Apichatpong’s shamanic journeys

I see a little boy. He stands on one leg. He wears shorts and a short-sleeved chequered shirt. He holds up one of his hands and I take this hand. Our hands become one. There is a strange form of energy circulating through my body, a soothing warmth that has its origins in my hand and that spreads through my body. But it abruptly stops. I can hear planes. For some odd reason, I know that they are war planes. For some odd reason, I know that the boy whose hand I’m holding is . . .