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

Monday, April 25, 2005

Marbles Dream


Endlessly sifting through a hempen sack full of kid marbles---big cat's eyes and solids like precious gems---gleaming mixtures of prismatic clacking sounds sending me into kid-joy wonderment of scudded levi knee patches hooding phenomenally big ready-to-pick itchyscabs formed from marble games like 'ringer', 'cherry pit' and 'nine-holes'. I'm hanging out with David K and M Espinosa (those two never hung out together) Now lucid dreaming I'm trying to connect the two, but then lose the thread and now they're far down the road walking away and it's clear that I'll never see them again. Switch reels back to marble emotions mixed up with early years' hatred of Danny C for thieving black onyx pee wees from my cinch-sack---the same sack I'd slipped off a luxury bottle of booze at Jay's Liquor on Hoover St on my way to Dayton Heights Elementary. And lo! I'm in Jay's now---but that's not Jay behind the counter---just some fake Jay with thick ladies' pancake make-up and eyeliner (here I know Jay's been dead for eons but I'm back again and it dials straight to the same haunted childhood mind-wrestling about death). Now this impostor "Jay" looks at me queerly with pursed lips---starts into his mopping of checkerboard lino-tiles behind private cashbox register---maybe he's only slinking in order to avoid my third degree and possible anger that he's the one responsible for Jay? Unsolved questions...Now I make out his made-up Clockwork Orange Droog's eye looking up at me from his stooped spot through the counterpane glass where he's scraping at something. What's he's cleaning up? Someone else is in the back aisles watching us. I quickly leave through the swoosingdoor and spot Sam the barber across the street making hairy dust halos with his broom.

Trying to play guitar at a gathering of old high school friends---A. Rapaport and L. Firth bending the Los Feliz apartment space with lyrical songs---one after another---I'm desperate to get in on the melodiousnes but I can't find the right key---too many strings on the oversized guitar, which is more like a sitar with its bulbed base and mini frets---there's a big bowl of corn chip 'guitar picks' and I'm trying to strum a tune on micro gut strings but each one brittlebreaks and a sad pile of cornchip shards are scattered over my Jesus sandals. My frustration at my ineptitude has me ranting that 'Fucking Jesus can't even make a decent pair of sandals'.

Queuing in an Alpine ski run tower chute---shiny gondola pods like candied apples cable swinging out into a vast cirrus sky---airplanes passing far below in the satellite distance. I jump aboard with 3 ski-outfitted, geared-up, masked (androgynous) others. The automatic door latches shut with a furious hydraulic force---delayed hisses hinting at the serious ride ahead---my organs bang together as we suddenly drop off backwards from the overhang. Trickster supersonic jet craft are coming at us mach speed then pealing past from every side and now the contrail wakes coming at us, obscuring the windows with sudden hyper volleys of crytalline mist. "Property of 6 Flags" is embossed in Braille and English onto the metal door. Fleeting visions of doing all this blind has me cackling out loud nervously....then one of the androgenous others opens the second door and leaps like a paratrooper with the others following one two three. My weight quickly tilts the gondola and I'm face-pressed against the glass wondering how the cable rollers can still be...then suddenly spronging loose the pod is in free-fall and my mind takes over and steers it upright and I'm now holding the two opposing doors in hang-glide position, turning, lifting and guiding the gondola home!

Wednesday, April 20, 2005

Uncle George Dream


I can no longer stand the weight of him---the fatman falling in slow motion in reverse onto me. Geddoff! His heavy heels have my sandals crucified to the floorboards, but he too is a victim in the human domino surge of hyped up spectators rushing away like lemmings from the hot dog and beer vendors towards the HOME RUN! magic sound of stitched-hide ball and ash reverberating in the standing-room only heat, and I'm suffocating from the heavy man bearing down on me---a tank-topped hulk with distending masses of pink flesh and I'm ooked out by the oozing leakage from his oversize pores and crunched acne craters pressed against my face. He's on top of me now and I'm screaming for help but the crowd is now yelling Olé!---with sudden black-on-white etched visions of Goya con Picasso serial bull killerz merry-go-rounding with dark slaughterhouses of epic Chicago meat factories. I'm gonna die now. I can't breathe. Here I wake up in a dull panic, take a piss and moments later resume my night rambling in another place when I was younger and my uncle George was driving me in his El Camino careening past the Tommy's Burger booth on Rampart and Beverly with multitudes waiting for charbroiled chopped cow 'n glumps of 'chili sauce' in waxy yellow paper with pickes on the side---the Camino muffler now scraping the asphalt screeeek! and Uncle George heading somewhere fast with fireworks sparklers lighting up my peripheral vision and now lined-up folk faces lit up like old homicide photos with spent flash-bulbs sizzling hot and I'm in driveby open-mouthed amazement. My mind is now flashing back to the earlier dream of epic Chicago meateries and Upton Sinclair protest marches on Washington mixed in with thoughts of same baseball stadium fatman's hanks sizzling on a big backyard Webber grill with p.u. scorched hairball reekage. I'm feeling sick now and imagining this would make a pregnant woman open my passenger door and wretch. More sparks flying all around and we're heading straight towards the Rampart Police Station where I once got booked as a young teen for kicking Louis R. in the nuts for no good reason. Remorse.

Saturday, April 16, 2005

Ottenweg Dream


Trying to worm my way into a paper sleeping sack plumped-stuffed with natural' ingredients---I'm fingering the warning label which I recognize as bogus, so I rip it off causing a jerk motion, seam opens and out float tiny puffed rice seedies with feathery 'wings' allowing them to spin and hover like little alien seed craft. Now blowing rice-ules around the room, delicately making certain none of them sink to the floor....now mentally affecting their orbits, like a dance, and "I see the beauty of the universe floating right here, right now, in this room"

Later on in Ottenweg kitchen with rolling pin---Hawaiian sweet-bread-dough-struggling for plasticity and Cécile now 'helping out'---tossing quantities of airy cake flour at the dough mass and screaming ha-ha's at my disobedient blob---I'm flogging the sticky heap (the flour is so fine and the dough seems to keep wicking it off) allthewhile kitchen clouding up with cake powder. I'm irritated now; hissy-fitting about the dough not cooperating. I dump it on the floor and kick it in disgust and my foot gets gummed-in. Now I'm on the floor picking dough-nits from toe valleys, fingers backandforth prodding out lost Hawaiian pan nodules.

Cécile is scrubbing my back with a hard bristle brush. Faucet echo drips in some northern black-and-white tiled bathroom. Sweden? Laplandish peatybogs and hot whisky rushes are definitely "in the air". I can feel a dark and ill-tempered earth outside with holy light streamers passing through foggy panes...I'm wincing at the bristles but realize they're 'healthy' and so fix my stare at a billion bath bubbles..."little wastrels---ne'er-do-wells" Drying off and now noticing how my feet are not at all mine--too large---and toenails---disgusting, thick---I'm fixedly clamped on them with the nail kit clippers, but dense toenails all petrified. Can't...break...through...and so go to fetch some scissors but heavy like pliers. They're pinking shears and first lop is like butter, leaving hardened toothy bakelite ridges---I'm looking at the floor clippings and wondering if they might not work well as inlay tiles. Oh mother-of-pearls!

Monday, April 11, 2005

John Ford Dream


Long wooden building with saloon and 2nd story rooms for sleep 'n sex like in wild western giddyaps---I'm upstairs sleuthing through a monitor/camcorder and smallchatting with old 'colleague'---can't remember the name---John D. from long ago Culver City illustration gig? But he's thicker, older and dressed up in John Ford classic laconic cowboy duds. But what's different about him? Is he from South America? I realize he's 'authentic' and not acting. He's a real Pampas gaucho de Argentina who's slack-jawed staring and so I swing the camera monitor for a close-up telephoto bighead....he's got more wrinkles now. I want to ask him personal 'interview' Q & A---he claims he's worried about something 'back home' while point-blank burning laser eyes at me in judgement. Now I'm swinging fat boxy monitor from the town square folks back to 'John', and the monitor is flashing on-off. Everything is sticky and hot.

Later on I'm walking through porticos of a similar wooden space but elsewhere---I'm in suburban simulacra zone of western 'theme' mall, cheapened Robinsons Crusoe May Company Nevermindthebullocks cheapniz stinkperfumery---repugnant. I walk through more wooden fakery and then later I'm mercifully indoors lounging in 'ranch-style' living room. Mish-mash bric-a-brac and big wagon wheels---plastic palms with christmas lights rimming wetbar with lurid clearblue cocktails. It's a stage-set (like earlier) and I'm telling myself "all will be torn down in time" & "This must be San Fernando!". On a huge mosaic coffee table, scattered wads of spent balloons along with pink tooth-marked gum balls all enzyme spittled and air dried shiny---I'm now separating the real party balloons---fascinating with their cluttered little boyscoutish ship knots and chalky coatings...Ding dong! The door. Wrong place now. Wrong valley...I'm trespassing and so scanning the room for a quick exit. "I'm heading out through the patio where the coolblue kidney-shaped pool is....Kerblam! I splat into an invisible sliding window; now on my duff watching sheer sheetglass undulating over me. I scoot back some more. It's gonna come down.

Thursday, April 07, 2005

Topanga Canyon Dream


Back again in Topanga Canyon of once upon a time dream-oddities. Jennifer B from Halifax is walking with me along hot dry scrubby trail. She's somehow merged with Jenny A who's really from Topanga. I'm looking back down scrubby trail seeing intermittent peeps of Pacific Ocean vastness which seems 'tilted up' and pressing against the eucalyptus openings.

She's 'narrating' like PBS about this being a Chumash Indian passage to the high Sierra Nevada "all the way to the Whitney Portals"---reminding me to boyscout times of old stinky tents and potscrubbing messes. She unrolls spectacularly detailed and secret Landsat map---patchworked, quilted and 'antique'---nevertheless ultramodern hermetically sealed in plastic coated vinyl
? Standing close to me she whispers "It requires a special lens to stitch all these places together cohesively" now smiling and pulling an egg shaped crackled glass out of her shiny patent leather handbag---it's like fine old translucent chinese porcelain which she says only exists for reading the map and now telling me that "It's a Ouija pointer"; they invented it. She's professorial now---fast-talking way over my head about esoteric Chumash secret code coordinates for moving up to the high country. "We're standing where the Sierras begin". I'm being distracted by a hive nearby. Wasps? Honeybees? Droning drones. She tells me to "Wait now"---kisses me passionately and then disappears down same sad dusty trail but away from hive buzzing. More codes and surprises? I decide to play around with the Ouija egg pointer on the secret parchment but can't unfurl it---struggling with dusty trail gusts---now squatting and peeing on the map like a girl. Bee distractions. Dryness now feels ready to explode into Angelino wildfire. I need a drink and exactly timed comes Jennifer bringing up dripping wet khaki suited canteens. She knows many secrets and allotta knowledge---I want to know her better. Realizing now that she's an artist shaman. Many ideas flashing with questions I want to ask---clumsy eroticism mixed together with something I need to know.

Saturday, April 02, 2005

Antarctica Dream


Staring down at a half-filled pond---could be a small reservoir even---a dusty window view in the high loft attic---open space---varnished---knotty cabin pine. Alpine. But this place could also be Uncle M's 60's Torrance tract house wedded to a Swiss style chalet on steroids. And there are stones and it is huge with many rooms lurking.

I'm making my way down a small spiral stairwell---'Watch your step; it's rickety'. There's a man making his way up the bottom rungs (the caretaker?). I look below and the scene is open and spiral-skewed like Vertigo belltower steps, not at all like the stonewalled stairwell space I'm standing in, which leaves no room to pass and so I'm withdrawing awkwardly, backwardly while fingerfeeling the wooden stairstringers (more varnished piney knots). My achilles are starting to set---like hardening concrete---throb-aching, numb. I'm keeping an eye on his 'progress' throughout---catching glimpses of crew-cut hair, hands, arms, shiny shoes flash-lit by a vertical string of pond-viewing windows. I see a tray with shiny cutlery...room service?.

At the same space of earlier attic but now with sink and faucet looking down again at a much bigger pond area (more like a lake) but now with a much lower water level---farmers and fishermen going about their trades, but stiffly---like Sim City early settler automatons. Everything brisk and pristine except for bogs and seaweed zephyrwafting in murky green water. My mind sees minnowfish hypergilling---struggling for 'air' and so I turn the water dials and instantly fry swimming in all directions like tragic escaped fish prisoners. I'm feeling rushes of relief....that man. Looking around for my video camera (where did I put it?) to capture whatever shenanigans he might put me through 'just in case' (where is it?) L.R. is sitting on my mom's old leather sofa watching tiny tv right where (I'm now sure) the camera should be. I know she's responsible. She doesn't see me. She's transfixed on something flickering on the screen that I cannot see.

More epic dreaming of castle-hut-pond-moat-uncle M's. In an airliner looking down at same algae lake and higher perspective shows it's really a moat around a cheezy Lego-like alpine village castle knottypine hut propped up manse-like high on Gibraltar hillock. Everything is still of that oddly mechanical space---only higher up. I've got 'my' camcorder again---but this one's not mine because it's much heavier, professional. I'm ZOOMING in on the digital Lego space and the zoom control now jammed and I'm admiring all the beautifully machined anodized dials and switches with its thrilling solid heavy state....the pond lake moat is in the viewer now---I can see the landscape is innundated---Apine farms submerged and plankton-ridden with mechanical medieval tradesmen knocked-over with some half in the water face down. The camera is operating on its own now; is 'showing me' where to look. Southern polar region is visible beyond the Andes and my gut wrenches suddenly in the knowledge that a mammoth ice shelf has broken free. I'm now trying to zoom in on Antarctica, but as I get to it the camera shuts down. It's really happening.