Harold Weis: The Giant James Broland

In 1932 Harold Weis dreamt of becoming a superstar named James Broland. He dreamt it was 1982, he had black hair and a wide-set mustache that covered his face from side to side. He stepped up to the microphone, spotlights glared down upon him from the rafters above. He stared out into the crowd and beheld a giant stadium of empty seats.

Disappointed, he dreamt he moved time forwards into the few hours of the night ahead where he played on his guitar before a crowd of millions and millions of fans admirers and observers who crowded into the open auditorium where he had just hours before stared and beheld nothing. To him it seemed unreal. Behind him his face projected onto a screen 75 times his height and width, a gigantic explosion of his persona onto a canvas larger than any man had any right being. He dreamt he grew to that size, his persona switching with the screen as the screen became his size and he grew to the size of the screen.

Below him his fans still cheered, the writhing, jumping masses of people enraptured, engaged, enthralled by the sound of his playing; James Broland: The Giant.

That night The Giant played as he never had before and never would again in his life. The songs sprung from his hands and lips to the ears of the crowd below and into the heavens above. Harold Weis lost himself to James Broland, and James Broland sang a quiet anthem to the universe above where it registered nothing, except for the tiny movement of an asteroid that felt the vibration from the earth and shifted a pebble in modest applause.

And back on earth James Broland played in his moment, the man 75 times larger than the other men played on his guitar the size of a starship to the crowd below who crooned their sighs and breaths of thanks.

But as soon as it happened James Broland found himself slowly falling, he began to shrink again as the heavens made their ways away from him and while he had then heard the faint trumpeting of the angels at the gates of heaven when he was The Giant, James Broland the man shrank to the empty stage beneath the gaze of the endless universe above him and once more beheld an empty auditorium. His guitar was still his, as it was, unable to float the tiny island of Palau to safety. He was once more James Broland, the dreamt creation of Harold Weis from 1932.

But for a moment Harold dreamt a moment more and as James Broland he stared off into the heavens and looked to the skies for answers to what it meant.

And the universe answered nothing.




Save for a pebble on an asteroid.