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

Thursday, March 31, 2005

Anza-Borrego Dream

Walking down the boardwalk along memory banks of San Remo Italy---lost Romanov onion-domed candy colored casinos---like simulated decay ala Vegas. Whiffs of a possible tsunami in the air---people motioning seaward...la! but without panic. Calm.

C is now a little girl (my daughter?) begging for the hotel key 'Pleeeze!' and now I'm futzing through sandy tiers of backpack pockets. Finally find a key-shaped 'credit card' with rough metal edges---binary numbers embossed both sides. She grabs it and heads up long steep San Fran bricklayed knobbyhill---rows of houses now Victorian gingerbreaded and now no longer Italy. Wind buffeting sailskiffs nearby and I'm getting wary about the wooden planks. I head up the hill towards onion dome cluster but not sure the brickstreet is the right way. Hesitation.

Later...same unreal lost time seaside resort but now in bone-dry Anzo Borrego badlands desert---everything sanded over with giant tumbleweeds fronting porches and empty lots. NAMIBIA! SKELETON COAST! My mind reels about Anzo actually being a lost Namibian land chunk set adrift with all these parlors and gamerooms where Rasputin swung his Svengalisword 'n' scabbard. Nobody but me knows that he was really a landlocked pirate from this place---also the secret knowledge that he's the Yaqui teacher Don Juan. There's buried knowledge he's left behind and I'm certain it's here.

Oddshaped concretions sprouting from rock banks like aborted sand babies---Jimmy with me now---he's pointing with manzanita walking stick at special geological facial formations---poke poke---and now a long tide is rolling in from salton eternity---desertocean bulbous concretions multiplying and alive now---Jimmy acting like an imp ---sniggering at sandbabies contracting slightly after each poke and now I'm excited and wanna poke too---J mind-reading me and hands over the stick with a sly smirk and I know the fun is on; I can't hold back and my first baby stab makes a big Brrreeeeeekkkk fleshy wet hissing emission---like stepping-on-talking-baby-doll sounds. Epic-hilarity, and now Jim's rolling on the grit in laughing convulsions because of my jumpy reactions. BrrreeEEEeeeeeekkkk!

Monday, March 28, 2005

Crystal Springs Dream

"Waiting" for speech presentations at Griffith Park near glen-like Crystal Springs with formal dining tables lined up dressed in white linen looking like some sad veteran's cemetery. Ceremonial podium with pokingout speaker stanchions and boyscout flags flapping in the wide-angle distance---nearby tuxed waiters placing cutlery just so with 'high occasion' stiffback postures, mechano-glide sentinels. Flags flapping. More waiting. I'm thinking this is the calm before momentous speeches and big waves. Now hyper-aware of big birds tree-housed in the white oak canopy shading my spot of grass. Now a group of 'my' students arrive---a huge class anticipating my giving them instruction. I bleat that I'm 'off duty' and to find another instructor while pointing off yonder to flagged podium. One wiseguy calls my bluff: "You're full of shit" he says. I'm fumbling around for a juicy retort but end up stuttering some horsepuck nonsense and everyone chuckling in good fun smiling and trying to let me 'off the hook'. I can't think clearly nor do I care. It is hot. I'm waiting....watching.

Thursday, March 24, 2005

Miss Skinner Dream

I'm dressed in 'authentic Roman toga' enjoying a cup o' joe while reading inky newspaper; admiring toga togs miraculously soft like old nappies yet sailcloth sturdy . 'Gotta hand it to the Romans!---but what's this? Coffee stains soiling sacred togacloth with my stupid mindless slurping; as I jolt up reflexively sploots and O O O ! Knowledge of toga as an ancient relic 'on loan' and no way I can return it soiled like this---but now I'm running down the east hallway of Dayton Heights Elementary in adult body---I do know where the bathroom is and so run right in seeing same sad broken stall doors framing shame-faced littleboys taking vein-popping world premier dumps---whole stinky boysroom permeated with conscious-stricken self-loathing---now I'm puddle-jumping stinkwater barefoot-naked with toga; mocking laughter echoing off white tiles but now I don't care like then---my mind reeling over consequences of returning tarnished loan-toga---looking along long-sink with clean water and washboard but other half of water is suspended vile and menacing at the other end like two rivers yet unblended---I've got to work slowly with utmost care not to allow polluted bilge bolitos to swim over here---dry snickering in the air and I turn to see the shitter boys bareteeth mocking...but bigger concern lurks (I know they know about the toga) sudden grabbing from behind---headlock-armtwists and grabbing at toga---my mind in a pickle for a way out while me naked and schoolyards of ingnominy waiting out there. I'm now back-to-the-door bracing a forceful hunchbacking shove..........Later boys gone and all silence except for sinkdrips---stark naked in front of Miss Skinner (how'd she get in here?) She's staring at me updownupdown and whoooah I can't keep my cock from spring fever dancing OH SHAME---she's so glamorous now opening her purse pulling out lanyard keychain reaching around me and click-locking the door. She's on me up close and kissing me with my mind mixed up between nowself and thenself. Excitement beyond the rapture because this is real---first love feelings thought lost now renewed and we're actually gonna shag. No matter about the locked doors because here comes kindly Mr. Orth right into the room checking stalls; newshoes waterslogging---making certain. Miss Skinner runs up to him and oh yes I sense something erotic between them, but Orth is ancient....and....how? They've somehow retreated half hiding into a stall; his hand already up her skirt and she's grinding, really digging in like wild rover. Big jealous current running through me but I'm way more excited at the prospect of live porn and so angle over for strategic views and serious wanking but somehow the plug gets pulled and I'm brutalized by something from behind, far off but bigger....muffled dinglebuzzing and it's my alarmclock bringing down heavy toga-curtain on smoldering xxx rated joy.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Latex Dream

Cooking some flayed hibachi meat in an old decayed Alfama apartment in Lisbon---Sao Jorge Castelo stonepiled masses---discrete prismatic views from every hand-made rounded window---church-like but oddly Pueblo Indian with densely patted adobe---buckets of whitewash stacked and the thought of coating these absorbent walls thrills me to the core---I pick up the telescoping paint pole and commence dunking comically large lambcovered roller with curdled white custard---now cussing out loud calling it 'cheap clotted curds'---I've got to thin the mix, but no faucet anywhere and so I head down spiral stairs in what is now Andy Wilf's downtown L.A. studio. I spy a stack of buckets labeled LATEX and know instantly 'This is it; luxury paint!' But oh man these buckets weigh in like wet cement. And how'm I gonna lift these puppies? Now I'm rummaging further back in cluttered storage recesses and---eureka a forklift sitting there amid paperpiles! I jump into the seat giddyup---but there's no key; no fork levers---I realize it's all a heavy plastic casting of some cheapniz rooftop signage. And who's selling forklifts? I'm hee-hawing at the nuthouse idea of it all, including my ridiculous jumping-aboard. But I feel urgent need to paint! I want those buckets upstairs---deep longing for the chalky alkid odor; my mindeye sees great purification of whitewashed surfaces; tiny bubbles like dried ghost fossils---afternoon shadows and now mentally surfing out the little adobe holes and I can feel the spring coming on. And what happened to the meat?

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

Don Pedro Dream

Sitting alone next to the plexi-guard-railing in some industrial Portland taste-testing some oddly sticky risotto with lemon slivers, diced ham, and what the hell is this, okra?---can't discern any citrus, but butter yes. Eyeballing me from an adjacent table are 3 migrant farm workers from maybe Mexico. Guatemala? El jefe among them now gingerly scoots his chair out, stands, turns and slowly approaches. He's holding a folded-up newspaper humble hat-in-hand suppliant,--- now standing directly beside me and magician-like and from around my back, unfurls an ancient mariner's map---cloth---right over the bowl of risotto and wine and water glasses. All is happening slo-mo; I'm tuned into frame-by-frame nuances---cash register, people talking---his buddies looking on; anticipating something. Fan rotors revolving overhead fluttering the map; a pre-Columbian 'America' but geographically 'distended' from Europe---Maine being given birth by Portugal. The guy introduces himself with 'Me llamo Dom Pedro'. I say: 'Tu nombre es Portuguese---¿De donde es usted?' In educated Español he proceeds in a rapid-paced point-and-describe tracing of crypto-historical deeds and misdeeds allthewhile popping his mud-caked index finger on dirt-clogged ragmap exactly where Main and Algarve are one. This isthmus must be something crucial. Is Dom Pedro giving away a secret clue to something I shouldn't know? And why? Flash fantasies about possible riches and I don't want to betray myself so I ask '¿Donde es la Arista Atlántica Media?' Throw him off. Dom smirks and instantly the air has a palpable menace, like ether before the knife---I can't follow his educated rap anymore---he's too loud, shabbydressed and restaurant crowd is gawking. He suddenly yanks the map off the table, ripping pirate-treasure-location along the deteriorated faultline where the map lay over the stickyrice. I excuse myself by faking "I gotta go to the toilet!" gutcramps, and he's now suspicious. Watching me. As I start towards the basement my bowels really do rush. I'm changing mental channels and decide to bolt; taking manysteps at once and leap into a leg-pedalling float down the last long stairwell. A long corridor. Which door? Running to the end of what seemed a cul-de-sac (but is instead a 'T') with only left or right and so I go left---now new halls opening up and I continue weaving. I'm exhilarated by all this action, but something's suffocating.... "is it all a setup---a chamber of horrors? Thoughts of hissing gas, closingwalls and imminent collapse---and where's Dom Pedro? As I say his name I spy the shadow of a man, frozen. Waiting. It's him. I wait an eternity while my bowels are on high alert. Gas building up. Why now?! "Only way out is to get past his shadow". I slowly untie and snake out my shoelaces; doubling them up as a choke holder. I barefoot over to the wraithlike form and hold my breath. I jump backwards as I turn the corner (figuring that a leaping D.P. will hit the linoleum) and my torniquet...but it's a street lamp-and-post shadowcasting of a phoney el jefe. Multiple surrogate Dom Pedros along the corridor, picket-fenced to infinity. I look out dusty windows onto what now is long-ago L.A. That bleached and lonesome City Hall standing high against the Santa Ana furnace heat---BIG tube-amped radios tuned into Vin Scully "A pleasant evening to you wherever you may be" All cop sirens like in Dragnet, and I know I'm safe.

Monday, March 14, 2005

Niederdorf Dream

I can make out a bridge from my building from vast gridded window---is this San Pedro? My mind detouring to maybe not---New York? Brooklyn? The 'studio' has riveted corner brackets fastened to redbrick old and all is beautifully sandblasted; seems more ship than earth edifice. Savoring the newsmell of the labor---blown away by the impossible hours invested---and now all I see---it's due to labor unions and better morale....'anything can be done if the conditions are right!' E. Debbs and Caesar Chavez thoughts swimming around mixed up with San Pedro Bridge and rivets but now interrupted by pip-squeak mouse spying me from an indent in the brickwork. Gotta see and so I move closer...? No sign of mouse cavity but once again admiring same finely sandblasted handiwork; inlayed flushness of steel and mortar---seamless. How did they? But now gothic ding-dongs high and distant. Answer the door! I'm standing in my underwear in a supple teenage body, and on the way to answering bell I'm parked at a wall-to-wall mirror with hanging sports paraphernalia all doubled---surfboards lined up tethered, rollerblades, frisbee disks. I'm doing squats at the door and not answering; looking at my flexed thighs amazed at the frog-like definition. Dingdong dingdong. 'Let 'em wait!'---and now I'm squatjumping higher each ring and end up fingertips at the window above the door. 'Who's there?' I can't get an angle from my perch. I see the top of heads. Someone looks up but I coil back just in time.

Later waiting at tramstop Niederdorf, Zuerich. Big monorails like in 'Metropolis' running through medieval streets---crowd is lined up and here comes one now! A big fella presses me back from the big rush of vehicle whooshingclose windtunnel sounds nearly subterranean---I'm grateful now knowing I'd have been flattened. He warns me 'Die sind doch viel viel groesser und schneller als frueher...mann muss eigentlich aufpassen!' ' They're a whole lot bigger and faster than before...you have to really watch out!' We board and I realize it's N Rubin from Floral Supply and much younger now---how does he know German? I try probing with subtle hints, but realizing he's discouraging me from doing so and now speaking in oddly familiar Yiddish/Swiss/English pastiche half-jokingly like ancient vaudeville, then graver suddenly much older with false teeth half showing plastic gums giving me the willies---telling me he's in Zuerich to tie up some 'odds and ends' with the museum. 'Can't tell you what it's about, son' I'm mentally connecting all this with the banks and stolen art but say nothing. Something tragic here.

Fascinated by a buxom sugar-spinning girl conetwirling a long paper stem puffcloudy...bouffante...Cotton Candy! She's smurkles as she hands me the hairdo and I'm staring down at her glistening carnival cleavage---upright tits like saluting soldiers. 'Yessir!'

Thursday, March 10, 2005

Griffith Park Blvd Dream

Trickling sounds mixed with car honking loops while walking home from Dufourstrasse studio in twilit space. Oooh the pretty light so I stop to take a fone-foto. I dig in my pocket for fotofone and can't figure how it opens---seemingly solid and..What!? Why isn't there...where's the hinge? Now pressing the belly and it starts buzzing wattvoltage much too strongly; something wants out...then it suddenly unfolds itself tripled, quadrupled and now cluttered dialpad on the last flap not allowing me into menu functions. I realize it's some older mobile I don't remember buying but some vague recollection reminding me that I actually had.

Street now not in Zurich. I stop walking to get my bearings. Pedestrians. Woofing doggywalks. Tired old muffler cars tread-heavy with downhill bicycles lanehopping and then a rain drop; then on my head two more. I Have to get this apparatus working (and why is it so much bigger now?) Lost in unfamiliarity and just as reverie... Eureka! Find a tiny slide which functions like a button and I hear that familiar but obscure shutter sound inside a recording sound of a shutter! Then a blue light tiny screen with spectral shapes and a fat wad of Bazooka Joe; again I hear the tell-tale shutter loop---the screen hesitates at each stoppage and I'm thinking 'It's gummed up" The pun makes me laugh---but the nowstuck mechanism is motordriving with me no longer pressing the finger slide---I'm holding it away like a wrangled snake half worried it's gonna blow.

In my old room on Grifffith Park Blvd downloading massive terrabites of serious pirated sounds in surging clusters. Myriad windows filling the screen but the BIGASS hard drive with Cadillac grill---"Oh this stuff's gonna be GOOD!" and I'm watching the analogue meters swivelling out of synch but amazingly 'in time'. I'm grinning at all THIS---What it will do for my soul. I wake up feeling mighty fine.

Tuesday, March 08, 2005

Vicky Dream

I Saw Vicky under wet skies with the same subtle lisp so slight it almost wasn't. We're walking up monumental flight of 'heroes only' stairs that hardly anyone ever uses because of too-insane-for-humans zigzag slope and the same ones Laurel and Hardy trudged up during Mack Sennett reign---piano-movers in Music Box up and down and 3 stooges with ice melting scene later....Silverlake....rain. Vicky telling me she loves the sound because it's balm rubbed into her soul through the umbrella...but now forceful windwhipping gusts and no umbrella because tumbling down the hill. 'Let them go. They aren't good enough because of the heavy hail coming down'. Waxed Hubmart banana boxes stacked up and I tell Vicky 'Look, we only have to flatten them and hook-link them together for a ride down to the reservoir over all this baby spring grass'. She doesn't understand, but smiles anyway. 'George, you're not there yet'....Moody turquoise waters way off down long stair perspectives and now she's sad with the fun-sucked out telling me 'I'm dying' just like before. My panic overwhelms me not knowing what's happened---Are you? Is it really so serious?

Later. Crystal method soundtrack rushing atom-smashing through cylindrical caverns both ancient and modern. Water channels. Is this where they filmed 'Them'? No, that was a functional space where water flowed inwards the sea....this is more clinical and pristine; angioplastic carotid. There's wetness in here. Bloated walls. I stop and try to map out where to go---now seminiferous wide forks ranging into foggylight. There's someone out there. People muttermouthing 'gotta fix...' and '...might....might not...'. Now sounds not far away but right next to my ears and gicky like sticky meat. I know it's an operation on me and so start singing and now Vicky once again with me but this time to help. She runs off yelling 'Come on George!' but instantly no longer there---suddenly me all alone and Vicky so fast away. I thought I'd lost her forever because of death but she came back and this time you'd better get it straight. You need to run and catch her---no more reprieves--so much lost---don't lose it again....Now my cell phone ringing and Vicky laughing on the other end chuckling about some wonderful garden tomatoes from Crete that her mother wanted me to make my pizza sauce with. The cell slips and then I stop and stare down at it floor vibrating; jitterbugging like some Ma Bell crab and when I pick it up it's Vicky off distant; bad connection, then suddenly replaced by that horrible phone lady siren---that same terrifying telephone moan that scared me half stiff in my ancient once-upon a time drooling and I wake up damp and pulses pounding and no Vicky.

Monday, March 07, 2005

Rice Cracker Dream

Looking through Tages Anzeiger classifieds with Cécile---everything written in dialect because too many umlauts---looking for little homes in Ticino or Vaud, but prices way too high. Dreams of future happy lake views with juicy vinyards, whirlygigs and windchimes all down the drain now---she says Swiss are up in arms about beaucoup rich Americans having left because safe-tax haven and too many babies from swarthy-types now making demands for bigger roads and more American amenities, Costco, Walmart, Burger King and I can see those names standing out from the text in angry bold. She's angry and throws the paper at me and I'm limp, defeated.

Poking through big impressive raku bowl---frustrated with Japanese rice crackers mixed up with potato chip shards---can't stand the bad visual aesthetic. Need to get those chips out. Sudden rustling sounds. Snow outside. I'm nervous. Who's there? I wait. Then slowly put the bowl...coffee table. What's that sound? Need to move carefully towards floor lamp across the room; turn it off, because my shadow---my silhouette. Tiptoeing slowly...crunch...what this? Oh Jesus the cracker chip chunks...all over the floor! I don't remember spilling. I get down low; spying for more rustling noises....there! Now I hear it coming on louder. It keeps...is that scratching? Moving slowly towards the lamp now, chipshards clinging. Feet feel sticky. Something's wrong---little holes pierced. Blood. Reach back to pick out pieces still careful not to make a sound. Face down low now looking for glints of glass and oh jesusmoses, there's an archipelago of crackerglass all the way to the lamp! I stop to pick out snacks and slivers, but the light not showing...too far away; can't see. Wiping the blood with the floor rug but blood oozes from invisible seams. Something is wrong with my right heel, it's much too soft and pliable. No heel bone. Thick silicone. I feel queasy. I don't care now about the sound outside. My foot! What? How? I walk around and it's definitely not right. I stomp and now my whole foot...but the ankle...how am I able to stand up? I move gingerly; closer to the lamp with tiny stickyblood slits and I know it with a sickening dread 'If I don't keep moving my foot will scab to the floor'.

Sunday, March 06, 2005

50's Hi Fi Dream

Big birthday party for me in some swanky seaside house maybe Malibu---from memory days there housesitting for Robert A. when he left for Austin. People arriving in buffed fat cars all rich, multilayered dense black like long ago movies. Perhaps dream now B&W---not sure---everything reeks of 'premier', 'Oscars' 'celebrityhood'. I spot an older version of James Dean like later 'Giant' oil tycoon character. He's doing facial/mouth/breathing exercises like some pufferfish---comical---but everyone studying him intently and not laughing; I go over to him and he greets me familiarly like an old friend but with a strange 'something's not right' look. He barely stands before sitting down again and continuing the same odd breathing, rotating shoulders, lifting up his legs in slow-motion like yoga but not quite; loosening-up preparatory motions---prizefighter, track athlete---He's wan, with no legendary aura about him---prosaic, even pathetic in his older years seeking attention like a child....Later...music playing in the background and ceremonial cake presentation with glowfaces pressing in---happy birthday singing begins with me half mouthing along. I not sure. Then halfway through an overwhelming singing voice dominates the room, taking over. Phenomenal electrical hair-standing radio hall sound---it's the skinny young Frank Sinatra at a hanging mike singing an otherworldly, heartbreakingly sad lang syne---his voice; the whole missing orchestra emanating from a huge space age 50's Hi-Fi. I'm upandclose amazed at it, wondering whatever happened to those modern names. Magnavox? Grundig? Wurlitzer? But oh my god that amazingly warm and luxurious sound---redolent furniture polish. I'm now lying out on the floor looking up the speakers---fabric panel cloth, small golden threads glinting, and thinking 'Oh man this is big luxury with those gold threads!' Obsessed with this old but very savvy technology all smart like aerospace with so many big sonic tubes pulsating orangeglow inside past the speakers; this is what makes Southern California so special!---these world class scientists creative---congregating here in big brains, Jet Propulsion Aerospaced in Silicon Valleys with orange crate orchards all purple magic mountains; nothing is wrong anymore and check out these stars! With even Frank Sinatra singing! I'm beside myself with crazy happy birthday aerospace stereo joy and yelling out 'Let's all dance!' 'We gotta DANCE!' And everyone takes it like direction with everything now movie scene---grips, stage men, makeup folks all scuttling about trying to set up equipment and it's clear we're in a studio stage set; not Malibu and Jimmy Dean alone without the crowd---looking over at me---looking through me. He's some sort of shaman sage and saying 'It's all a sham and you've been duped.'

Saturday, March 05, 2005

Carioca Dream

Hello Kitty carioca bar? restaurant? A revolving Big City view with big glass. I'm sitting in crazy big airline seat with mounted cockpit panel like a jumbojet pilot. Wow! Head-sets, volume controls, diodes, mikes and sundry tiny levers, odd knobs---slowly being conveyor-dollied in s-curves, corridor-like---others waiting, inching along and it's like old Disneyland days on acid. Alice in Wonderland, Mad Hatter and Mr. Toad, only much slower. We're all sitting in identical but slightly different lay-z-boy loungers. Young Japanese woman horribly butchering Marvin Gaye's 'What's going on?' Her voice coming from another place round the bend where we're all headed. Hard-walled live acoustical echoes. Everyone adjusting seatbelt harnesses, looking around at one another, smiling, giddy. I'm wondering 'What song am I going to sing?' and so try asking the guy to my right 'What's your song?' but he doesn't take off his headphones---just smiles, shrugs and starts making simultaneous finger circles around his head and ears---slowly and then furiousfast---backwards, forwards, reversing directions and changing speeds with each finger. Incredible! I try doing the same but retarded as hell and he's not impressed and pulls up a side panel from the armrest to block his view of me. We're moving along and...Aha! This seat can be reclined with this button! Now I realize the loungers have vastly complex modular tricky design and I'm blown away at the genius of it all---now dying to test out all these buttons and levers but no time---singing's getting louder. Everyone pulling up side panels, sliding dome-like pod space vehicles hyper modern and no longer airline seat like mine. Why is mine not converting to newness? I'm feeling around for the side panel to cover up and pod-convert like the others, but my panel is too warped, flexy, flappy and cheap. Keep fiddling with buttons and levers and something really wrong here. Everything's slapshod and I'm embarrassed now about the cheapness vehicle now horrified that I'm just like whitetrash southerners no different which is why that guy shined me on. Now I don't want all the others to see my face, my shame.

Friday, March 04, 2005

Basel Dream

In Basel at Cécile's mom's dealing with the portioning of a hilarious giant chocolate Easter bunny with two heads having open 'O' holes for mouths like pinky blow up sex dolls with inset white chocolate buck teeth---I want to start off by pulling the teeth but everyone overseeing my ceremonial portioning at once telling me 'No don't!'. Feeling apprehensive now and not knowing what to do (this is surely an important Baseler cultural event and I won't be forgiven I know) and so now nervously passing the polewire cheese-cutter to Cécile; she gets red-faced miffed making eyes and now prodding me stiff-mouthed and ominously 'You'd better not screw this up!' Electro toothbrush cutter wire on the end of a long braided AC cord with staggered switches and some sneering macho American, drawling , menacing with no variation between his neck and head like some crew cut wigged pink ugly penis, barks 'Why don't you turn on the fuckin' jyoose you Dumbshit!' I'm contemplating sizzle-frying his eyes out with the cattle-prod, but he's HUGE and so I instead flip the top-positioned switch and the prod getting red-hot smoky and I'm blowing on it furiously and start cutting off all four massive ear flaps and it's like dense dark butter and all 'oohs and aaahs' now everything hunky dory---even with head and shoulders penis head who's now smiling and nodding at me approvingly---kids jostling to collect the chunked-out waxy shards falling from my scissorhands. Going fast at it now and there's now stopping me. I carry on carving the bunny everywhichway---all that's left is a pair of dark chocolate feet, long, lengthy supports and earless bucktoothed bunnyheads. The latticework supports I've fashioned are now becoming labyrinth-like, intricate. It's a maze and everyone now astonished at my skills---beebuzzing around and trying to get an in-close glimpse. Macho guy is impressed and quite friendly now. But where do I go from here? I'm all lost. Crossed up. Don't know how to stop. Everyone anticipating my next move...

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

Fly Fishing Dream

My brother Jim is trying to describe his new flyfishing floatboat to me---a brand new exotic technology---I don't get it, and Ellis pulls out his really huge 'Power Mac' (had to be 25'' or more) and I'm gagga looking at it, get lost with the oddness and how light it is---Ellis switches it on and up comes an animated screensaver film full blown and beautiful subtitles, voice over narration...Jim goes by the screen in the flatboat like some Star Wars ship---slowmo; lake water much like mercury. The 'boat' is clear plastic and flat with Jimmy prone looking back and waving to the camera---I ask 'Where are the windows?' They both look at each other and laugh but never tell me. Ellis talking both on the screensaver film and in the room---his voices crisscrossing and I'm getting confused and tell him to let his voice-over do the speaking---now we're following alongside the floatboat and camera zooming in on contents---Saltines, Weetabix, bacon, cans of preserves...he's inside his sleeping bag and has a shotgun---not fishing rod---poking out the front. 'We're into duck hunting now. It's on whole other level'. Now the big Power Mac starts acting up and Ellis is hunting around for his AC but can't locate it. I'm looking at the laptop and thinking it's much too light to be a serious computer; so how? Ellis now going into a long and complicated technical explanation of Mac evolution and I'm feeling like I've been away for a very long time. Fleeting thoughts of coma.

Large transport plane flying close overhead. San Diego? Near an ocean. Stooping down with a stranger smoking a joint talking about the dissolving naval fleet docked in the harbor....plane is sinking and now going much too close to mass transit overpass and we watch its left delta wing clipping a long stacked row of storage containers; a maze of sparks flying....then a fireball explosion and we can hear moaning and stranger says 'let's go' and is scampering deftly billygoats down. But I'm not able, I can't negotiate the steepdusty slope. Big drop ravine---now he's waving maniacally and I'm stuck. My mind is terrified at the prospect of seeing human meat chunks and poop guts in the trees. I take a drag on the roach and start cleaning my teeth, thinking of what to do. The signs nearby speaking Spanish all bullet-riddled and wrinklerusted---sad poor houses, whitwashed with flapping laundry. Tijuana? Andalucia? I see the tide coming in.

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

Joyce Dream

In and around gallery rooms, some empty, others vast, Mom's tug-rolling a sad old red rustysqueaky Radio Flyer wagon from Bellevue and I'm feeling guilty about it and try gently taking the handle from her but then a dressed-up-in-Sargeant-Pepper-red security guard slaps my hand away and Mom says 'Why don't you hop in?' She's much younger 30'ish, and I'm watching her elbows thinking how dark and wrinkled they look---she's asking me about my artwork; wondering which room they're in. And me I remain seated patiently while squeaking along; guard's paw on my shoulder, which is keeping me-loaded wagon from tipping when we turn corners---He keeps looking over at me; is he watching me, or watching out? We roll through boxy spaces---dim corridors---on and on forever but finally ending at a long bank of rope-suspended enameled sinktubs---bigger than human-sized---Sargeant Pepper gone and so no more with the shoulder clamp but tipsy now and so I'm straddling the wagon feet splayed on the floor sos not to tip. Mom says 'We've gotta clean up' and suddenly pulls on dangling rope sticking out of one tubbasin. Big jerkiing pulls and then plop. A wadded clump of funky rags lands heavily splooshing dinge water all over my bare feet and cuffs---where are my shoes? Mom telling me 'These are the better-made 'Nihonjin' dishrags, so they'll sop up no problem' and sniggers and we're telepathically jumping thoughts about a trip to Japan long ago...deja vu.

Joyce is back from the dead and speaking hush-hush with Mom. I try listening in but Joyce keeps eyeing me warily, then pauses. Now she marches up to me saing: 'This is none of your business and so start cleaning the floor!'---I'm astonished because she's dead but here and now. I'm scared because of vague premonitions about Mom. I want Joyce to leave. Go back. Bad vibes. Who sent her?

I'm trying to untangle plopped moppups foul and fetid from ancient boggy swamp drain hole---can't untangle and disgusted because some stink splash-jumps on me, on my lips, and I'm spitting and jump up to wash but the tap rinse water all rustmuddy---Mr. Pepper there again standing guard but not the same guy---morphed into service station attendant decked out in 1950's old fashioned blueworker duds now kindly smiling and willing to help 'clean up'. Pulling on the oversize tap and then a groaning rattle, and suddenly pppfffppttfffpp...POW! Big spiggot kerpow and a comical series of spattering scaldrhythms cannonfire against the basin like little boys pinch-pissing. Big Steam; now I can't make out through the fog...no sinks, people...but the groaning pipes. P.A. voice now yelling: 'Everybody, this is an emergency. Please proceed to the front of the building!' I shuffle around looking for Mom and Joyce but they're gone. Hsssss.

Same building and I'm showing Peter some collage tricks. He's grilling me about glues, varnishes, oil, waxes, masking---shopping lists---I tell him 'slow down; you've gotta learn in stages'---He's antsy eager and much smaller than in real life long drink of water self. 'He's a lad, I'm thinking'. I pick up a pair of pinking shears heavy and two-handed huge. I try cutting through a large long paperboard but can't manage this boat-anchor-for-shears...getting heavier....Peter jumps in and we right the ship and all is smooth sailing through the long cardboard surface. He's pleased; happy now because I've shown him such a cool trick and I dub it 'long-cut zig-zags'.

Now building a gaming arena---Las Vegas-like casino---Is this an 'art exhibition'? People playing slots but not just for coin-drop lever pulling idiots---no these requiring pachinko-skills only---dials, flippers, buttons---accordion complexities with oompah hurdy gurdy sounds wheezing in and out half alive breathing...scary.

Same place but outside walking along white railing and spanking-clean boat deck thick industrial glossywhite everywhere. I stop to admire lusciousness of gleaming boatpaint---pressing the paint on a pole and oh shit it's not dry inside the layers!---I look around; press my finger to test and now my nails making little indents and oh joy! Nail patterns. Then my little abstract pole drawing is getting out of hand; I've made thousands could they all be mine? Sense a big reprimand from the skipper and so start to skedaddle but now I'm feeling slightly queasy-headed and move towards the stern. There's a pirate plank but as I approach and upclose examine I see it's synthetic resin and a diving board for sea-plunging.

In the casino again watching a little tinykid much too young negotiating a tricked out Smart Car---a conversion for a vid-game wildride outrageous spleentwister gutting madness. Oh man he's good! He's kidcontrolling everything from cockpit all maniacal reflexes at-the-ready no stopping him now he's going to re-set the odometer!---I'm overhead viewing standing on some special platform on cast metal footprints 'stand here' and holding onto metal knobs but can't get a grip and emotional waves in the house now he's gonna turn the odometer over. Then bing bing bing---and Smart Car starts gyrating---I'm holding knobs but car now slowly broncs; it's part mechanical bull. I take a timed leap waiting first for the swing up to jump and thrust me out as far away as possible and I'm now bounding from one balcony to another treemonkey free. People looking up at me in wonder pointing as I jump from one level to another and yelling 'I'm flying, Mom!'