You don't say...

Arnold Schwarzenegger has been scandalized because he had been filmed swimming before the prow of a speeding ocean liner. But John, my brother, and I are doubtful of the actual dangers of this activity. We will test this out for ourselves. We wade out to the deep part of the bay and kick our way furiously into the sea until we reach an ocean liner. There are strange oar-like paddles extending out in front of the vessel, and they do look dangerous, but as long as we stay clear of those paddles, we are safe. We agree that the Schwarzenegger media hype is exactly that. We stop swimming, allow the ship to go on its way. We realize just how far we are from shore. We grab on to a passing sheet of foam core, but it won't hold us afloat. I realize I'm exhausted and several feet under the surface of the water. John pulls me up and says we can make it, and that perks me right up. We swim with ferocity and my vision is locked to a tree on the shore. Soon, my feet scrape the rocky bottom. We are walking along the beach and I realize I am late to an interview. I have been summoned by an eccentric architect to render drawings for his latest project. I can not render, but he tells me in a phone voice in my ear that he liked me in the interview, don't worry just come over at once. You'll have to teach me everything I say. Yes, yes, but just come. The office looks antique and lived in. A few metal desks are scattered around with people around them. The room has tall ceilings and banged up but ornate wooden columns and framework covered in glossy black paint. There is much activity. The mood is happy, busy, and supportive (of the distractable architect). The apparent chaos is both terrifying and alluring. A friendly black woman starts dictating some basic rendering instructions to me, but the architect is there talking to me and I'm not sure where to look. He is called into a meeting in the next room. My clothes are wet, from swimming? Sweating? The lady tells me I must not interrupt the meeting but fuck it why listen to anyone in this madhouse. I stand in the doorway of waiting for a lull in the meeting. The architect waives me in and starts telling me to take notes. I begin writing on the blueprints on the table. No email he says. You will have to pay an $85 fine every time you write an email from this office. He starts writing notes next to mine. His notes are in red and move like animation. There are bees flying in the room through an open window and I can also perceive, in certain moments, a sphere of floating words encircling my head. I can do this I say to myself. I leave him and walk out of the room into another busy room. I find a desk, clear off the papers and I realize that no one will ever care about my renderings or check up on me in this dreamy environment. An old feeling tells me to get the hell out, a new one tells me to stay. In a quick flash I sense that the chaos will eventually smooth into recognizable patterns and that this environment will be more interesting than the peace I think I crave. I decide to do what I want to do, knowing that I whatever I do here in this weird and wonderful place is really the thing I should have been doing all along. But couldn't.