102: Móttaka

Noun: móttaka f (genitive singular móttöku, plural móttökur); 1. reception; 2. (soccer) first touch, control

I should go browse the library for books about dreams. This morning (29 July) saw me through another strange one.

I built a full-sized rocket to match the paper ones I loved making: the difference, of course, was in the propulsion and in the materials. I was proudly showing off this result to Mom, noting the parallels. We were feet away from the launchpad; I could see all of my work in detail. The fins were slanted heavily to make the rocket spin, I pointed out.

… My suitemates, in cahoots with the military, moved in to seize my work. The full-size rocket was a sacrifice; but I guarded my paper model with my life. There was a blurry chase scene: I fled across a building (probably a claustrophobic, poorly lit hotel as usual) while an ally held up my friends with an eye-closing ruse. Marco and Michael pursued me to an elevator hall: one of the passenger lifts was jammed, but the service lift was fine. I pushed the button and leaped in before they could follow me.

It was one of those super sketchy lifts; bits of the shaft jutted out, threatening to squish me flat against the unyielding, rising lift floor. There was no wall: the lift was not a carriage, but just a piece of floor that rose up through a constrained shaft. More importantly, the impossible construction of the shaft didn’t tip me off – what threatened to squash me passed through the floor of the elevator like a stone through water. I arrived at the roof and crawled out the door (which, in trying to open, I nearly squashed myself with).

It was a bit like the series two finale of BBC’s Sherlock. I stepped up to the edge of the roof, understanding that there was no escape. It was a beautiful day to destroy a brainchild of mine.

I knelt at the lip of the roof, looking over the parking lot, and began tearing the fins off my rocket. I sang O mio babbino caro from Puccini’s Gianni Schicchi (this was something of a feat for my untrained male voice). One by one the fins fluttered away like leaves scattered by the summer wind. I sounded nice, for once – I’m a little ashamed that didn’t tip me off that I was having a dream.

The head, the rear, the body – section by section I dismantled my creation. The colonel burst onto the rooftop at the climax of my aria. I turned my palms upwards and let the last of my ill-fated rocket go, and the final sweet notes floated away on the breeze.

J39M

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