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, December 26, 2005

Strand Dream

The vast pristine beach is hot. My feet are making muffled, sandy squeaks as I pedal through the powdery sand. Vague memories of unrequited love is attached to this place---I have been here many different times before in reality and in dreams. The pre-dawn beaches of Santa Monica, San Diego, Santa Barbara, Ventura and the Channel Island shores are each hinted at. I can see mother whales with their calves breaching---heading in the opposite direction towards Laguna San Ignacio. I want to sit and gaze, but something presses me to move on and get out of this unrelenting sun.

My thoughts are dull and in need of ocean "smelling salts". A cluster of towers like ones I've seen in other dreams appears on the horizon looking like a floating Aztec metropolis. Earlier they'd seemed so fragile through the misty surf---like crumbling sand castles. But now the structure appears to weigh a thousand Gibraltars, with a spectral backlight making it appear Oz-like. I'm jogging now, moving to the rhythm of my breathing. But the faster I move, the more mired in the sand I get. I need to get over...to the wet sand.

A pack of huge dogs rushes past while I'm trying to extricate myself from the quicksand. The leader skids to a stop---looks back at me. They are not dogs, but hyenas. The leader and I stare each other down in a mental standoff. I tell him telepathically that he is to keep moving--- that his next life will be different---that if he does anything to hurt me, he will remain a stinking ugly hyena for many lifetimes. He starts toward me while baring his teeth, but then he stops again as I bare down on him: "Go on....don't look at me...move on...now!" And just like that they are all off running, frolicking and tearing up the beach toward the towers. As I'm wriggling to extricate myself, a rumbling, roaring breaker looms up and hits the shore like rolling thunder, quickly swallowing up the hyenas and then swallowing me.

But I'm uprooted from the sand, clutching at nothing and everything and tumbling around. My breath...panic...I'm going to die. But my focused mind tells me to breathe and as I do, a terrifying gurgle rattles around in my lungs and inside my head. I cough up a chunk of something and quickly gulp down underwater air to "catch my breath". Yoga techniques allow me to calm down and breathe effortlessly. The water is now crystal clear, and I can see the same pack of hyenas swimming like sea dogs alongside the mother whales and their babies. They are heading south towards Mexico.

Sunday, December 11, 2005

Barbie-Q Dream

Sitting in broadcast booth of some 'Murican littletown looking over a sea of prefab cheapniz. In the booth next to me is a radio neocon-man with a huge head and a toothy Mormon grin. He's chuckling along with his skinny sidekick about Ken getting roasted on a Barbie Q. Station break after station break (when will it stop?) is looping the same bellicose line-up of honks, whistles, train chugs and boingy effects. Through the static hiss of empty delirium comes the station's theme scream "KXTC!! KXTC!! KXTC!!" The two guys are flicking switches and pulling off head gear---going off line. The skinny guy is mouthing me a silent but demonstrative "You're on!" "You're on!" through the glass. More sound effects start blaring and distracting me from...I haven't got a clue. I blurt into the mike "testing testing 1-2, 1-2". I know this is my big chance but everything is subverted. I'm blowing up in front of the whole world with childhood dread and a fluttering, old man's heart. I take a slow, deep breath and begin faking a head-nodding, uncontrollable drowsiness. But my heart really is going. Am I going to die while on the air? Silence.

Later a nimbus cloud from far away quickly balloons atomic---starts raining tendril-winged "seahorse shrimp" onto the tiled, soul-dead stripmall. A topless double-decker busload of tourists careens round the corner, the bus skidding over the shrimpy street and onto its side, spilling out a hoard of screamers and laughers. Everyone jumps up in unison (unhurt!) to get out of the crustacean storm.

The same toothy fat guy from the broadcast booth (now Zero Mostel) is bouncing around with his
oversized wheelbarrow "vat", his belly distended over the piles of wriggling horseshrimp. He's stopping to scoop up living, heavy heaps with his shovel, stopping after each scoop to mop his brow and blow his nose. I feel sorry for him from the bottom of my soul, thinking about how he used to be a little baby all innocent and maybe his mother was a hippo and maybe he just can't help it. Then as though reading my mind he bellows: "Barbie-Q, baby! All you can eat!"