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

Sunday, February 27, 2005

Robert Altman Dream


In some big auto garage, grease blackened and musty, and having trouble remembering my lines for my role---no clue as to what to say or who I am---Robert Altman is standing over the scene with oversize horn-rimmed glitter coated reading spectacles---his assistant is instructing me but speaking too fast and I'm ready to quit all this and run out, but as soon as I do R.A. steps forward, smiling, kindly and very reassuring telling me 'Don't worry, there's nothing here you haven't done in real life, so just be natural and it'll come'. Assistant again starts rattling off instructions but I can't, I don't know what...now she goes over to a big tank pulls a tube into her mouth and turns to me speaking even faster and with helium chipmunk voice and I want to laugh but I'm getting pissed cause I'm worried and telling her to slow down---she's yapping like some Pekinese and R.A. yells 'CUT!' and comes forward, grabs my hand shaking it while grinning hugely---'That's it! Perfectly done. That's how we get the magic to happen, you see'. I'm relieved; confused--- what did I do? But now the garage doors are being opened by someone outside---a horizontal snowfall and can hear footsteps shuffling and it's the crew leaving. I'm feeling greatly relieved at my 'success' but now only intent on seeing the individual flakes out the door, but everything going in and out of focus---now there's a black shadow of someone's head over the snow scene. I realize it's mine and start making puppet head shadow movements ticktock like an upturned pendulum. When I look back to see the where from, I can see the crew up in the projection room watching me. I feel uncertain about the vibes.

Same dream but now in a trailer dressing room with R.A; huge Rococo mirror with animal portrait photos taped up and old half rubbery masks of fx ghouls behind him reflecting all the hanging beads and baubles and scattered make-up and hairspray cans mixed up with Chinese take-out containers and I'm picking on some hardened stir-fry noodles glued to the table's edge. My fingernail is split and it looks like a pen nib and I'm flicking it on the noodles in a funky rhythm. But R.A. gestures for me to stop and starts speaking morosely, 'I'm real sorry but we're gonna have to let you go. You're work is top-rate, excellent stuff indeed, but not gonna pass the public litmus at the test screening. I go back to plucking my noodle tune while he starts rattling off statistics, me feeling deeply humiliated at what's happened; my career...fuck! R.A. says, 'Please....eat!' 'You ain't hungry?' 'Well if you're not gonna eat, I'm gonna!' and he comically chopsticks out all the kungpao, broccoli w/oysters and fried rice all over the table, all over the lipsticks and creams and his papers and looks up and says 'It's all good!' and now moves in deftly with both hands ambidexterously chopsticking everything clack clack clack.

Friday, February 25, 2005

Ignatz Dream


Trying to find some word in my beatup old thesaurus but odd words listed and I can't decipher them except for a page headed 'Cyrillic' in big letters and so 'This is where the Russians are' and sure enough I find Dostoyevsky heading and realize I've found something unknown about his writing and that this surely is the Rosetta Stone of his mind---revolutionary and wilder than the world has ever known. 'Gogol' jumps out in Roman scripts among the Cyrillic jumble and I realize he's part of this inner circle, but no Gorki, No Tolstoy.

Our cat Ignatz has grown much larger---like a lynx and not tabby. What's happened to her eyes? They seem oddly misshapen. One of them looks at me directly but the other seems slack and wandering. She gives off a low growl and suddenly I realize this isn't sweet little Ignatz but some wild animal that somehow got into the house...and so where's Ignatz? As the seriousness dawns on me---she knows---and quickly grabs my forearm in her jaws, not breaking my skin, but no monkey business-like. Everything quite still and she's looking at me clearly with both eyes like lasers and I know by their look that she's reading my mind---'You'd better be cool here or you will be eaten. She' somehow morphed larger while holding me and now presses me back until I'm supine and realize from her look that she's in heat but I'm mortified thinking now that she'll devour me if I don't get an erection and fuck her. But somehow she doesn't persist springs back and slides off the bed pulling the comforter with her and now she's out of view. I'm terrified that she's only waiting for me to get up so that she can attack. I instinctively grab the lamp for protection. It has a dimmer slide and I turn it all the way up and the beast crouching low, half slithers out of the room like a snake but much faster. In a panic I up and quickly shut the door and as I do she's suddenly there again but her head gets caught and I'm pushing on it as hard as possible and can hear her skull cracking. Cécile is screaming on the other side of the door but I can't understand and keep the pressure. Then I hear 'Oh God!' 'Oh God!' and let go of the door and she's hysterical and now I realize that it's Ignatz...I wake instantly and she's right there sleeping next to me in the same bed and I almost had sex with her.


Thursday, February 24, 2005

Hyperion Dream


Somehow I've got a 'daughter' who's sitting yoga watching tv---we're in some tragicpoor flophouse where others are living in rooms down a long darkwood hallway corridor--spectral tv lights flickering and stammering in unison---I know they're all on the same program because of the stereoscopic din. Something tells me she's 'mine', but her looks---I can barely accept her 'syndromed' appearance with the unfocused and too-closely set eyes---Kreist why me? And this tragic end-of-nowhere halfway house and now what am I going to do? Fleeting thoughts of running but I know this little girl needs me; I'm her 'daddy'. She looks up at me and smiles with Appalachian banjo player's teeth and I'm heartsickened and thinking of various methods of escape but my mind is reeling; I know in my bones that I'm now here, with her, in this place, forever.

But now I'm away from that place. It's raining now. Walking umbrella-less and the droplets are really pelting me good. I'm mouthing a ditty out loud: 'This sort of rain is not good for the brain, especially in Spain'. I'm in a going nowhere pedestrian stride with this mantra looping. Now the sky cracks suddenly and I'm walking down Hyperion to King Jr. High looking at the myriad cracks in the sidewalk with the lichen, moss and dampness. This can't be L.A. because the gigantic viridian dark conifers with their sun-streaking light in the gaps shouldn't be lining Hyperion like some Yukon lumberjack town maybe even somewhere in the Alaskan tundra. This sudden break in the sky doesn't last but for a moment---and then even heavier foreboding and it's getting colder; light getting sucked up again with the trees quivering in anticipation of some horrific maelstrom---I know I've got to get inside quickly now, and so I duck into a small door-open tree-tucked house right across from where I'm standing---but when enter, the stairs don't make any sense; they don't follow the exterior appearance of things. I walk down and there's another second entry and it is massive---like a vaguely familiar decaying Bel Epoque port-town hotel lobby I once stood in somewhere (France?)---I descend the stairs and my son is there waiting for me. He asks me about that 'sister' and why did I go and have her when everything was just fine and he begins to weep with a terrible sadness and my guilt is finalized. I tell him 'This sort of rain is not good for the brain...'

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Bellevue Avenue Dream


On that Bellevue Ave. again now bopping along the street with my buddies Danny Casados and Richard Chavez and they're kids still but I'm not---we're playing musical farts and Richard wins like always. Danny comes in second, and me last. 'It ain't fair', I'm thinking. 'They're Mexican and get to eat frijoles regularly and me with the Japanese food.'
But Richard asks me where I've been all these years and I'm wondering why they haven't aged any and I have. No answers---looking for the old duplex where we lived next door to Grandma. Can't find it. Things look strange. Too many apartments. Richard says he wants to 'scuff up' his new Levi jeans and so crawls around on the sidewalk while talking about what happened to our place. 'They bulldozed it 'cause of the infestation'. I ask, 'What infestation?' But he just crawls around in circles and doesn't give me a clue. Danny is gone. And where's that old guy who lived in the abandoned house on the corner? Mr. Dill? I never knew his real name. Like Boo from 'To Kill a Mockingbird'. A sad man living alone---no one---nothing. As I'm thinking about him (maybe partly awake) my mind takes in that I'm not a kid anymore and wondering what became of him. I know deep down he's dead and gone, but my kid's mind and the memory of him wants to know he's alive. I'm grappling with this and only notice that it's twilight and my mom's gonna be angry if I come home too late. But where's the house? Where's Richard?

Sometime later in the same dream but different place---in Bellevue Park where the old reservoir used to supply water to dried-up Angelinos below and I'm thinking about Chinatown and Noah Cross raking it in with Mulrway---WATER! There's tons of it below ground and I've known it all along. Why don't they tap it? The 90 year rains back when LaBrea creatures roamed here pouncing on one another like they still do today. It 's a vast and deep aquifer and it frightens me now knowing such a massive amount of water is below. The darkness. I'm imagining this will all erupt one day like a liquid Mt. Saint Helens---bursting forth and drowning everyone in the basin. It's a horrific but fascinating vision and I'm wondering why Hollywood moguls haven't ordered it filmed. I'm going over titles in my mind and then 'smack!', someone has hit a massive towering fly-ball from the practice field and I see it infinityhigh---it's coming towards me---but I lose sight and cover my head with my hands wincing---immobilized; too stupid to move like a deer-in-the-headlights. I have an epiphany and realize where the
term 'dumbstruck' originated. A whistling sound and then a loud 'thump' and the ball is half-buried in the hard-pan next to my leg. I try digging it out with my keys but it's fused like some meteorite, and it's hot.


Tuesday, February 22, 2005

Jeremy Irons Dream


Taking apart a Fed Ex box 'Too much packaging, dammit!'---inside it a strange contraption I'd ordered for my computer---it looks much too primitive tech, even gerrybuilt. Slathered over its entire surface is an afterthought coating of translucent waxy material and I say aloud and to myself: 'This could be a type of plastic, but could also be agar agar and edible---nothing will happen until I remove the coating'. But now it seems smaller; has shrunk since I'd first unwrapped it---now looking like the hybrid child of my video camera and an electrical current transformer. It has an overall boxiness, along with two wooden 'handles' for toting. Now I'm trying to get this surface coating scraped off with a metal kitchen spatula---now pulling apart the hinged handles and now I realize it's only a decoy housing for something else, because inside is a tiny brushed titanium or aluminum saucerian disk. Now puzzled as to where or why I'd ordered it. What do I do with it? What is it for? My computer? Is it dangerous? Where are the connectors? The disk is completely seamless; obviously designed for visual pleasure and so conclude it's a sculpture!' But now something's activating; a low whirring hum like a cooling fan is spinning, muffled---it's getting louder now; the pitch is now varying---rising and falling basso up through high 'c' as if it were singing some sort of metallic opera...alto, soprano, basso...and now a melody I vaguely recognize. It sounds like Mahler or maybe even R. Strauss---programmatic, romantic. But then it stops---dead silence---and something else is activating; a clicking, buzzing. My computer switches on. The screen is dull and dark but I see a sudden movement on the screenand it startles me; slowly an image is coming into view---a close-up---it's a man's face, icon-like, but then I see another movement---as the picture materializes, I see it's a man, and he's looking at me, physically, palpably right there and I know him--- but from where? He startles me completely by enunciating deeply and all the while smiling: 'Good evening my good man'. And now I realize it's Louis Raspa from Marshall High who's become Jeremy Irons. He starts to laugh and says: 'I know precisely what you are thinking. Is it any wonder? And have you any idea how far out they have really traveled with this technology sort of thing?' 'I too am a traveler'.

Monday, February 21, 2005

Poli Street Dream


Trying to learn Dreamweaver but it's no longer the same interface---looking more primitive and pixellated. Looking closely at the LCD---I go to touch it, but sparks jump off like Dorothy's ruby slippers. There's been some burning, leaving a lot of patchy real estate where blurriness prevents me from seeing clearly. I slam my laptop screen down and it comes unhinged and drops on the floor but doesn't stop streaming, and I'm wondering if this wireless technology could allow such a thing---I'm using my mouse now to control the screen documents---the mouse has a row of buttons all around its base which I'm testing now. Not all of them control the computer---one button is switching my lamp on and off; another works as a dimmer and some do nothing at all. I hit a flashing red button at the back of the screen and a car alarm goes off right in front of the house---I walk outside and am now on Poli St. in Ventura---not in Zurich. The street is much wider now, curving away from the house on the north side---the city must have re-constructed it while I was gone.....I've got my mouse in hand and see a little red diode flashing. I press it and the car alarm shuts off. Astonished, I now try out the other buttons on this---what is it a mid-1970's GM....but nothing happens. But I press the red one together with any other and something on the car is triggered. 'I've got it!' Some playing around and soon I'm coordinating them like a symphony conductor; flashing the lights, turning the ignition on and off, revving, signals and car stereo---unbelievable! I'm doing it in a syncopated rhythm---got a whole crowd 'ooohing' and 'ahhhing' now...everything going at once now, with the hydrolic suspension bouncing the car off the street and I'm like the Wizard of Oxnard.


Friday, February 18, 2005

Victim Dream


In some smorgasbord waiting in line with my dark brown bakelite food tray like in elementary school---heated-up inedible greenbeans and oddball concoctions with jiggling jello and I'm walking along making comments to one and all such as 'This stuff isn't even fit for retarded people's prison' and 'Whose graveyard did they dig this stuff up from?'---But then I see it. Oh man, sushi up ahead! I perk up for the attack now because I'm feeling like a shark---but what is this!? The conveyor is moving at a too-fast clip and I see now that the sushi section is past the point where the line is backed up from the register---why is the goddamned conveyor still moving? I yell out for them to 'Stop the fucking conveyor belt!' It doesn't and now I'm coming up to the line like I'm on a camera dolly but I'm hellbent and like dominos the line goes down and I'm jumping on people in order to keep up with my tray---I miraculously manage to grab what appears to be uni and maguro, but I can't reach the crab, which is what I really want. Everyone is cursing me out but I'm happier than a squirting clam and then and there bite full of chompers into my good luck sushi----but, when I bite the uni, it's jawbreaker hard.---I realize now it's one of the those plastic window display food mannequins like you find all over Japan and Little Tokyos everywhere---but now surround-sound laughter and an older bald guy comes over and taps me on the shoulder prompting me to come with him and I'm now painfully remorseful-worried about all the people treading and let him escort me...where? As I walk past my knocked-down victims, they all grin madly and begin clapping in rhythm---then a few official-looking men saunter over as we're walking and along the high-wax floor and join the escort---but I'm calm now, not really caring about whatever 'just desserts' await me. The bald guy---don't I know him from somewhere? He looks vaguely like that Olympics documentary guy named Bud Greenspan? We stop at a gigantic curtained entry and I can hear a real hubbub happening on the other side of an oversized door with flashing red lights above and now a bell goes off, the light turns green, and an MC voice belts out 'Ladies and gentlemen, heeeeeere's Alan!' The bald guy looks to me nudges me and smiles, saying: 'That would be me, son!'. And now I know who he is. It's not Greenspan but Allen Funt of Candid Camera and I realize instantly I'm the 'victim' and now we're walking onto a stage in front of a live t.v. audience and it's white bright now---can't see a thing except a huge teleprompter. But then in a panic I bolt for the stage door on the opposite end and while I'm dashing the whole audience is hooting it up and I take a big pratfall slide like I'm stealing home plate and as I come to a grinding halt I hear the drummer let off a big rim-shot but I scuttle back up on my feet, fall again and more rimshots as I do this over and over. Now I realize I'm a hit with the crowd and start tap-dancing furiously. More laughter and big clapping. I try doing a break dance (not even knowing how), but thinking 'Nothing can stop me now, 'cause I am a Star! But my breakdance skit gets all tangled and now my back's kinked and I'm stuck in place like a seized up frozen lobster. Now what do I do? Some big veiny bouncer guy dressed up as a pro wrestler comes over and starts chuckling and tells me: 'You fucked up dude. A big time flop, and you could have made a million'. I say: 'But Wait. I've got more up my sleeve!'

Thursday, February 17, 2005

Dallas Zapruder Dream


Going up some long mountain road with Censy and another couple---who are they?---the 'husband' character resembles one of my students, but he's someone I've met before on several occasions and can't quite place him...is he an archetype from one of my dreams? I'm sliding in and out of my dream awareness now---and the woman; is she his girlfriend?, but I recognize her as Cécile's friend Bice, and they seem so mismatched because he speaks no German and she no English; I know this because they're in the back of this rented car clumsily trying to play scrabble on the humped car seat and the guy (I'll call him "Guy") is complaining about the umlauted German letter tiles; that he doesn't know what to do with them; she's answering him in German and the communication is all crossed; now she's leaning up front telling Cécile something discretely and through the whispering I know she's miffed about him. Guy has now picked up a strong Southern dialect. Mississippi? Louisiana? He starts arguing with Bice and poor Bice hasn't got a clue now, because it's all twangy and jumbled and I'm working hard to unjumble the dipthongs. Then a big loud but oddly muffled 'BANG!' Bice starts screaming and I can see in the rear-view that 'Guy's' head has tilted back way too far---a familiar and sickening feeling rushes through me. He's been shot. My mind reels back to the Zapruder clip--- Dallas and pandemonium emotions of that time now overwhelm me and I'm watching and pushing on the brakes but too hard---the black iced road---and now the rental car is turning round in slow-motion---I'm looking forward and back waiting for the big crash of glass and metal....nothing. The car continues slowly pirouetting and Cécile is serenely reading her wine magazine, licking her page-flipping fingers and completely oblivious.

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

Sao Paulo Dream


Staring hard across a Hudson-like river---but not the Hudson---towards a high and long wall of skyscrapers---and thinking that this vast and dark mass looms like the myriad endless apartments and office buildings of Sao Paulo---where is this? It's so much bigger than New York, which now feels quaint with its stylish skyscraper clusterings---No! these are 'out there'---standing supertankers and going on and on like some horrific strip mall of poured dimly-colored concrete and steel---gargantuan, empty---many look bird-roosted, abandoned or unyet occupied. It's grey-dark twilght in my dream but the city is backlit with an eternity horizon---the vast silhouette so menacing that I decide not to cross the big river---I'm clear and unequivocal about this---I know in my dream-mind that it would mean sudden death.

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

Toledo Dream

Driving along some sad section of a filthy town in the back of whoknowswhere with a British right-side wheel and my left hand can't get used to the stick-shift and now grinding repeatedly---oh man, and I'm feeling it all up and down my arm like a shock---the clutch, brakes and gas are all rearranged so that I'm totally confused and gears go on grinding and now smoke and the car starts lurching and I stall it now---restart is now just funny dance rhythm of ignition turning over---I hold key and there's an incredible set of rhythm that starts to build like a crazy hip hop beat and I'm absolutely astonished that no key in ignition now but musical break beat alive and hyper complex now coming out of the speakers and a bunch of black dudes hear it all and come over cracking up and start grooving too---I get out and British car is sort of Mini Cooper but maybe Smart Car---but older and beat up with lousy paint---Police there now and they're also tripping to my groove mobile and all feels ok.

Now in another section of the same sad redbrick funky trash strewn Nowheresville---but now I'm looking for a party---not sure if it was someone back at the British rhythmic car dance who'd told me about the fiesta or not; no matter now 'cause I'm lost! Feel in a deep fix---it's getting dark and I have no clue where I'm staying and begin feeling heart infarction gurgling in my chest---mucho desperate to find this unseen party because I'm know for certain it's my haven. But where is it? I have no idea where I'm going.

Now not the same 'ville' but in Toledo, Spain---not Ohio---still lost but now thinking better thoughts; of that great painting, called 'View of Toledo' by El Greco---Wow, I'm here! Oh man I've made it to the painting! An overwhelming gladness sweeps over me and now I'm excitedly wondering if his ancestors are still around and begin asking people ¿Donde esta la familia del Greco? But only shrugs. 'One medieval hill town dweller after another' I think to myself. Now I Meet some old schaggy hippy guy who's hanging out and plucking his 2 or 3 stringed broken-down forlorn guitar and oh man he's unbelievably blue and so I feel an ocean of sadness for him---his eyes have a ready-to-cry welling when he looks up at me and I cannot bear it, but he seems to understand my feelings and begins plunking out a slow and lyrical Mexican mariachi tune that brings back George --- the heartbreaking Equadorian mountain songs we used to play on his old Ampex and now it's all in that old man who's now really George and again I'm walking around this Toledo labyrinth and asking 'Donde esta la familia del Greco?'

Sunday, February 13, 2005

Pompeii Dream


Trying to wipe the bathroom mirror in some high school like gymnasium---too fogged up from steamy showers running---need to see my face---it's no longer stubble but instead adolescent peachfuzz mug---can't see my new baby face propped on older body. But then, 'Oh Jesus, what is this?' I feel my neck and there are thick metal stitches all around and my heart flapping from terror cause I'm thinking of Frankenstein's monster (Karloff version) and wonder if I've got any other telltale signs---like squared-off head or neck bolts---but nothing, only the stitches. But now I'm antsy to get them out and so start feeling for where 'the doctor' had sutured. But they are seamless and zipper-like and I realize they're permanent.

Teaching a painting class full of elderly folks all sitting on some sort of hyper-mosaic floor like Pompeii or Herculaneum---my instructions (only vaguely clear to me) being that they are to 're-arrange' the floor into something new---together as a team---but I'm realizing now that this floor has some significant archeological importance; that I'm doing something terribly wrong-headed here. But I can't stop them now---they are like excited children absorbed and so I don't have the heart to stop them and I'm thinking 'This is real life today!' and 'They're so happy!' but I'm terribly conflicted---pacing around the displaced tiles.

Making chocolate Easter bunnies, oh boy! But wait, these are not supermarket ones, but instead half hard-core 69/fellatio/cunnilingus postition bunnies. I'm in an industrial kitchen filling finely crafted and detailed metal molds with brown and white chocolate---the heads are normal child-seducing happy dark brown buck-toothed chocolate Easter bunny sort, but below innocent bunny heads are variations of x-rated positions in manifold flesh tones that I'm mixing together along with an array of food coloring in a paint box---Now I'm guffawing at the absurdity in my dream and wake up laughing too.

Friday, February 11, 2005

Hub Mart Dream


I'm standing in the check-out in some suburban outback of Paris (?), so many speaking fast French but there's a mix of other languages and now I see it's the old Hub Market on Hyperion Ave. in Silverlake---the same set of offices overlooking the store with their thick stucco walls densely layered with enamel (I know because I'd sneaked up there as a little kid and checked out the paint thickness where it was chipped)---now there's no mistaking it's Hub because there's that sweet old Jewish guy (Herb?) running the deli section up front and he's cajoling the customers. But now I'm thinking 'hasn't he been dead?' now wondering if it might not be his brother or even an older son. He notices me and waves me over. The checkout woman now speaking perfect English tells me 'Don't worry about the groceries. It's important, so you'd better go'---but now checkout thief alarm goes off and the red light twirling---now it's all like Las Vegas and people smiling everywhere and the checkout lady congratulating me with confetti raining down on her oddly space-helmet like hairdo---the Jewish guy's brother now standing next to me with his dirty deli apron and he's got a sort of cheap toy-like phony looking microphone---the tv crew alongside and he smiles with big buck teeth while shaking my hand forcefully. He comes over to whisper something but I can't understand through all the party sounds. I can smell his breath which is like mint and tobacco just like my long ago 3rd grade teacher Mrs. Skinner who drove a brand new Mustang. He's now hand-gesturing and signals for everything to stop and it all goes pin drop. I say 'wow' and the MC deli guy shushes me and then starts slowly and rhythmically to clap. Checkout lady picks it up and then it's everyone in unison and nobody is paying any attention to me---they're all looking up at a huge big screen monitor at the back of the store and I'm thrilled to see Don Drysdale on the mound in old black-and-white sad tv and now I see it's not broadcast tv but a slide show. I slip out when I pass the doors I see we're in the loge section of Dodger Stadium. The stairs are steep and I need to hold the rail and now it's getting even steeper and I'm holding on but it's slippery and I'm sliding down like a fireman and come to rest at the railing.

Thursday, February 10, 2005

Wally Cleaver Dream


Futzing with an old pair of Koss headphones heavy as lead in my old room on Griffith Park Blvd.---the wires are much too loose where they connect to the speakers so I try screwing them in better and it all falls apart in my hands, but the sound is still pouring out and I'm amazed wondering if these are the 'wireless optional' but somehow knowing in my mind there was no such consumer thing back in Led Zeppellin 2 daze and anyway this is too cool so why should I worry?

Now going through my old and long vanished baseball cards of 60's players from sad and lonely-looking shoebox shoelace-banded with many packs still fresh Topps bubblegum scented and cornstarched-dusted-so-the-cards-won't-stick-to-the-gum wonder of it all. Sandy Koufax is in a strangely crippled-looking wind-up and not the seamless oiled pitching-machine beautiful that I remember. On the card I try reading the long text written in German about his past and the Holocaust his family suffered through and that he was an escapee and now I'm dumbstruck beyond imagination; what I'd thought before innocent now so different and my boyhood idol now with this sad tragic past and I break down weeping next to my box at the vast tragedy of it all...but then I'm absorbed again looking at a 1959 Wally Moon card (Jesus Christ Wally fucking Moon!) but it isn't Wally now at all but the actor Tony Dow who played Wally Cleaver from 'Leave it to Beaver' but in my dream I'm remembering that he became John Holmes of titanic dick porno fame now remembering an episode where Wally tells Beaver about homosexuality and 'The Beav' is scratching his balls on stage in front of a live tv audience---everyone now hooting and cat-call whistling scandalous-angry from the rafters of massive, multi-tiered La Scala-like space.

Tuesday, February 08, 2005

Sunset Boulevard Studio Dream


Tall stack of putty-colored cds---each one with black-numbered code around the rim---and I'm tossing them like a circus knife thrower across a long narrow span of space towards a big concentrically banded black and white 'target'---is this my old Sunset Blvd. studio?---but it's not a dart board---this one many times bigger---and now I go to fetch my imbedded disks covering the target and as I approach it the cds give off a prismatic effect shimmering as I change my perspective---and now I'm up close on the board pulling the disks out and trying to focus on the cd codes, which are all html and java script. Hard to focus except for one depth-of-field point that homes in on the numbers and letters. There's a buzzing, clicking sound coming from behind and I know I need to investigate but right now obsessed with this code and my 'camera eye' vision. Moving my head forward and back to adjust the focus---and now see that the code is changing like a digital counter but it's too tiny---can't move my eyes any closer than the range will allow. Pull the last of the imbedded disks out of the dense target and now want to go behind to investigate the strange buzz-clicking. A walled room but no entry door so I put my ears against the unfinished dry-wall boards to listen and can hear machine sounds and someone talking. I start peeling the drywall tape and thinking 'no big deal' and now I can see a high tech flourescent room and the machine---but no person. Pull off the drywall panel past the few holding screws and now a radio playing and it's a talk show host with guest but I can't make out what they're saying. Old radio. Arthur Godfrey? I can't hear. Radio is old bakelite and lovely moderne like old Southern Pacific trains and I try tuning in the station better and it gets loud and static. Machine starts up. It's 19th century looking black enameled cast iron like sad old factory textile looms---even below deck engines of old riverboats Mark Twain wrote about---and now this big looming thing is moving faster and the room is hot so I go out to the other side where the target was fixed and now it's gone.

Monday, February 07, 2005

Egg Yolk Dream


Traveling up California Highway One near Arcata---big dark conifers on both sides of dampish asphalt---and I'm with some stranger--I think he's the guy from Anawalt Lumber on Santa Monica Blvd---were jawing about the tsunami at Crescent City back---he doesn't believe me and gives me variations like 'It was much bigger than the government reports claimed'---'You have no real idea how big it was'---Then he starts rubbing my leg which I jerk away---he pulls out a gun from his jacket and I'm thinking 'This is the end George'. I try swerving the car but the steering wheel is floppy-loose with much too much play and there's not enough room on the dark road---too many big redwoods---he starts laughing and tells me not to worry he'd never kill anyone and that it's for the bears. I don't trust him though, and tell him to put it away which he does. We drive out of the dark into a massive clearing which becomes tidal flats, marshy, swampy with some of the road slightly dipping into it and it's all looks hand-tinted and vague---the color not registering---we're in a different car now and it's much smaller---like a Mini Cooper but even tinier than that. The engine is going all out but we're barely moving along, and it isn't the Anawalt Lumber guy anymore but Pascal my friend from Paris. He's tells me we've got to go faster because the tide starts rising and we'll get inundated but my foot is pressing hard on the gas.

Later everything fine we're in small diner eating full on English breakfast full of bangers and spuds with yolky egg I'm now playing with---pressing down on the yolk tempting the viscous yellow seepage that both fascinates me and disgusts me at once. I find the 'umbilicus' on the edge of it, and pull out a tiny baby chick all yolky but alive and trying to cheep. I'm amazed it's alive and call the waiter and now the little thing is crawling up the string like one of those pull-toy monkeys. I'm freaking because the yolky beak is cheeping mechanically the whole time and keeps turning slowly to look at me with eyes that look much too human. I drop it on the plate and throw my napkin over everything and now groping for my wallet. Where the hell is it anyway?


Saturday, February 05, 2005

Extreme Yoga Dream


Trying to extreme yoga-wrap legs around my neck--get stuck and cramped back now not at all mobile and tip over sideways and gyrate tossed coin-like only slower---then all coming apart undone and flopping flat backwards and thinking I've discovered a new yoga coin-tossing position sensation ultra advanced and wondering if maybe it isn't so new after all. Then later looking at toaster oven of an early deco design gleaming with telephone-coil type cord but thick and fat. Wrong prongs for Switzerland and I'm trying to connect adapter but no go. Inside toaster are mutiple curly-Q wires for heating and I put my fingers in to feel them and get a slight shock but it's not plugged in and I'm thinking it must be remnant electrical particles--mind drifting off to atom smashers and plugging the toaster into the side of massive nuclear cement cooling tower looking up at infinity of metal steps disappearing into the steam above.




Thursday, February 03, 2005

Skull City Dream


Strong sadness overwhelming with Mom in wearylook standing in her hospital gown much too hard to contemplate all this but 'it's real' and I know so because my aunts Yone and Lilly are wearing tandem grey-blue suits and not at all like them and I know in my mind these must be special for death. But they don't answer me when I ask about getting a second and third opinion--just deep pall of sadness and gloom. Dr. Shigekawa tells Mom she'd better 'make arrangements' and I'm stricken with deep grief knowing it's not true and that Mom seems so resigned to leaving everyone and I can't understand why cause I'm thinking about her steady handwriting and driving about town and I'm desperate to voice this but they don't hear me. Don't see me.

'SKULL CITY'--the name of the town I'm driving into--desert-dusted day-for-night black and white bleak like old 50's tv with rolling-around-by-themselves-tumble-weed-Saturday-night-channel-
11-Chiller-with-a-scare-the-shit-out-of-you Leave-it-to-Beaver-Cleaver-
kid-choppers-theme-song and now I'm mortified and have an anxious piss my pants get the hell outta here feeling and don't know what to do-do so keep driving and the car has hardly working breaks and I'm pumping them for fluid like those Long Beach derricks only faster but the car is going too slow for damage so I steer it down now dismal strange redbrick alleys and not at all like the tumble weed town anymore--but now the car's breaks work too well maybe because of too much pumping and gives the old FordBuickChrysler a lurch and no seatbelts on the long benchseat and I'm parked double and so barely enough room for others to pass and here comes one now-- I can't start it up to move outoftheway so I get out by climbing through the window with clothes catching and shoes greasing the upholstered bench and I start running while thinking 'Whose car was I driving?' I know it belongs to someone and now I'm thinking hard but unclearly as I head back towards the tv street--and then I vaguely remember it was Sal Mineo's, who somehow looked like he might have had Polynesian ancestors and is related to me because I do remember him from a long ago birthday party and then he was somehow my cousin--a child polynesian Sal Mineo so handsome with his jet black pomade Elvis hair and me admiring him even before he became a star.

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

Peggy's Cove Dream


At Peggy's Cove Nova Scotia--a slow procession of whales passing and M. Oshima talking to himself by the campfire. I motion for him to check out the baleens popping up in the day for night light but he's caught up in the pathetic little damp and mostly smoking pit. I go over and he's tending some odd sort of fish and he looks up and says 'grunion' and 'check out their amphibian flippers' which I do and yes they are and ungutted too so I ask 'Did you clean them?' and he says 'They don't need it' and goes into a tripped-out scientific rundown on grunion and I'm hearing a rhyme inside it but can't get its rhythm and meter, then I blurt out that 'grunions' sounds like a rhyme from Dr. Seuss like 'Grunions with Onions' and he smiles and starts up a break-beat from the back of his throat then an incredible Seuss rap very long and complex with that wan little fire-pit hissing at his feet.

Creepy looking census-taker at my back door at Ottenweg--he's holding a huge adding machine and he shouldn't be there at my door in the backyard garden and he's tresspassing so I tell him to go and he's reluctant but he does and then kicks at the snow violently.

LACC parking lot with R. Keene and me wheeling around in an old jalopy DeSoto with no hood and oversized manifold sticking out much too far--he's teaching me to drive a stickshift and I'm feeling deja vu. R says 'Car got no torque!' and tells me to stop and I do--he's miffed about the car and tells me to wait up while he fixes things and then a sudden unbelievably loud and explosive race car roar as he guns it and tires peeling leaving me in acrid stinky smoke--now he's way off at the end of the parking lot but no screeching brakes and he doesn't stop and heads right into Vermont traffic horribly crashing with cars and people screaming. I look around horrified and see an old black man and he motions for me to come over and he looks just like Juell from my Crenshaw studio. He looks awfully sad and slowly tells me 'He's that same dude from the Santa Monica market'