Waking Finnegan

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

My Photo
Name:
Location: zurich, Switzerland

Sunday, April 16, 2006

Koufax (Counter-Clockwise)


The first part of this dream is here.

I'm pissed-off about my head and getting more frustrated---looking round for another tool---slamming shut one cabinet door---swinging open another...."I've already looked here... and what the hell are the hand towels doing bunched up in the corner there with battalions of dead soldier ants? And the old rubber scabbard I stabbed everyone with is sandwiched between the pages of an old squirreled away Penthouse. And here are some photos of me as a baby...

Shit! I'm supposed to cook breakfast for the neighbor's baby I'm sitting. Where's the baby? Where's the fucking baby!" I'm rifling through a multitude of drawers and cabinets and finding thingamajigs here and thisandthats there. More rifling. One drawer is stuffed with ancient Shredded Wheat biscuits and the other one a stack of instruction booklets telling me how to operate gizmos in every language, but saying nothing about where to find the lousy wrench or baby.


Memory smells. Freshly-painted surfaces. Domestic perfumes of renewal glide across my consciousness as I walk down a corridor and enter the wrong side of the kitchen. I'm standing where the stove should be. Disorientation. "This is not my kitchen". I realize I'm inside my next door neighbor's duplex looking into my kitchen window from their side of the driveway. The hedge has been clipped with a reverse-mohawk indent to open a view through the bottom of the kitchen window. A metropolis of birds is chattering inside the bushes. I'm thinking about the word "hedge" and that it's also a verb which means to "beat around the bush". I tell myself that the birds are in their own mini Vegas "hedging bets". I make a mental note of this.

I backtrack down the corridor towards my bathroom but realize when I enter that things have changed. Multi-sided and round-shaped, it has more sides than a hexagon. More than an octagon. And what is a nine-sided room called? Is an eleven-sided room possible? What about seventeen? And is there an especially bad number of sides that one should avoid? I figure I can work these questions out with some calculations. Geometry. I've got to solve this room riddle. "Let's see. I know there's something called a hypotenuse. Hypo-Ten-Use. I make the acronym HYTEN, as in Hyten one's awareness. H is the 8th letter; Y the 25th. 25 + 8 = 33. What the hell should I do now? All those theorems and proofs and chalky diagrams and worrying about my high school finals. Did I pass my finals?" Panic.

Sepulchral beams of light rake down through the faceted glass. The walls have been beautifully prepared by some master hand in preparation for the rare tiles to be laid. Understanding the reasons for the wrench, vaulted room and religious light no longer concern me.

Instead I'm prying open an old carton full of childhood stuff I'd discarded moons ago. My old Topps baseball cards! I'm riding a busload of joy as I peel the brand new cards apart and hold Sandy Koufax up against the rapturous light. I am home.

Saturday, April 08, 2006

Sump (Clockwise)


The gurgling sounds from under the drain won't stop. I'm tugging on the beaded chain and trying in vain to pull out the hardened, crusty plug. But the chain breaks off and the silvery beads go flying in every direction.

Half of me is in the cabinet below working delicately to break the rusted monkey wrench from an ancient block of sponge. "If I wet the sponge, it'll be way easier". And so in my ecstatic rush to test this logic I limbo my way out of the miniscule space. Then, rising up like Lazarus, I violently kunk the back of my head on the edge of the door opening. I realize there's a massive welt---maybe even blood---but I purposely ignore it, hoping it'll go away.

Having freed the sponge from the wrench, I'm back under the sink (supine). Now I'm having a helluva time trying to get the teeth to grab ahold of the u-pipe coupling. The iron monkey head falls off and clacks against my forehead. I'm embarrassed but mighty glad nobody is watching. Dizzy ideas begin flickering. "Is this really the right wrench? Haven't I heard about another, more effectual tool? Why am I fucking around with this antiquated hunk of corroded metal anyway?"

Once again I work my way out of the cabinet, but this time gingerly. I notice the silvery beads from the plug chain have become translucent little pearls. I'm wondering if the hardware store will allow them as barter for a better wrench.