Waking Finnegan

“We are such stuff as dreams are made of, and our whole life is rounded with a sleep” ~ Shakespeare

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Location: zurich, Switzerland

Saturday, July 15, 2006

Spinal Tap Dream


I'm on a circus-sized swing tethered to something unseen above---feeling a mighty belly-rush as I oscillate forward, my toes stretching at the pendulum crest to make physical contact with the stuccoed wall against which is projected the lasar-light Hubbell images of phosphorescent stars and shadowy planets.

There is an uncanniness about the perspectival changes. As I swing away from the projection, the heavens become much more than a convincing illusion---the sudden display of starry light sends a tremendous sparkling megawatt charge through my spine. When the swing reaches the hump at the back of the crest, all is startlingly Big Bang, with time-lapse shifts of slivered, quartered, halved and gibbous moons encircling other worlds in an astounding and never-ending multi-dimentional complexity.

As I once again swing into my downward arc I make the sudden decision to close my eyes and let go of the ropes just like I use to do at the beach. But this time I'm letting go with no sand in sight. I am certain that if I let go while holding on to that intergalactic vista, that I'll be able to land on one of those other worlds.

Nested in the vault of my lids I lose my gravitational center. With a sudden dread, I realize that wherever I land will now be my grave. I'm holding my breath and cringing, knowing it will all end in a split second. I am spinning down mental spiral that makes me dizzy.

But a billion split seconds pass---the g-force tug on my guts and the bloodrushing thrill of the fall goes on and on until the moment I realize "I'm far past the point where I should have hit the ground". When I finally open my eyes, I realize I'm tethered to a rubber chain "bungee cord" connected to a deep-sea bathyshere. Someone inside is waving at me. Is it a greeting or a valediction?

A solar wind roaring by like a desert train while I try to get a fix on whether I'm right side up or upside down. I wonder "Is this tether tightening or going slack?"

But I succumb to an amniotic, weightless limbo where worries don't worry. It's all as clear as those distant stars that I can travel forever in this fractal dream by orbiting myself---that this is a small taste of what the soul is capable of when it leaves the body for good.


Note: I woke up this morning after having battled a herniated disc. It had me coiled in its grip like a mean snake for nearly a month. I'd finally fallen asleep last night after endless, excruciating hours spent wondering if this were the rare sort of pain women felt while giving birth to octuplets.

When I (finally) awoke to the bird reveille, my bed was soaked in sweat.
I felt like a boneless chicken who'd just wrestled with a fox...and won.


Nota Bene: My chiropractor warned me that the fox is likely to return disguised as boa constrictor.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Buckminster Fooler Dream


I'm on some Greek island (Patmos? Samos?) leading an island "discovery" tour for a group of hearty old women folk from my grandmother's retirement home. I'm in the main dining hall of our chartered hotel picking up little snippets of hysterical giddyapchatterbuzz from a group of tour veterans dressed in travel khakis and pith helmets. They are also smorgasbord connoisseurs oohing and ahhing about the impressive luncheon spread before us: barrel o'pickles and pies and gelati for the mode along with open boxes of glazed and sprinkled Winchell's doughnuts, macaroni and potato salads on ice butted up against a massive bulwark of stacked up lunch meats: grouchy sausages, pork-and-roast beef, bratwurst, liverwurst, blood sausage, kalbsleberwurst, pastrami and mortadella and more mortadella and more pastrami. Long, hollowed-out loaves of bread looking like canoes are filled with skulking little finger sausages. "These are the terrible offspring of the worst wursts. BRATWURSTS! Und das pumpernickel mit dem family crests are branded onto zer bellies!" I jot this thought down in my memory for the big speech I'm to deliver sometime later. I'm jocular---"And some of these breads have finger-indented "handles" that each baker presses into them in order to create a certain quaint 'pre-golf era' medieval effect" Dungeons! Truncheons! Bludgeons! Cudgels! FORE!

I slip out of everyone's view to get a better glimpse of those great wheels of Parmesan, Gruyere and Emmentaler I'd spied when I first stepped into the dining hall. Up close they are all branded with what seem to be intricate bird-of-prey ensigns. All of them sit like hulking sentinels atop reams of paper. Office documents, magazines and newspapers from every kiosk in the world. The table of cheese-weighted paper goes on and on and on. Dumbfounded, I run across a familiar edition of Life (Kennedy assassinated! Oh no!) But I notice that the date is wrong. It reads "November 22, 1962" (here my distracted dream mind shifts back to an old boyhood fish tale arguement about R.C. actually seeing a WWII copper penny. "Was it or was it not in mint condition?---You lie!" I check to see that nobody is looking and begin gingerly unwedging Kennedy's face out from under the heavy stack. "Don't forget: The value is far greater depending on the condition" But I pull too hard and wind up on my ass with half of John F's. face in my hands.

This jerking movement triggers an seismic reaction which has me ducking for cover with dumbell cheeses and a billion words come dropping down on me with a terrible thud. I'm hurt. No, I'm not. No, it's landed on the foot of my sixth-grade teacher Miss Shaefer, who lets out a terrible, bone-shattering caterwaul. Then silence.

With everyone looking on, she begins sobbing, and all the attention is turned towards me, the leader of all this shit.

I slip and fall in the middle of the horn of plenty big mess, but finally gain my footing so that I can save face with an apology.

But she's not having any of it. She's clearly not a member of my group. She's got on Raggety-Anne Girlscout clothes. She's no longer that hell-raisin', bug-eyed, spark-shooting Nazi teacher I once dreamed of dousing with sulfuric acid. She's just a withered, toothless old bag lady. Christ, what a fuckin' world I live in!

She's rising up in tatters like a scarecrow phoenix, one hand slowly wagging her crooked index finger at me like a broken metronome. She isn't hurt anymore.

I ask her sarcastically, "Have you seen my Life?", but she says nothing. Instead she gives me a glassy-eyed drunken stare and starts chortling about all her hundreds and hundreds of former students. "And you all really believed that school was out?"

As Miss Shaefer continues to menace me, a woman I mistake for one of my mother's friends---or is it one of my grandmother's?---tries to decoy Miss Shaefer by whooping and pointing at some other commotion going on behind a curtained door. "Teacher, may I go to the bathroom?"

I'm the leader of the tour once again, everyone pressing me forward past the curtains to see what all the brouhaha is about. The lady who did the decoying gives me an "I've got your back" wink and smile. She isn't my mother's friend, she's my aunt Mary. I go up to her for a hug and realize that she's got the sweetest, noblest, most soulful face imaginable. Those eyes, my god! I realize a whole universe left us when she died. And then she leaves again, but this time through a side door.

Now I am in my elementary school auditorium and quite lucid about Buckminster Fuller who, on this "elementary" stage, is giving the same dymaxion demonstration that I witnessed on another stage in my life when I was in college.
He's overseeing a loony procession of puffy breads like Yorkshire puddings. The little pastries are being shuttled on conveyors, puffing up and down like miniature bellows round his spotlit figure.

I joke to myself about this guy being "Buckminster Fooler" and "The Fooler Brushman" He's speaking in scientific ellipses, swinging his arms and sweating profusely all over the puddings. I'm wondering how this Bucky bread would go with the lunch meat and cheese and what sort of dressing to use.

Then just before I awake, something tells me there's a connection between the energy of those spry old ladies and Bucky's pastry puddings.


Sunday, May 21, 2006

Lemon Song Dream



A tilted cityscape of mixed-era autos along the strand---filmic black and white Wrigley's Spearmint youthful carefree barbeque enjoyment of halcyon summers. Beach Nuts!


News warnings interspersed with temple gongs marking the hour. Trying to count out the seconds along with the analog second hand to see if the radio's accurate: "...one thousand and one, one thousand and two"...tick...tick...tick. Look up to see I'm in Wrong City. I was heading to Pasadena I'm sure. Or was I heading to Sears in Santa Monica?

The Streamline Moderne architectural splendor of Macy's is right around the corner, but when I turn it there is no Macy's. "Wha...?..should to be right...should be there. No wait. Could I be on the wrong corner? Gotta back-track. In my mental rewind, I'm back in "real" dream time, driving where I think I was. "I parked my car after turning at 4th Street, here, then went up to level 2 there then went downstairs and turned right (?) towards the beach which is aha right where it should be. And so where the hell is Macy's?

Out among the jostling crowd I bump into P, wife of R. She's no longer the standoffish woman I'd been put off by long ago. Now a toothy, smiley, gum-snapping friendliness full-of-charm and wide-eyed little girl self-assurance. She's some sort of store guide telling me about the marvels of Bullock's Department Store and "Don't you just love all the departments stacked up high like this? On the 3rd floor you can get girlie stuff (nudge nudge, wink wink) and on the 5th there's more manly stuff like tools and jock straps (wink wink, nudge nudge)."

A humongous shopping cart the size of a single family home piled high with every sort of vestment known to humanity---jolly baby jumpers, designer jeans, bundles of corporate t-shirts, endless Fruit-of-the-Looms (very soft and very fine cotton) More quarries filled with formal duds like waistcoats, tuxedos and ball gowns stacked up willy-nilly among overalls and yet more packages of 3-for-one socks. At the corners of the cart are teetering stacks of baseball caps forming pagoda-like spires (with big-headed sizes at the bottom and tiny heads at the top). Beautifully designed Asian labels from Bombay, Hong Kong, Shanghai, Tokyo, Singapore and Seoul grace the labels. I'm in awe of how much stuff humanity dishes up to itself. Creating. Composting. Cannibalizing.

Later I'm inside of Frank Ghery's Santa Monica car park looking through the metal grid out onto the sparkling beach tableaux. Each grid section frames a perfectly composed "seascape", forming a pattern of astonishing theme and variation---miniature
masterpieces of shimmering spectral harmony.

I'm wondering where the hell I parked my car and what car it was---the Giulia?---the Blue Bug? A hot wind comes blasting through the mesh and I get shore sand in my eyes and am now getting swept back with all the cars towards another dream where a scratchy film loop of the Hindenburg is exploding again and again to the Lemon Song. I can see all the little people on fire running for their lives with that tragic zeppelin re-lighting itself like a trick birthday candle.

Monday, May 01, 2006

Biker Chick


I'm driving through a lost Ville of dark diChirico shadows and glaring sun-bleached stucco. Mongolian desert devils are dervishing in the distance and my skull is getting baked. The air is so clear that the landscape seems ready to shatter.

Reflected in my rear-view mirror is a biker chick wearing leather pants and a tank top taking up the rear seats of the Mustang convertible I've borrowed...rented...stolen?. I'm trying to find the right button on the steering column to set the cruise control and instead I trigger a full-blown circus of windshield wipers, sprays, electric windows and seat adjustments. A tinny Jack-in-the-Box "intercom" voice comes through the horn speaker and announces that "There's a dead woman in the back seat...more news at the top of the hour". I turn around and the woman, much larger now, is sprawled out on a hillock of food encrusted fast food wrappers, cartons and beverages. She scratches her head slowly to gather up all her drunken brain cells and plant a hard stare on me.
"You were curious if I was dead, weren't you? Weren't you!


"Ah, M'am. Your weight is putting too much pressure on the suspension---the springs and tires are gonna go---this isn't even my ride!

I wonder about always being too polite in these situations. Maybe I should be more willful here so there'll be less trouble down the road. But then I'm apprehensive because she's so Big and Mean-looking and why's she scratching her head like a chimp?

Forlorn and tragic towns further on with bogus Sonoran cacti wilting in sidewalk planters. A Main Street billboard advertising "Race Shaving Cream" shows the finish line sprint with a dromedary trying to out-nose a buck-toothed donkey. Another billboard shows wild-eyed men with outstretched arms and distended eyeballs escaping from exploding mine shafts and oil derricks. Aaahhh! Terrorists! Oil! Eureka! More cinematic billboards posted. "Signpost City" As we exit the town a grande finale of billboards shows a foreshortened vanishing perspective view of an epic mastaba made up of rusted oil barrels. It appears to be some sort of land-going tanker.

I look back and she's still looking right through me and is now scratching her head with tremendous intention.

"You've got lice!" I tell her. I turn around quickly to see her reaction...and she's gone. Maybe she's slunk down on to the floorboard---maybe she's...

"And You've Got MAIL!" she screams in my face. "Harharhar. Took you a few seconds to figger out where that one came from dinnit? D'ya see the movie?" "Back of your cute little car is way too small and way too trashy which makes me look big and stinky which is what you're thinking and why I'm ridin' up front where it's clean and the leather smells excellent!

Closeup: Her five-o'clock face is freshly-shaven and her heavy talc is flaking off in the swirling car wind.

"You love music, so tell me where this song is from!" She begins humming and singing some weary country and western ditty with good lords almighty and jumpin' jesuses running around everywhere. I'm keeping my eyes peeled for any oncoming traffic and fleet-footed road critters.

"Do you mind if I turn on the radio? I ask. "I need to hear the traffic report."

She's working on another hymn and I decide to leave it on cruise and jump in the back. The trash has cleared and the car has become much more spacious and grand. It's a souped-up much plusher version of my mom's prehistoric DeSoto. "Push-button 25th-Century heaven brought to you by Buck Rogers!"

Bike Chick gets up close and in my ear gently says "Why don't you tune in?" "I'm here to show you a quality of sound that might heal you. Don't you get it?"

And she begins another song the same way as the others but then hits the luxury radio dial and sets off a sonic flow so sonorous and full of deep spirituality that I am instantly moved by it. She winks and then pops and launders a huge wad of bubble gum and, noticing the dashboard cracks---saying we'd better get it mended because it's an ideal breeding spot for lice and bacteria. She begins pulling elastic taffy stringers out of her mouth and curling them into little impromptu vinyl patches which she tucks into the cracks. I'm astonished how deft she is---wondering where she's gotten this sort of training.

She toys with the dial---picks up some sputnik blips and beeps and suddenly finds a rhythmic static. She opens the glove box and slides out a super high-tech mixing board and dials the knobs and says "We need the right galaxy. I need a Pulsar...got it!"

"Now I will sing from within."


A hip-pumping rhythmic flow sweeps over the cruiser and Biker Chick has become the man she'd been hinting at in my half-illuminated mind. She is Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan Biker Chick who begins a slow-burning devotional song mixed with the Pulsar chorus from the tuner. Siberia. Tuva. Balinese Valhallas and Samarkand. Algerian wails and Qawwali howls to the moon and back. It is Khan himself!

I am lucid now, reconfiguring the bedsheets into sails for my drunken ship. This
Mustang bed vessel had last been rolling up glorious oriental coasts full of hitchhikers and stowaways with Hunter Thompson always nearby. On we rode till the long awaited traffic report finally came by way of an old Yoda-like sage (who ended up doing all the driving) and began to warn us of tsunamis and end-of-the-world tornadoes. Tsunamis! Tornadoes! I remember telling him to go east at the next Pacific grove.

Sunday, April 16, 2006

Koufax (Counter-Clockwise)


The first part of this dream is here.

I'm pissed-off about my head and getting more frustrated---looking round for another tool---slamming shut one cabinet door---swinging open another...."I've already looked here... and what the hell are the hand towels doing bunched up in the corner there with battalions of dead soldier ants? And the old rubber scabbard I stabbed everyone with is sandwiched between the pages of an old squirreled away Penthouse. And here are some photos of me as a baby...

Shit! I'm supposed to cook breakfast for the neighbor's baby I'm sitting. Where's the baby? Where's the fucking baby!" I'm rifling through a multitude of drawers and cabinets and finding thingamajigs here and thisandthats there. More rifling. One drawer is stuffed with ancient Shredded Wheat biscuits and the other one a stack of instruction booklets telling me how to operate gizmos in every language, but saying nothing about where to find the lousy wrench or baby.


Memory smells. Freshly-painted surfaces. Domestic perfumes of renewal glide across my consciousness as I walk down a corridor and enter the wrong side of the kitchen. I'm standing where the stove should be. Disorientation. "This is not my kitchen". I realize I'm inside my next door neighbor's duplex looking into my kitchen window from their side of the driveway. The hedge has been clipped with a reverse-mohawk indent to open a view through the bottom of the kitchen window. A metropolis of birds is chattering inside the bushes. I'm thinking about the word "hedge" and that it's also a verb which means to "beat around the bush". I tell myself that the birds are in their own mini Vegas "hedging bets". I make a mental note of this.

I backtrack down the corridor towards my bathroom but realize when I enter that things have changed. Multi-sided and round-shaped, it has more sides than a hexagon. More than an octagon. And what is a nine-sided room called? Is an eleven-sided room possible? What about seventeen? And is there an especially bad number of sides that one should avoid? I figure I can work these questions out with some calculations. Geometry. I've got to solve this room riddle. "Let's see. I know there's something called a hypotenuse. Hypo-Ten-Use. I make the acronym HYTEN, as in Hyten one's awareness. H is the 8th letter; Y the 25th. 25 + 8 = 33. What the hell should I do now? All those theorems and proofs and chalky diagrams and worrying about my high school finals. Did I pass my finals?" Panic.

Sepulchral beams of light rake down through the faceted glass. The walls have been beautifully prepared by some master hand in preparation for the rare tiles to be laid. Understanding the reasons for the wrench, vaulted room and religious light no longer concern me.

Instead I'm prying open an old carton full of childhood stuff I'd discarded moons ago. My old Topps baseball cards! I'm riding a busload of joy as I peel the brand new cards apart and hold Sandy Koufax up against the rapturous light. I am home.

Saturday, April 08, 2006

Sump (Clockwise)


The gurgling sounds from under the drain won't stop. I'm tugging on the beaded chain and trying in vain to pull out the hardened, crusty plug. But the chain breaks off and the silvery beads go flying in every direction.

Half of me is in the cabinet below working delicately to break the rusted monkey wrench from an ancient block of sponge. "If I wet the sponge, it'll be way easier". And so in my ecstatic rush to test this logic I limbo my way out of the miniscule space. Then, rising up like Lazarus, I violently kunk the back of my head on the edge of the door opening. I realize there's a massive welt---maybe even blood---but I purposely ignore it, hoping it'll go away.

Having freed the sponge from the wrench, I'm back under the sink (supine). Now I'm having a helluva time trying to get the teeth to grab ahold of the u-pipe coupling. The iron monkey head falls off and clacks against my forehead. I'm embarrassed but mighty glad nobody is watching. Dizzy ideas begin flickering. "Is this really the right wrench? Haven't I heard about another, more effectual tool? Why am I fucking around with this antiquated hunk of corroded metal anyway?"

Once again I work my way out of the cabinet, but this time gingerly. I notice the silvery beads from the plug chain have become translucent little pearls. I'm wondering if the hardware store will allow them as barter for a better wrench.

Saturday, March 18, 2006

Tru Fiction


I'm at another redbrick loft party---this time in Zürich.

Sitting on a great velvet sofa with a wrapped foot propped on a big plastic ball. "A helluva hullaballoon" I say to the misplaced old man sitting next to me. He looks over at me slowly and then slumps forward and begins nodding his head in slow affirmation.


G, a former student, approaches me with his size 9 head and a leotarded entourage of feline dancing girls. He says "I'm really and Truly Capote, so go lightly...hahaha!...and as soon as I get his punch-line, a rim-shot with accompanying laugh track has everyone around me getting swept up in his mesmerizing party persona.

Little balloons, Lawrence Welk bubbles and confetti rise and fall in opposite directions like a great Broadway homecoming celebration. I'm wondering how G has attained this savoir faire. And where did he acquire his gumbo patois? Wondering why such a small brain needs such a big head. Questions.


Harper Lee (Keener from the film) is calm and measured and telling me the real story about "This here G's the one who manipulated Perry Smith's dreams---hypnotized him so he'd enter the Clutter home. That way he'd have his true fiction and become the sort of person his father feared. It's like you and your own fake father". This last remark taps the memory of some long-ago fictional father I'd fashioned out of Mr. Green Jeans from Captain Kangaroo. How could she possibly know? I'm wondering if this fictional father of mine might have been the real Mr. Clutter who was murdered in Kansas. I'm not certain whether the murdered family was Truman's or mine.

And now I'm brooding about Captain Kangaroo and that terrifying Dancing Bear who used to haunt my dreams with its terrible eyes. Was it a he or a she? Who was inside?

The fake Truman (G) saunters over with a wry smile and a tray full of drinks and makes a pun about my injured foot: "What a lovely supporting cast! May I sprinkle some fairy dust on it?" He pulls out a fancy felt pen and gestures calligraphically in the air and says "Now, where do I put my autograph?"

Sunday, February 26, 2006

Argyle Dream (The Other Side)


This is the last part of the dream. Scroll down to Argyle Dream "This Side" and work your way up.

I'm trying to locate the front side of the sac---find out which way it's pointed---in case of a sudden spring. But rather than positioning myself defensively, I sit down, feeling weary---feeling drugged.

The hump has morphed into a staring face with hollowed-out eyes. The animated surface I'd noticed
earlier must have been some sort of gathering together of its features. That same movement, which had earlier seemed like a heaving womb about to give birth, is now motionless.

As I stare back at the mask I become fascinated by the strangeness of its expression. "Greek Theatre", I say to myself. "Like tragedy and comedy as one". "Why are these two expressions separate?" "And is this convergence what the Zo-onna Noh theatre mask signifies?"

I can hear a muted gong coming from below the floor. Is it a funeral? A play? Questions.

As I begin to pick up the mask, a massive, heaviness slams down on my neck and shoulders and manhandles me to my feet. It's him again.

Man ~ "Drop it".

When he lets me go I quickly drop to the floor and roll my right ankle, falling into a crippled heap. The man feigns to jump at me, and each time he does, I kick up reflexively. I know my ankle is seriously twisted, but I feel nothing.

He laughs derisively and straddles me like a giant.

Me ~ "Are you Paul Bunyan?" "Are you famous?" "Could I have your autograph?"

My queries seem to confuse him momentarily. While he's ruminating, I try to kung-fu kick at his crotch, but his balls are perched too high. (Here I'm wondering how break dancers gyrate so maniacally, and how if they could couple those spins with Bruce Lee's moves it would be the perfect martial art. And why hasn't anyone thought of this before? Inspired by all this I try to spin around, using my hands to get up to speed, but it's no use. I have no clue. I'm all crossed up.

Man ~ "You damned fool!". "That ain't break dancing---that's broke dancing!" (laughs)

Frustrated and embarrassed, I try doing "new and improved" moves, but as soon as I think I've got it, he begins jumping over and around me like a potent manchild endowed with feline flexibility and strength.

Intercom voice ~ "Why don't you leave his sorry ass alone?" "Show us the mask trick".

The man suddenly stops, turns, goes over to the mask, kneels down (as if in prayer) and slowly picks it up.

With his back to me (I'm able to witness his actions reflected in the two-way mirror) he begins slowly fondling the inside of the mask as though trying to build up some sort of static-erotic charge. He then begins to press it to his face, making lip-smacking noises and darting his tongue through the voids of its mouth and eyes. He's like a lecherous carnivore about to defile something innocent. Mashing and pressing the guise to his face, he works it until it begins to take on the ruddy features of his earlier self.

And then he slowly turns towards me---laughing hyterically through an expression that is neither mask-like nor human. "You are possessed! Stay away from me!"

I try to scramble to my feet but realize they're fast asleep and also injured. I bang on them violently, trying to wake them up. It this how it feels to be paralyzed?

He's upon me now and so in my panic I close my eyes and begin flailing, kicking and yelling in a desperate attempt to ward him off. But nothing.

I open my eyes, expecting to be face-to-face with him, but he's no longer in the room.
He's once again a silhouette in that room full of others behind the two-way mirror. He's throwing his arms up in halleluja gestures, mocking my gestures and the break-dancing kung fu self-defense---heehaws and chortling all around.

Me ~ "Fuckers!"

In the middle of the floor is a gaping hole much larger than the diameter of the sockeyed object. I crawl over to it on my hands and knees and peer over the edge. At the bottom appears to be an undulating mirror like a pool of mercury.

Needing to "test the water", I pull off my dead-to-the-world rubber foot and drop it in, watching it bob gently on the surface for a few moments before seeing it submerge.

Sunday, February 19, 2006

Argyle Dream (That Side Part 2)


"One sometimes realizes, after the event, that one's consciousness has caught something unexpected on its outer edge, as though the two things had somehow got superimposed".
~ Kenzaburo Oe

The white floor and swollen undulating hump forms a large and horizontal abstract eye. Is this a butcher's...a hospital...a morgue? The combination of clinical, hard-edged sauberkeit of the space coupled with the damaged flesh makes my sense of nakedness palpable.

But then I'm laughing up my sleeve about "that darned sockeye". My internal giggling about the pun triggers television canned laughter in the antechamber. I'm not sure whether I should be amusing myself or the others (?) beyond the two-way mirror. My sense of security feels intertwined with this thought.

The salesman's voice returns through the speakers---this time with an urbane tone. "We appreciate a mind like yours, sir. "You are the preferred sort of customer" We just need to ask you a few questions...would you mind our mind survey?"

More laughter all around---I feel as if this were a stage---as if I were being watched by a very large audience whose feed were being transmitted through a surveillance camera. Have they been watching everything all along? Is this some sort of reality t.v.? I don't detect any mounted cameras.

But what about the transformation of the Republican into posh and understated gent? He's the same man who had earlier threatened me. A mean and nasty hick.

Me ~ "Were you acting for reasons having to do with selling off all the farm equipment and dealing with surly customers?" "I know farmers everywhere are being devoured by agribusiness goliaths".

A sudden biblical breakage---renting through a narrow isthmus and inundating the Aborginal European Mud People and their sad flocks of bleating sheep. I see hoards of field-hollering sharecroppers, un-landed and unforgiven trailer trash with everyone trying to stave off Simon Legrees who'd come to make manifest their destiny---to up the land-snatching, speculating ante. They came to kill the ancient souls of those who didn't know the concept of a fence. Kill their souls. Kill their soles. Filetted soles. And I reflect on moccasins, Rubber Soul, rubber feet and that infernal eyesac.

The man doesn't answer me, and so I rant something to the effect of "John Barleycorn and his angry and drunken square-dancing is like a lost coyote. He's not Mr. Blues who has helped stave off heartless shits like yourself who've never even had a soul to sell to the Devil!" I let out a bigger torrent of incomprehensible ravings and in the end am breathless and confused. A silence follows where I realise everything I cherish might be taken; that he'll "get away with it" if I don't change tactics.

Me ~ "Was it me or you who made everything disappear earlier? What about the darned sockeye in the middle of the floor?" "Will you play a fair game here and answer me with honesty?"

Man ~ "You need to look more closely at your mind".

Me ~ "Is that lumpy thing my mind looking at me?"

Man ~ "Something like that. It's known as Past Judgement".

Me ~ "You mean there's something in my past it wants to clarify, or something it wants to judge?"

Man ~ "To judge"

Me ~ "So what do I do?"

Man ~ "Examine it up close and peel it back" "You must confront whatever it is that emerges"


End of Argyle Dream (That Side Part 2)

Go to Argyle Dream (The Other Side)

Saturday, February 11, 2006

Argyle Dream (That Side Part 1)


While I'm pressing on my wounded foot, which makes a little hissing squeak whenever I release it, the man behind the mirror booms through the p.a. system. "Yer a dumbshit to be here....this ain't yer territory, an' yew know it. So why don' yew juss git out!?"

I begin applying an even firmer press-and-release on my foot, which makes it sing with an odd, lamb-to-the-slaughter bleat. The comic sound gives me the right clue, and so now I know with certainty that this ghastly foot isn't real. It's a magic store slip-on rubber fake which is covering my healthy foot underneath. I begin to ponder my little epiphany: "How could such a horribly real thing become so bogus? And why didn't I notice the metamorphosis while it was happening? Then I'm wondering if this fake foot coverall be marketed as a new-fangled sort of footwear? I'm sure it would sell like mad! But what would I call it?" More questions to answer.

Again lucid and aware that it's 4 in the morning, I begin to wonder about the many things in life that slip by our notice, such as moles, nose hairs and wrinkles, but I can't keep the thread alive and so I slip back into the same showroom with my faux foot and the Republican. Beyond the glass, he is a shifting, ghostly silhouette. And someone else is standing alongside him.

Everything is suddenly silent except for the muffled street honks and fluorescent buzzing.
I listen to these sounds while I force the whole perspective through squinted eyes. I know now that I'm in control of this dream, and so I squint to make the mirror retreat and disappear. I squint and remove the rubbery foot. The same with the tractor and the rest of the farm machinery. I get a huge rush as I begin to delete things from the dream diorama one by one. I make sounds like dumping files into the trash on my computer and re-arrange the look of the room till it looks like a Soho gallery. I'm feeling nearly omnipotent now. "The power to change is always right there in front of you". I feel a surge of joy rush through me as the room becomes an infinite white. I sense it is my personal Philosopher's Stone.

In the middle of floor is a little hump of something chromatic and alive. Up close it is a livid, undulating sac which vaguely resembles what was once my bloodied argyle sock. Could it be? It's like a living, breathing soft sculpture stuck to the floor at the edges like a scab. Something is trying get out.

End of Argyle Dream (That Side Part 1)

Go to Argyle Dream (That Side Part 2)