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Stephen Donahue
2026-08-08 02:33:06 +00:00
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columns/2026-05-26-supporting-role.md
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Let me drive the world through my dreams, that uninhibited flow of creative output.
> Let me drive the world through my dreams, that frictionless flow.
What supporting role am I playing in the story of everyone else's life? What role am I playing in my own?
A day will come where I accept an invitation for a meeting held somewhere deep inside the lobes of my unconscious self.
Aspects of Death and Correlated Aspects of Life in Art, Epigram, and Poetry. By F. Parkes Weber.
**Meeting Transcript - weekly milestone checkin**
Udit: Let's give it a couple more minutes and see if anyone joins from the east coast.
Amit: I don't see any of them online.
Karthik: If they're not asleep by now, I can sync with them consciously tomorrow.
Udit: Yeah, ok. Hold on, someone just joined.
Troy: Hi, sorry I'm late. I started dreaming I was back at my last job. I honestly didn't notice anything was up until I started getting all these unauthorized alerts.
Udit: Not a problem. Ok, thanks everyone for joining.
> What supporting role am I playing in the story of someone else's life? What character am I playing in my own?
Assistant Producer #1: So what role are you're auditioning for?
no. 26: I'm here to audition for the part of Ramon, the earnest, but misunderstood, next-door neighbor.
Assistant Producer #2: That one's been cast, to the, uh, Broadway guy. You've got 'Drunken Mailman.' One chance, go.
no. 26: Yeah, great. Sure. Um, my uncle was an alcoholic. But he worked at the credit union, he wasn't like, active.
Assistant Producer #1: No wonder he drank. Let's go. It's 9AM and you're already loaded.
no. 26: Right. Ok, keep it together man. I don't even remember which mailbox I left my empties in this time. I can't even read half the addresses scrawled on these fucking boxes. People don't even write any more. Just when they want to return some of the bullshit they bought online. And then they crumble, turning into some kind of institutionalized lunatic, frenzied scribbling over any flat surface. *hic* oh, look. We're only at number 151. What an asshole. *audibly pops invisible cork, swigs* that means _ten more_ **Fucking** blocks *throws bottle, furiously. The glass smashes against a parked car. Its siren blaring.* before I can stop and take a shit behind the bus depot.
Assistant Producer #2: You'd make your uncle proud. Thanks. Out.
#### Further Reading
* Aspects of Death and Correlated Aspects of Life in Art, Epigram, and Poetry. By F. Parkes Weber.