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

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

Buckminster Fooler Dream

I'm on some Greek island (Patmos? Samos?) leading an island "discovery" tour for a group of hearty old women folk from my grandmother's retirement home. I'm in the main dining hall of our chartered hotel picking up little snippets of hysterical giddyapchatterbuzz from a group of tour veterans dressed in travel khakis and pith helmets. They are also smorgasbord connoisseurs oohing and ahhing about the impressive luncheon spread before us: barrel o'pickles and pies and gelati for the mode along with open boxes of glazed and sprinkled Winchell's doughnuts, macaroni and potato salads on ice butted up against a massive bulwark of stacked up lunch meats: grouchy sausages, pork-and-roast beef, bratwurst, liverwurst, blood sausage, kalbsleberwurst, pastrami and mortadella and more mortadella and more pastrami. Long, hollowed-out loaves of bread looking like canoes are filled with skulking little finger sausages. "These are the terrible offspring of the worst wursts. BRATWURSTS! Und das pumpernickel mit dem family crests are branded onto zer bellies!" I jot this thought down in my memory for the big speech I'm to deliver sometime later. I'm jocular---"And some of these breads have finger-indented "handles" that each baker presses into them in order to create a certain quaint 'pre-golf era' medieval effect" Dungeons! Truncheons! Bludgeons! Cudgels! FORE!

I slip out of everyone's view to get a better glimpse of those great wheels of Parmesan, Gruyere and Emmentaler I'd spied when I first stepped into the dining hall. Up close they are all branded with what seem to be intricate bird-of-prey ensigns. All of them sit like hulking sentinels atop reams of paper. Office documents, magazines and newspapers from every kiosk in the world. The table of cheese-weighted paper goes on and on and on. Dumbfounded, I run across a familiar edition of Life (Kennedy assassinated! Oh no!) But I notice that the date is wrong. It reads "November 22, 1962" (here my distracted dream mind shifts back to an old boyhood fish tale arguement about R.C. actually seeing a WWII copper penny. "Was it or was it not in mint condition?---You lie!" I check to see that nobody is looking and begin gingerly unwedging Kennedy's face out from under the heavy stack. "Don't forget: The value is far greater depending on the condition" But I pull too hard and wind up on my ass with half of John F's. face in my hands.

This jerking movement triggers an seismic reaction which has me ducking for cover with dumbell cheeses and a billion words come dropping down on me with a terrible thud. I'm hurt. No, I'm not. No, it's landed on the foot of my sixth-grade teacher Miss Shaefer, who lets out a terrible, bone-shattering caterwaul. Then silence.

With everyone looking on, she begins sobbing, and all the attention is turned towards me, the leader of all this shit.

I slip and fall in the middle of the horn of plenty big mess, but finally gain my footing so that I can save face with an apology.

But she's not having any of it. She's clearly not a member of my group. She's got on Raggety-Anne Girlscout clothes. She's no longer that hell-raisin', bug-eyed, spark-shooting Nazi teacher I once dreamed of dousing with sulfuric acid. She's just a withered, toothless old bag lady. Christ, what a fuckin' world I live in!

She's rising up in tatters like a scarecrow phoenix, one hand slowly wagging her crooked index finger at me like a broken metronome. She isn't hurt anymore.

I ask her sarcastically, "Have you seen my Life?", but she says nothing. Instead she gives me a glassy-eyed drunken stare and starts chortling about all her hundreds and hundreds of former students. "And you all really believed that school was out?"

As Miss Shaefer continues to menace me, a woman I mistake for one of my mother's friends---or is it one of my grandmother's?---tries to decoy Miss Shaefer by whooping and pointing at some other commotion going on behind a curtained door. "Teacher, may I go to the bathroom?"

I'm the leader of the tour once again, everyone pressing me forward past the curtains to see what all the brouhaha is about. The lady who did the decoying gives me an "I've got your back" wink and smile. She isn't my mother's friend, she's my aunt Mary. I go up to her for a hug and realize that she's got the sweetest, noblest, most soulful face imaginable. Those eyes, my god! I realize a whole universe left us when she died. And then she leaves again, but this time through a side door.

Now I am in my elementary school auditorium and quite lucid about Buckminster Fuller who, on this "elementary" stage, is giving the same dymaxion demonstration that I witnessed on another stage in my life when I was in college.
He's overseeing a loony procession of puffy breads like Yorkshire puddings. The little pastries are being shuttled on conveyors, puffing up and down like miniature bellows round his spotlit figure.

I joke to myself about this guy being "Buckminster Fooler" and "The Fooler Brushman" He's speaking in scientific ellipses, swinging his arms and sweating profusely all over the puddings. I'm wondering how this Bucky bread would go with the lunch meat and cheese and what sort of dressing to use.

Then just before I awake, something tells me there's a connection between the energy of those spry old ladies and Bucky's pastry puddings.


Blogger Queen Neetee said...

First of all I must tell you that halfway through the reading of this I lumbered off into the kitchen - in a half-trance - and loaded up on a salad and grapes. Yum!

Now,...I LOVE your dreams because the excursion that the concepts take are like the tiny scientists from the "Fantastic Voyage" spelunking through the caves of my brain saying fabulous things like, "These are the terrible offspring of the worst wursts. BRATWURSTS!" and I joke to myself about this guy being "Buckminster Fooler" and "The Fooler Brushman" Great stuff!

You know, the very last part of your dream made me think that there is possibly a finnegan's code. Hhhhmmm, there is one isn't there?

10:06 AM  
Blogger floots said...

hey man
your miss schaefer
she frighten me
the news that old folk can still enjoy
gives me hope
so many kinds of sausage
too little time

don't know how you found your way
i'd like a map
(may ask you to come along
as shotgun though)
nice one (though you have made us wait)

8:04 PM  
Blogger Sue hardy-Dawson said...

I wonder what you ate before you drempt this? or didn't eat, I started off qute hungry but as the scaryer side set in, I've I've quite lost my apertite

8:44 PM  
Blogger karma said...

i'm hungry, Finn!

3:31 AM  
Blogger iamnasra said...

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7:51 AM  
Blogger finnegan said...


I've decided to make an amalgam of your name to give it more...er....more teeth. Why? Because your comments always make me grin. I was tempted to add a "th" at the end but thought "Way too much overbite and a lisp for Her Highness---decidedly not how one would want to pose for a Royal portrait." Now your name suggests a round of golf, High Tea and other neat things.

I can visualize The Queen gliding---or even simply sauntering---but I can not imagine Her "lumbering" off to the kitchen. Remember, She must set a good example for Her subjects by moving with a keener sense of poise and comportment.

I need not remind Your Highness that boisterous guffawing, yuk-yukking or slap-happy hee-hawing (especially with bits of Concord grape skin dangling from her cuspids would quite frighten the Queendom.

10:38 AM  
Blogger skelety said...

A masterpiece, Fin. A selfish tip from one of your fans: Eat greasy stuff before you go to bed, so you dream weird stuff ...then post them here.^^

By the way, an insider question: Have you tried the light switch trick during your dream sessions?

10:59 AM  
Blogger finnegan said...


Miss Shaefer was never without her (I kid you not) Shaefer fountain pen with the metal lever-filler. She once gave our 6th-grade class a dour-faced demonstration on "how to properly fill a fountain pen". I'll never forget the seriousness of purpose---the waiting for us to "shush" as she was readying to pull on the gold-plated
lever---and the look that crossed her saggy face when one of the kids let out a roaring Bronx Cheer. Definitely one of the highlights of my school career.

Smorgasbordasms sounds like a collaboration between Ingmar Bergman and Peter Greenaway.

Bronx Cheers


I don't remember eating anything before retiring, but I do remember sweating when I awoke (accounting for the profusely-sweating Fuller?).


There's still plenty to eat, but since I had that dream over a week ago, I'd check the expiration dates if I were you.


Will do. Thanks for letting me know.

11:05 AM  
Blogger finnegan said...


Your comment slipped in while I was typing up my responses. I'll heed your advice. I'll construct a triple-decker quatro-stazione pizza with extra chips on the side and a pint of beer to give the weirdness some propulsion. I hope I wake up.

I haven't yet tried to switch lights on or off---but can imagine why it can't/doesn't happen in dreams. Since our dreams are about "vision", it would stand to reason that light must be ever-present in order to see. For me, the less of it there is, the darker my visions become.

And where does the light originate anyway?

11:31 AM  
Blogger luz de la luna said...

Wow, what a mix of many strange things! Not only a dream of a lot of disperate places, events, but also of emotion. The first part was really funny. The middle was strange with a slightly menicing atmosphere. The last section about the aunt was beautiful and touching.

- Martin

4:40 PM  
Blogger finnegan said...

The emotional side of dreams is what interests me most---how they get us to react to people and events in ways we would never conceive of in our waking life. "Meaning" is so obscure and clouded for me, and so I'm only left to do the reportage. The curious thing is the reassembly---writing about something is a whole lot different from "being there".

I appreciate your comments here after such a long time away.

10:12 PM  
Blogger Cocaine Jesus said...

Oh really?
Yeah, sure.

With your normal aplomb and style you write of an extra normal dream. That old-hag-bag lady-no-shag-lady is pretty spooky (and I’m not talking tooth).
And the food that perches like predatory food stuff is pretty worrying too. I think I might, at this point, been calling out for my mummy, and we haven’t shared the same house for 33 years!
But what really irks me and gets my sweat glands pumping is those poxy little yorkshire puddings that puff up and then deflate at random moments.

Do me a favour finn?
Stop eating cheese before you go to sleep.
Did I offer that advice before?

12:45 AM  
Blogger finnegan said...

COCAINE JESUS and everyone else wondering about the puddings

It ain't the cheese. It's the puddings that put the pong into this dream. Let me make a short story long.

I've been watching some of the World Cup with my Brit colleagues at Oliver Twist. One of the commentators has a Yorkshire accent which got me thinking about Yorkshire puddings and wondering when I'd last enjoyed one. This in turn lead me to the burgundy-colored tuck-and-roll lounge chairs and bar stools ofthe Tam O'Shanter/the Great Scot where I remember being mesmerized by the sound of "Yorkshire pudding"
and asking my mother "How can Jello and bread both be puddings?" which of course she had no clue about since she grew up eating sushi.

While England and Paraguay were boring us silly, I made a mental note to look further into the Yorkshire dialect at Collect Britain.

As soon as I got home, I pulled out some flour and yeast to make some pizza dough. While it was rising, I went to the website, and met old Miss Dibnah (RIP) from Welwick, Yorkshire who picked up my pudding string and ran with it. Her lovely bread-baking riff really made me sit up when she gets to the part about making "Space bread".

I'm going straight to Welwick, Yorkshire. You Brits are amazing.

When I say you Brits are amazing, please don't let it go to your head. You say "mummy" instead of "mother" which makes me wonder---in the same etymological pudding vein---why you would call the one who gave birth to you and suckled you as a babe the same name as some dusty, funky, desiccated, lives-in-a-crypt thing that loves to spook people

Hitchcock (a Brit, naturally) took this "Tale of Two Mummies" idea to extremes when he made Psycho.

God save the Queen Mummy, who's coming to scare the bejezus out of you this summer.

11:45 AM  
Blogger Katherine said...

Ahhh, the Tam O'Shanter..., makes me think of golf.

Now, I'm not sure what you mean about not turning lights off in a dream?

8:14 PM  
Blogger Sue hardy-Dawson said...

Ah now I get you-

Dear Finn
My mummy is really called Nephateetee, lives in a gold casket and buys all her bandages from M&S is that so very wrong. Incidentaly my teenage son sleeps all day and only gets up at night does that mean he's a vampire?

worrid from yorkshire

8:16 PM  
Blogger finnegan said...


I used to practically live at the golf course when I was younger. In fact my home courses (Roosevelt, Harding and Wilson) were quite close to the Tam O'Shanter.

Have you ever been able to effect a light switch in your dreams---to make it dark?


Yes, yes and yes, you puddin' head you.

10:30 PM  
Blogger Perfect Virgo said...

We Brits are amazing - you heard it here first! Lord Finnegan, purveyor of truth has spoken. I mentioned cheese before bed some while ago but I know that is not the stimulus to your reveries. You have developed the art of steering your dreams along the highway of sleep and we passengers are the richer for joining you. (My favourite reference is your description of the breads with "finger-indented handles," a fertile night-thought.

11:44 PM  
Blogger peter said...

This is a cool picture

4:29 AM  
Blogger Cocaine Jesus said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

11:14 AM  
Blogger MAHARAJADHIRAJ said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

11:25 AM  
Blogger MAHARAJADHIRAJ said...

And did I tell you that I realised this a few days back... that reality is essentially a metaphor... for dreams... And that dreams are the 'original' form

12:02 PM  
Blogger MAHARAJADHIRAJ said...

And this is how it all connects... the island most likely is Patmos, that's where the Book of Revelations was revealed. Must have sumthing to do with the energy-field there, I'd think, much like the fumes at Delphi. The 'hell-raisin', bug-eyed, spark-shooting Nazi teacher' has probably not seen 'any' life, leave alone yours... so the sarcasm's lost on Miss Schaefer. Mortadella is deadmeat, literally... even if they tell you it's coz of the myrtle berries... but then it's also pinkier and yummier than the worst wurst... liver, blood and the other gory stuff. The bread canoe has journeyed through your intestines only to come out transubstantiated (yiiikes).
Bout them cheeses, I am confused, coz Parmesan's Italian and hard and the other two are Swiss and holey.
And Old Bucky I guess is upto his old tricks, riding his 10-dimensional Dymaxion creature on another spaceship that he now calls his earth.
---Your Dream Instructor :D
PS: BTW did you sleep hungry?

12:04 PM  
Blogger RuKsaK said...

there is something pornographic about that opening paragraph - cured meats and khaki trousers - the extreme of perversion.

This was somehow like reading the David Lynch version of The Brady Bunch.

What I'm saying is, in a roundabout, whoopee fashion - is this is [insert modifying expetive] brilliant.

3:08 PM  
Blogger Pincushion said...

I am a bit lost in all those mountains of cheese and if i want to smile a bit, i can't! my jaw has just been pulverised to smithreens by the dentist..and i too want to call out to my 'Mum' but in hindustani we call her 'Ma' too and i call her 'Aai'! but being in the south of london..i am a bit lost..as to what to say..

4:34 PM  
Blogger Katherine said...

Hi Finn,

I drive past/through the Harding Wilson course a couple of times a week. I did take golf classes there at one time.

I have had dreams about turning the light switches on and off, although as I recall it wasn't easy.

I've always felt one can do anything in a dream. I hope that there are no restrictions. :)

12:13 AM  
Blogger Maddy said...

mouth porn.

i felt a bit woozy in my
tummy with those graphic

you really enjoyed yourself
with this one....
entirely descriptive...
although not exactly betwitching...

did you write this before or
after dinner Finn?


3:57 AM  
Blogger Patry Francis said...

Bucky bread. I want some. Maybe a new marketing idea? Fuller would be proud!

5:32 PM  
Blogger Daniel, the Guy in the Desert said...

Patmos the aisle of the poxylipsy of John the divine Revelator?
Old women of great heart guiding us to the fuller revelation of the patterns of the universe as revealed by the brush salesman of God. Come and dine, my lad, for it's the marriage supper of the lamb(sausage).

7:10 AM  
Blogger Queen Neetee said...

Point taken my friend.
I have been royally told and shall return to my proper ways.

I've never doubted that The Finnster knows best.

8:01 AM  
Anonymous cooper said...

Dream confection pure and simple.

I ache for dreams such as these,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,or maybe just the ability to describe them as you do.

7:37 PM  
Blogger rgmb said...

I'm either losing my vision to old age or there's a Freudian slip in here somewhere because all I can read is "Fuckminster Booler", and I can't shake it!

Other than that, I have to run out now and make myself a sandwich.

5:15 AM  
Blogger finnegan said...


Purveyor of the truth? Lord Finn can barely pull up his socks in the morning.

But he is capable of putting along the Dream Highway with this busload of distinguised blog joy-riders---not the least of which is Perfect Virgo.

The finger-indented bread handles just begs for Freud to hitch a ride here.


Cool kid!


Wonder what was deleted.


Wonder what was deleted.


The dream-reality inversion idea is an ancient one---one of those mental constructs which opens up the ancient box of paradoxes.

Your academic dream dissection above sheds light on all the vivisectioned cold-cuts and spritual voids in the holy cheese. The hard-holey connection shouldn't confuse, but rather clarify. It seems obvious enough.

I'll opt for Patmos as well, since Daniel the guy in the desert has discombobulated the idea a: "Patmos the aisle of the poxylipsy of John the divine Revelator?" How can I argue with that?

Did I go to bed hungry? I gave Cocaine Jesus an extensive blow-by-blow in my comment above as to how this dream spread came about.

Much appreciate the lecture Professor Maharajadhiraj. Bon apetito.


Psycho-deli, khaki-trousered mortadella with hard cheesy-like substances chock full-o-holes and dementia pray-cocks. Perverted came to my mind as well. So did depraved, debauched and warped. *sigh".
But your putting my beloved Lynch in the same sentence with the Brady Bunch is the ne-plus-ultra of deviant. Thanks for the expletive-less adjective. I will not go hungry.


Aai and mum and ma all the same? I understand your confusion, especially in light of all the novacaine. If you'd like to eat at this spread, you'll need an oversized napkin. I will take the snapshots. Cheese!


I hope you drive past rather than ride through the courses, unless you're buggying around in an electric cart. Maybe the next pint-sized hybrid will be called "Fore!" instead of Ford.

Interesting you were able to turn lights on and off in your dream. But did the lights really go "out" or was it just a matter of you flipping the switch. I was referring to controlling the light which reveals the dream. It would be a paradox indeed if you were still able to retain the dream in total darkness. That would open my eyes faster than you could say: "Waking Finnegan".


Mouth porn? You've been eating at RuKsaK's Diner I presume. If so, did you sample any of his "shame on you" sweets? My favorite's the one called: "Just desserts".


The Bucky bread would be an earthy, edible Dymaxion version of his tetrahedron. I'm not sure if he'd be proud. Since he was a highly elliptical thinker, he might
respond like this quote (Yogi Berra?): "If he were alive, he'd be spinning in his grave".

7:58 AM  
Blogger Katherine said...

Hi Finn,

That's really interesting to me. Total darkness is a rare phenomenon, isn't it? I've had dreams of being in darkness and turning on a light (was a scary one) and I've had dreams of turning lights on and off with a pull chain and also just by willing them.

5:33 PM  
Blogger peter said...

A model of a head. Who wuold have thought of that.

6:04 PM  
Blogger MAHARAJADHIRAJ said...

How do you know I am not ancient and it was I who thought it up in them ancient times?
Specially since I am always getting the feeling that I've walked into someone else's dream or nightmare... it's bloody confusing. Like time's elliptical and that our view of reality like the dymaxion map needs to be cut and pasted differently. And thanks... but no thanks... I don't like lecturing... so if it sounded like that then I am So-Awry!

6:38 PM  
Blogger finnegan said...

Naturally there's no way of knowing it was or wasn't you. But the question then becomes "Who are you?"

The feeling of walking into someone else's dream is a common one. It's called "meshing dreams", or "mutual dreaming".

A friend of mine from Japan once related a story about his family who were desperate to find shelter after the bombing of Tokyo. As most of the central part of the city had been decimated, they found themselves seeking a place to stay in the far outskirts of the city.

They came upon a very large, old and uninhabited house with a thatched roof that dated back to medieval times.

The room his parents occupied had an ancient set of sliding drawers which were built into the wall, where they set the head of their bed.

From the very first night my friend's mother began having a nightmare about the drawer above her sliding out, from which slowly emerged two blue, corpse hands. The demonic hands, like claws, were attached to what seemed like severed arms. They would slowly lower themselves and begin choking her till she woke up in a cold sweat, terrified. She said nothing to her husband, thinking it would pass. But the exact same dream, unvaried went on night after night until she could bear it no longer.

Beside herself with terror, she recounted everything in detail to her husband, who immediately became mortified. He'd been having the same dream.

12:20 AM  
Blogger finnegan said...


If I gave the impression I thought you were "lecturing", it was absolutely not meant to be! I meant "lecture" in scholarly (not chiding) terms. It was the wrong choice of words on my part, clearly.

I somehow read your sign-off "Your dream professor" instead of "Your Dream Instructor" Maybe I was recalling Cambell Hall where I'd actually seen B.F. give a lecture/presentation/demonstration a short time before he died.

In any case, you should know that I'm here on a friendly and communicative basis, and that my tone is mostly jocular.

7:46 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Fantastic, absurd and repulsive. I've lost my appetite.

8:21 AM  
Blogger MAHARAJADHIRAJ said...

Thanks for explaining! As the American's say... No sweat, bro!! :D

4:24 PM  
Blogger boulies said...

I wondered how on earth you were going to bring us down from all of this. I mean, I was starving there for a while. But Bucky's sweaty pudding has put me off food for at least a week. But in your own crazy way you manage to bring this whole whirling, swirling piece into a place that makes some semblance of sense. I don't know how you do it. But your speaking of the energy of those ladies in relation to Buckminster's stage presence makes me think that he was the one orchestrating your dream from the beginning. Someone out there in the stratosphere must be, because I don't think one single human being on this earth could have this dream alone. Funny how so often your old teachers pop up in your dreams. They sure left an impression on you. It's great that you can get back at those you didn't like in your dream world by distorting them anywhich way you'd like. I wish I knew how to do that trick. I really liked the little sequence about your Aunt Mary. It was very touching.
Finney, I had fun riding this wild ride with you. Where can I buy a ticket to ride the next one?

3:41 AM  
Blogger finnegan said...


That's like a standing ovation. Muchas gracias.


Like the French say: "Pas perspiratiön".

7:44 AM  
Blogger GEL said...

Remind me never to read your dreams when I'm hungry!
The aFinnity I feel when I read your dreams would be reassuring if I was concerned about being too unconventional. Instead, I luxuriate in your deliciously composed word platters and roller coaster rides as I nod and marvel. It's one thing to dream like this. It's quite another to delineate such experiences with panache!

5:40 AM  
Blogger finnegan said...


I don't know that these dreams make even a semblance of "sense", but I do know what you're driving at. I have a different sort of understanding of Surrealism based on these writing experiments. It seems that no matter how chaotic and disjointed a situation becomes, if you work it over in the mind enough it will fashion something recognizable.

The comments section is a big part of what interests me. How does something so personal as a dream get "fed" (no pun intended) and processed by the reader? How does one English these scattershot happenings in a way that builds from the source and yet becomes something all its own? There's a certain built-in satisfaction/frustration factor (remembering yet not really grasping) that fuels all this.

Your sensing that Fuller himself was pulling the strings (a la Oz) is both funny and creepy. His real-life demonstrations with that collapsible dymaxion model made him seem like a slight-of-hand master. You might have dug to the roots of this with that insight.

Yes, my various teachers were instrumental in both turning me off and on to different subjects. That's pretty heady (and indelible) stuff. My confrontations with the dead (whether vengeful or benign) makes me wonder if they are not responding to my subconscious library of feelings and thoughts---like they have Googled my mind.

8:14 AM  
Blogger finnegan said...


"aFinnity". Ha ha that is a good one. Thanks for the unconventional comment full of panache.

7:44 PM  
Blogger floots said...

good to hear from you
(but now you gone)
i did ask you a question -
as kids
if queried on the whereabouts of
we said it was "up nick's arse in america" (which is where my old posts go)
but what did the phrase mean
please tell me

3:14 PM  
Blogger iamnasra said...

Okay Its been awhile since I came to see you...Wow what a dream its so insightful ...loved the way you write...

I have lost my blog so Im trying to update my circle of friends

7:17 AM  
Blogger sirbarrett said...

There's something strange about Miss Shaeffer. I feel sorry for her but afraid of her at the same time.

7:16 PM  
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