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, May 22, 2005

San Remo Dream

Floundering around once again in San Remo looking for my wallet and Ufe---the same Swedish guy I once traveled with in Brasil and who in my dream is the same sinister cad who once pinched Brasilian crusados and passport. He's surely counting his thick wad of purloined Lira. Later, near the water, a 19th century line of gas lamps are hissing and casting flickering pole shadows on the quay. I'm half looking for Ufe and half on my way back to some vaguely-remembered hotel room but have no idea where it might be. Lost. I cross the tracks in front of the quay and sense a train around the corner.

Later in old Flamingo Hotel Lobby changing speeds on the stick-shift controlled shoe polisher working my Alden Oxfords towards a movie star shine. I'm pleased and let go of the polishing control-shifter. Stepping back onto the ultra dense horn-a-plenty carpet I begin losing traction and end up ice-skating towards an orderly row of one-armed bandits being fed-and-pumped by middle-aged women with hard-laquered space-helmet hairdos. I go from slipping and near falling into a spastic Fred Astaire. It's entertainment! Everyone turns to watch and I'm hot stuff and feeling like the Tasmanian devil and now jumping into a dervish move. Suddenly I'm being splashed by a blinding spot with drum-rolls and MC trying to sucker me into double-time and egging the crowd with 'faster!' 'faster!'. I'm lost in my own giddylaughter comic speed. I'm in a tux-and-jockey shorts get up with black socks and spats over shiny shoes and this realisation cattle-prods me with an instant rush of doom-and -failure---everyone's laughing at me---I try to camouflage my shame by trying out an entertaining spin move but the slippery soles are like walking on glassy ice, and I pratfall face forward. More laughter, but by staring into the flowered carpet I'm able to avoid eye-contact. Still face down, I start snaking my body towards the entry and the distance (not more than 10 meters) seems to lengthen as I approach. Now out of breath from the crawling struggle I signal into the spotlight that I want a time-out. I sit up and see my mom and a man (who could be my dead father) looking at me fixedly.

I'm tending succulents in a huge desert-theme glass house with my 5th grade teacher (the now-deceased Mrs Bitzer) who's there working under me as a sad-sack gardener. This is the same Mrs. Bitzer I once disliked (like a plague rat) who's now breaking my heart---I know she's without any home or family---her creased little face so damned sad and lonely---'such a sad lost old woman'. She reads my mind and starts penetrating me with wet eyes and I feel like I'm going to break down and so quickly turn away. It dawns she should be dead and so I'm now apprehensive about being here inside this big plant house with her. Up in the skyglass I see veils of spider gauze curtaining the double-domed surface. One of the glass panels is hanging open and the corner of my eye keeps catching glimpses of fast moving (trap-door?) spiders.

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

X-Ray Glasses Dream

Yanking up phenomenal peppercorn clodded tree stumps in a forest clearing---the living trees are thickslabbed giants like California Sequoias--only greyer; more deeply runneled. White and red-speckled toadstools scattered everywhere and I'm impressed by the series of whorled damp patterns my gardener clogs have drawn over the fungi field. I'm uprooting green, red and white clumps of nodal peppercorns---bounties delicately clinging to the rotted black roots and I'm wondering why these ancient stumps are so simple to unearth---breaking off like sponge bricks. No matter because I'm well on with my task---and these being rare peppercorns (I'm certain) and worth handsome sums in gourmet markets. I need to protect this find---stake a claim. But how? Several trails lead off where splayed cracks of cathedral light are spotlighting my cache. And how am I gonna cart all this away?
I'm puzzled about logistics---walking in circles---seeking a solution. Later on I've got green, red and white corn separately laid out in rectangles over the forest peat and noticing how it resembles the Italian Tricolore. Sid shows up and is there giving the peppercorns a good looking over, hemming and hawing so as to consult me in 'business matters'. He seems intent on friendly patter and I realize I can leave the booty with him---locate a truck somewhere. As I leave I'm thinking "As a dead man he's not such a bad person; maybe we can pull of this enterprise."

Photo snapping down bright aisles of some vast Walmart Costco cheapbox all-in-one shopping nightmare where throngs of fatties repulsively bobbing to ridiculous banal loonytoons 'hiphop' Muzak. N is there with her nitwit husband who's in ecstasy in this madness yammering up a storm to himself allthewhile sashaying to the Musak "groove". I'm testing a camera in Digital Equipment and N is in my viewfinder asking me to auto-focus on her left 'better' profile..."Take more glamorous ones than that dolt over there knows how". I'm fumbling with the manual settings (why does this camera have such a heavy feel?) A crowd surges towards us and I'm getting indignant ---all the labored-breathing bodies bumper-car jostling me. I feel puny and wanna leave but it's cavernous; N is no longer herself but one of the hefty crowd. This woman is using her hands and lip-synching 'just chill, baby'.

Later in the same mall edifice with Cécile in Ladies' Underwear; she wants me to help her pick out bra and panty combos and I'm not up for it. I wanna get back to my Photoshop lessons, but realizing I'd better be obliging because of possible recriminations and "What the hell did I do wrong now?" She's inandout door swooshing through variouos changing stalls---other women seem completely oblivious to my state of mind. I'm standing like a mannekin and nobody sees me---perverted sentinel in all this underwear frenzy. I'm trying to be cool, discreet but all these nipples and pubed panties catwalking past me has me excited and flushed at what I might catch a glimpse of. I'm rewinding mental images to an old back-of-the-comix advert selling mail order 'X-RAY glasses' with translucent see-through lady figure who seems unaware of the not-quite-ready-for sex kid who's actually me, oh and did I actually buy that camera over in Digital Equipment? Cécile startles me from behind and starts laughing at my mannequin pose and I'm busted.

More of the same shopping but now C is gone and I'm with a group of unknowns from some 'club'. They've all got the same rainbow-colored NBC peacock stenciled on their t-shirts. A director in a director's chair (much like N's M from earlier shopping section of this dream) is yelping instructions to cameraman and crew---it's no longer a mall but a cavernous film studio; all these events a series of scenes being shot for what I'm dreaming (at this point I'm lucid dreaming and start controlling the action) Director (it's now me in the chair) yells "Action!" and the NBC t-shirted characters raise protest placards and right off another throng of anti-protesters enters from another department and the two groups lunge forward frothing and now doing battle and everyone is whooping it up like "The Day of the Locust". While all the commotion is running I signal with finger to lips for silence and everyone freezes, some giggling and then I yell "Action!" I do this repeatedly and am amazed at the control. But now my director's chair is telescoping on some boom lift---I'm holding fast to the side rails and the action now swaying far below with everyone applauding me while I fade away...up past the roof tops. I'm squinting through hard-edged shadows and stuccoglass reflections to a sign that reads "Hollywoodland". The Capitol Records Building nearby has a tone arm at the top and the glinty spectators are motionless. It feels about noon.

Thursday, May 12, 2005

Colosseum Dream

Bending my neck up at a blue dream wall of Fenway proportions---this vertical stoppage plastered with tattered signs hocking Burma shaves and corn flakes. It could be the 50's, but I'm sure it's later because of familiar slats of zig-zag pavilion roof shading voices and eye that are leering at me because I'm standing at shortstop on the cinder brick-colored infield in my underwear, donning an old-fashioned pair of Kiwi-blackened baseball cleats and my LA cap. The sun is low, so I can't read the usual stark shadows off the foul poles sun-dialing the time of day---sweeping cantilevered aisles have lost their light and so no clocks. I sense vague snickering laughter seeping through the big wall.

Oddly mixed visions of gladiators like ballplaying heros in simulated Coloseum---but somehow I'm savvy about my need to escape this naked-with-black-shoes ignominy and so wend my way to the opposing team's dugout which I'm inching towards by following my
cleated groove circles. I arrive at the dugout steps and run straight down through the spectral corridor; now stopping to chuck my clacking shoes-and-sox and find my way out to that same perfect view to where the orange 76 glow-ball is vibrating against an obscene lurid blue sky where I watched purple San Gabriels and twilight double-headers. I can see slivered views of Deco LA City Hall. There's a helicopter chopping up some clouds and I can hear the pilot speaking through a megaphone at someone below. Is it me?

I'm with Uncle M on a repeat old trip to Zion and Bryce of long ago deserts and Rat Pack Vegas days---but he detours this time to where Glen Canyon lay before the fossil terrain floods. He's pointing out big Pueblo rock drawings like a scientist while barreling down the rutted gravel path. Aunt Mary is alive again and sitting in the back seat---but something is wrong---she seems too much like the same mannequin lady who lay mute in that satin-lined box just before she and uncle G sank into different pits. I don't know how to approach her and I'm afraid of what she might do. I'm lucid and want to shake this image of her being 'alive' but thankfully she disappears from her dream cameo but I'm jolted. But Uncle M is oblivious and half muttering cryptic comments about fishing tackle and bait and I'm losing the thread of his thoughts. He points out the sign reading 'just 20 miles' to world's best charbroiled triple decker burgers with authentic Belgian fries and I'm gonna wolf special meat with pickles and cheese and onions and bacon and lettuce and tomatoes and shakes and fries and sesame buns! We drive up to the sad old brick Van de Kamp's off Fletcher Drive where we used to get trays clamped to our car doors...and it's real gone and I'm blue because my uncle who never cried is speaking about all the good things gone and his voice sounds so old and lost and weary.

Thursday, May 05, 2005

Hollywood Bowl Dream

Up in the high seats watching a great spectral jam session through hot foggy Hollywood Bowl plume haze---odd crickety night bugs chirping---giggly voices mingling with a dry raspy stoned-out dialog in the chaparral behind. I'm an usher once again and feeling that ancient halcyon joy riding in me. My miniskirted date is next to me on the splinterbench. It's sweet and smiling P. Ferri, and her sister D smiling alongside and making them look like one gorgeous two-headed girl. They're both slightly sloe-eyed from something smoked, which I realize is due to the cloud-seeping from the rock and roll fog machines (clipped along the bowl's rim) all stutter-pumping a gauzy haze down on the crowd below and slowly seep-curling its way through hippy hairdos all the way up to our high-hill bench. Ah this is the life! Machine-pumped concert wonder drugs---me here with my nearly-twin-sisters double-dating---I can feel the floating guitar lullaby-licking my ears from this magical band in silhouette.

Later the narcoleptic smile on D's face has me worried since I've got to steer them both back to Echo Park (and their alcoholic mom) on my blood-red, tanked-up and ready to barrel BSA. We're struggling through fits of stony buzz laughter (a stream of nutter jokes) and I'm worried that it's gonna be too damned naked the three of us riding with no leathers, helmets and me at the throttle...then kicking at the rancid oily dirt trying to get the bike to open but only managing some sputtering pops and the girls howling together at my ignominy and I let it slip and we all go down kickstand up and now a trio of dying hysteria fitsters and why isn't the bike heavier and hurting us? It's no longer the baddass BSA but a big cheap display model and now D goes to the sages to pee and suddenly her head is bobbing to the splash beats of her hilarious rainbird sprinkler.

We're back at the crickety sage-side of the Bowl where I'd heard earlier chaparral giggles (this being where D was pissing buckets) I'm wondering why the concert is still 'on' because of my earlier crowd exodus memory---strange Herb Alpert Mariachi trumpeting starts up with hip-hop funkybeats and now a Chicano rapper comes onto the stage and then a few more and all sounding like Cypress Hill chanting astonishing nasty raps mixed in with melodious harmonies and D looks at me and says: 'It's another fear-moan pumped sonic crowd down there. Get it? FEAR-MOAN!' Then she starts into a perfect Karaoke memory rap with the Chicano stage guys and some other boys beyond the bushes and I'm trying desperately to follow her lucid lips and suddenly feel a rush of amazement and love for her own joy and now know that she's the queen of my dreams.