Waking Finnegan

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

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Location: zurich, Switzerland

Saturday, June 25, 2005

Austin Healy Dream


Playing a game of "marble checkers" (like Chinese checkers) with Ty at a picnic gathering under a grove of towering willows. But the marbles are rolling out of their gridded ball sockets---we're now working the card table legs like gladfaced synchonized dowsers aligning numerical balls into their alloted slots---green, red and yellow rinkaround orbs finding their own little cubbies. and I'm only half sure that I'm really half of the circus magic. Ty seems so keen-eyed and riveted to the table---it's clear that if I let it all go he won't miss a beat. He makes this clear by saying "It's just like with karaoke---the song will lighten up as soon as you stop singing". So I let go. He's free of me as "boat anchor". He's holding the table up one-handed looking like a sinewy Charles Atlas; much brawnier than the real one. He seems so television primed; so not real. I establish the fact that I love this 'television Ty' too, and that if there are in fact two versions, that it's alright by me.

Later we're in a familiar old Austin Healy Sprite---joyriding roofless through an amazing jungle hybrid of municipal parks---Griffith, (the Planetarium) Golden Gate, (the Botanical Gardens) and Central (with its wall of 5th Avenue apartments and hotels). I can see the bug-eyed bonnet through the chrome-plated frame and I'm sure it's the same Austin Healy that Donald P. (Claw) and Michael I. hotwired on Benton Way back in Bellevue days. Above the din Ty asks if I know about all the hidden gears. "It's got a special endless syncho-mesh of possible speeds which are radically advanced even for today." And with that I'm shifting madly while he reads instructions from a tattered glovebox manual: "Round-out the pivot hamper with slight pulling motion while damping the pinion" and I'm on grinding gears here and there but then suddenly I've got the rhythm of it VROOM! And how does a 16 year old know all this? I'm popping the squeaky clutch---slapping delicately at the stiff cueball shifter---it's radio time and there's that deliciously sticky funk of Sly Stone and his boom-chakka-lakka. I try singing along feeling mighty cool, but I mangle it and Ty says "See what I mean about the karaoke? Family affair, you know"

Sunday, June 19, 2005

Hobo Dream


In Ventura on Main Street standing across from the old San Buenaventura Mission. Examining lushly thick yellow road dashes on the sidewalk which some road 'artist' has brush-scudded---an abstract sidewalk painting taking advantage of weedy cracks and bubble gum blotches for color effects---now caught up in painter's shop-talk with a beardy old depression era Woody Guthrie hobo with stained and ratty long johns. He's deftly yammering about 'earliest' abstractionists---speaking in measured laconic phrases about layerin' the "paynt" with a "winter tar brush" an' makin' sure yer workin' "from lean to fat" an' usin' only special "asphalt gluepaint" which is workable only when heated through and found only in "bitumen shops"---I'm down on my hands and knees scrutinizing the loosely spattered dashes tentacled under parked cars, over parking signs and dripping down store front plate-glass. His wry expression tells me "I know you're impressed" but he says (now without any hobo dialect) "There's more to the image when you see it from up in that belfry. It changes depending on where the cars are parked. Parts of my painting move around the city and even to other places...like a hobo code."

Sunday, June 12, 2005

June 11, 2005


At a 'tea' party hosted by a gay Russell Crowe which is happening down the street from my old Bellevue Ave. digs near Silverlake. I'm on the toilet in a blackandwhite tiled (Moderne?) bathroom with contrary curtains---like doilies hanging on dark stained and burly woodrings---all of which makes me mind-flit to huge sailboats and Russell Crowe as Fletcher Christian in some new Hollywood bounty mutiny---now wriggling my toes in the U-rug---and why have I taken off my shoes and socks? I'm sitting on the pot but no action. Freezeframe. I'm trying to catch the conspiratorial falsetto conversation of gravelly-voiced Russell and (?) in the next bathroom. He's raving about some sensational loverboy he's been shagging and once again everything goes quiet---the medicine cabinet mirror over the sink swings open and he's back in his world-famous butchtones and tells me: "Take your fucking dump, flush and leave!"Then he smiles and immediately bellows "Mates, come check out the joker taking a dump!" and the bathroom door handle rattles a bit, then swings open onto a spectral corridor of backlit faces, all peering over one another to get a better view. I'm thinking speedily about how to get out when suddenly all goes silent and my stomach starts rumbling out of control, then lets out a tremendous bronx cheer with reverb effects. I'm feeling overwhelmed with shame and Russell yells "CUT!", and now everyone is applauding wildly at my 'performance'. A picture on the wall next to me pops out and Russell sticks his head through and he tells me "Mate, this is gonna be a world-beater. You've outdone yourself". I can see his face powderstreaked with stray eye-liner tracks and am wondering why an actor of his stature can't get better makeup. He says: "You still haven't flushed, mate. Flush and take a bow". I reach behind and find the cold metal handle and plunge. A muffled gurgling and my balls now getting submerged and I'm hopping about with ankle pants while the water rises and my turds (a baker's dozen) jostling each other over the gangplank and onto the U-rug and Russell's beside himself with joy and yelling out: "You've seen it all yourselves! A star is born, mates!"

Friday, June 10, 2005

Sick Bird Dream


I'm up in some sort of 19th century research lab. Traffic below. looking through a galvanized screen cage at a tiny, featherless cheep-cheeping chick with beaky head too big for its frail body. I'm repulsed by it, but while trying to rise, it is shaking horribly---I feel a strong urge to help. I'm carefully turning the cage so as not to knock down the fragile tinybird...where's the cage door? I accidentally bump the hanging cage, which is suspended from what looks like copper wire---WHAM! everything drops on the floor suddenly and I'm sickened for the bird and what has happened---but the cheepcheeping starts up onced again and now it's crawling slowly, painfully up onto the throw rug which is fronting the lab shelving. I get down low to look at it in closeup; nearer than the cage had allowed---it's now gone bumpy with sad little welted fractures and all brokenbeaked...I'm trying to foist it up but there's nowhere I can handle it without maiming or killing it. I feel around in my pockets and there's my favorite old Rapidograph pen! I pull the yellow tipped cap, and now, very delicately, prodding the stunned embryo with the fine metal slider tip to bring it back to it's feet. "Come on little birdy. It's a little perch for you!" The veiny broken beaked thing is now looking directly at me and conveying a deep understanding for what I'm trying to do. But the head's too heavy and just clacks back down after each attempt to raise itself. I'm thinking about finding a tiny flag to cover it up when it dies.

Wednesday, June 08, 2005

George Walker Dream


In some country kitchen cracking walnuts with the small rounded peen side of a jewelry hammer but can't hit the walnuts squarely---the glancing blows landing on my clamphand---I'm growing side-minded wary of its swollen and mottled appearance---now holding both hands up to the bare bulb and can see the bones of my left hand like shattered glass. I'm calmly flexing it---can feel the internal jostling---I'm aware it's numb and swollen---my mind harking back to some dimly-remembered other dream of having damaged it. Now testing its dexterity by trying to screw on a bottle cap, the hand repeatedly loses grip and I'm wondering whether it's permanently damaged. Feeling emotionally detached---strangely scientific---fixedly studying everything around me more closely as if this were the first (last?) time. The kitchen table is now a lab workbench with a motley mix of professional tools...vise, porphyry, clamps, soldering iron, test tubes...on the floor is a large rusted anvil and I realize I'm in old Mr. Walker's basement. I go upstairs to see if he's around, but all doors and windows are unlatched and knowing he's obsessive about locking, I go out through the front door look around, but no Mr. Walker. I continue around the corner to a Bogie's Liquor that's no longer Bogie's---instead some sort of pawn shop of sad and dusty bric-a-brac. A row of gleaming bicycles are hanging along the back wall where I can see someone working. I enter the jingledoor and go to the bicycles and it's Mr. Walker in a Peugeot apron inflating tires with a pneumatic pump and he's real happy to see me through his thick glasses which he never wore in real life. He looks up. I ask him about the windows being open, but he pays no attention but instead staring at my big hand. He grabs it with a wince but says there's nothing wrong he can't fix. I have a young boy's deeply profound trust in his words and so I hand him my hand and he blows on it some with the pump---then says "We've got to fix it in my basement". We go to the back of what was Bogies---now attached to the real Mr. Walker's house. Descending a stairwell I'd never known, we pass various knarly wooden levels stacked with old washing machines and boilers nearly rusted out and I now can see myself at that same 'science' table screwing something into my hand with a cordless.