Poems and stuff by Maté Jarai…
Poems and stuff by Maté Jarai…

…Christopher Walken















Christopher Walken said “Improvising is wonderful” and he also

said “You cannot improvise unless you know what you are doing.”

I am improvising but I don’t know what I’m doing

which is unwise according to Christopher Walken.


I dreamed about a desert and woke up thinking about the Buddhist

monk on fire in Seven Psychopaths and Christopher Walken’s

monologue. While lying in my bed I thought it would be cool if my life was

also just the imagination of someone dying

somewhere back in time, maybe someone with an appetite

for reckless adventure, someone hunting

for treasure and the truth in a crimson rocked chasm

with only a knife and a wild grin, someone dying slowly

in desert sands, snake venom coursing through his veins

with silent aggression. The sky whitens and he imagines a hundred

years into the future, and I am that future, maybe, a vision

of hopelessness, absurdity, a whole lot of nothing.


Christopher Walken also said “I am scared of everything. I think it’s

only sensible to be that way,” which is sad and makes me

feel despondent but also validated. I don’t want to be scared, though

maybe I’m only alive because I am.


The desert in my dream was scorching and I woke up sweating. I think

it was Death Valley: a dream that was part memory, part fantasy. But if

my life is the reckless treasure hunter’s imagination then it isn’t really my

memory. I’m just fiction, may as well be in a cave somewhere in

ancient Greece with a fire at my feet and chains around my wrists, eyes

wide and pale from years in darkness. And you may as well

all be there with me. Christopher Walken too. He’d be acting

whimsical, charismatic and effortlessly engaging. So much so

that we’d forget we were chained up in a cave. We’d just listen

to him, smiling and nodding, agreeing, minds blown.


But if we are all just the imagination of a reckless treasure hunter

who’s dying of snake poison, staring at the white sky, refusing to let

his grin be vanquished, then the cave I’m picturing is not my

original thought either, but something the treasure hunter

imagines I’d be thinking about. He imagines all of

this: you, me, Christopher Walken, the rest of it. If he told people

what he was thinking people would say

he was crazy. But he is the last person in a world of sand, forgotten

treasure and snakes. No people to tell, no one to convince, nothing

to lose. Crazy can’t exist in a world where there is

nothing comparable. Snakes don’t count because a snake is just

a snake without personality or non-instinctive thoughts (no offence to snakes).

The reckless treasure hunter thinks this so I think this.

Then he dies feeling sane and satisfied…


The Aftermath:

All of us disappear. The stars spin for a while, planets align, and the desert

blackens. The reckless treasure hunter’s body turns to sand. Flowers grow

from that sand, blue flowers, and Christopher Walken’s voice

can be heard faintly, ominously, saying “We all gotta dream, don’t we?”



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