards his statement. She knows that only talented artists and photographers can take such pictures. She goes back into the kitchen, where a game of solitaire has been played a quarter through. She looks the game over, doesn't see where an eight can be played, plays the game until its newly created impossibility, loses, shuffles her cards, and spreads out a new hand.

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Jenny Stehens	May 03, 2003	Gulfport, Fl.	self employed
I think I may know this writer. I liked it it . Have yhim email me. I think I knew him in Virginia