Dream 8: The Dreamed Dreaming

7/19/10

In a deep, maternal redwood forest, upstate somewhere in mountainous New York, the Fordham grads and I were visiting John Shanley for an afternoon of celebration and brotherly sentiment. One of the first things I saw at his house was a mammoth rock wall in his backyard, menacing because of its supreme height and ornery problems, but also enticing. I left my friends in a sprint and leapt up that wall, scaling it with macho ease, swinging, shifting my weight appropriately, going for that hold just out of my reach…shooting my legs out in front of me…rolling my shoulder to its elastic limits…stretching my fingers out, and grabbing on. I was thankful for all that I had learned, about myself and my body’s athletic potential, at the Rock Club in New Rochelle. And I was pretty sure that I was impressing everyone stories below me.

Randeep decides to follow after me and, being a jackass, wants to throw me off the wall. He pulls at my shirt, shaking and jostling me, and I start to lose my grip, when all of the sudden I feel very solid and grounded, like the rock, and freeing one hand from the hold, I grab Randeep by the arm, and yank him of that wall and fling him down to the ground. This was a shock to everyone, as Randeep is way taller than me and occasionally has unnatural strength on his side. Unfortunately, he landed on his face, and wasn’t moving much. FUCK! I thought, I really hurt him badly! So I rushed down to see him, oh man he hasn’t moved yet, his face was just smushed into the earth and his eyes were squinted, and I asked if he was alright. “Yeah,” he responded, “I’m fine.” Ah, forgiveness. We’re friends, after all.

At that moment, I realized that if he hadn’t been the one to fall, I would have, and I would have smashed my face into the concrete or whatever it was, and so I figured that my self-defense was justified. I was simply playing fair. I mean, I could have just resisted pushing him off the rock face, and been peaceful, but since Randeep was antagonizing me then he should have been prepared for retaliation. Not really the best moral to a story, but a just one.

Afterwards, I was in a German-style beer-garden lodge, literally a log cabin, with an anonymous friend of mine (I drew no sort of association between this character and anyone I really know, but if I had to choose one person, it would be my cousin Erick). We were in the basement of the lodge, and I was aware that someone, a large German man, was tailing me, or spying on me. I went upstairs to get some food and a beer, but as a precaution I texted Erick the ominous message, “Someone is following me upstairs…I might die.” I figured that was warning enough.

Upstairs, I was waiting at the bar for my order to be taken, and the shady figure sidled up next to me and said something…a pleasantry maybe, while slowly unzipping a large…white…broad… confidently sinister smile from his hard face. I don’t think I responded, I just ordered a bratwurst with sauerkraut and relish (although I really meant caramelized onions, in retrospect).

Walking over to the dining area, away from the gentleman whom I wasn’t sure was still surveilling me, I took a moment to admire the beautiful Aryan girls all around me: one in particular caught my attention, a tall, dimpled mädchen with short, curly blond hair, parted behind her ear in a little, ivory clip. She was dressed in 1950’s garb, like a child of WWII, and closely resembled a celebrity. Like a cross between Scarlett Johansson and Nicole Kidman, she was gorgeous. And the way she pursed her lips when she smiled, leaving no wrinkle but only smooth, plush cheeks and two little red curls...beautiful.

For whatever reason, I last found myself in a dark warehouse full of hipsters. At first I mingled a bit, scanning the building for anything interesting, peeking into musky rooms with carpets, rooms without carpets, rooms with lights and those without, rooms with kids on dirty mattresses, and decided that my time would be better spent if I found a quiet spot to be along and transcribe a dream that I had the other night.* So I grabbed a plastic folding chair, walked down some old stairs to an empty garage/kitchen, sat next to the sink, and finally got around to writing the following dream…

…In which my dream self, in the kitchen where I now leave him, transcribes Dream 7, also known as “Many Upsets!”

Comment: I actually dreamt Dream 7 a few days before Dream 8, but I had been lazy about transcribing it. It was only until Dream 8 occurred, wherein my dream self took the initiative to perform what I had neglected, that I realized I no longer had an excuse to put off the task. I am pleased with my subconscious for being so responsible, for keeping my waking self motivated and focused.

In a way, then, Dream 7 actually follows Dream 8, both chronologically and thematically! Read both as if my dream self actually dreamt Dream 7 some time before visiting the hipster dump.

Dream 7: Many Upsets

7/15/10

It was the end of the school year, and I was saying goodbye to all of my friends, as well as anyone I ever associated with. I walked through locker rooms, classrooms, quads, giving hugs and wishing well to everyone. One of my guy friends was on his laptop, and I approached him with a favor to ask: I wanted him to look up this Biggie Smalls song, one whose title was eluding my memory, but which I recall being very “soulful” and despondent, like Cam’Ron’s “Harlem Streets” or Jay-Z’s “Never Change.” I even could vaguely remember how the melody went, but despite all my efforts I could not put my finger on the title! So I was extremely frustrated, because I felt it was an appropriate theme to our final parting. Peter White came over and tried to extract some more details about the song from me, but it was no use. I was disappointed, but got over it. As I left, I especially made a point to say goodbye to all the girls I ever spoke to, giving them hugs and of course a big smile.

Ms. Rosenbluth, one of my teachers at the time, was preparing for a yacht cruise, but before leaving campus she appointed me with the responsibility of delivering her a particular apple from a specific location. Then she left, purse swinging over her shoulder. I found whatever apple she had left for me, took it, and headed to the boat where she would be waiting.

While crossing over the aluminum bridge from the dock to the deck, I took a bite from the apple. Upon inspecting the gap I created, I discovered that the apple had been stuffed with prescription pills and other illicit drugs! The whole pulpy inside of the apple was like a landfill of chemicals, and I must have been the drug mule! Looking up from the apple in my hand, I see Ms. Rosenbluth sitting among a group of adults, poised and somewhat aloof, expectant…then she notices me. I’m speechless, mouth open, chunks of apple and capsules falling from my jaw, eyes empty with fear, staring at her dumbly. She looks ready to jump overboard and slice my head off, but she can’t because she is in public and among company. I only speak the words, loud enough to transmit, “I’m getting you fired for this.”

Ms. Rosenbluth’s glare responds in opposition to this threat, but as she’s getting up, possibly to seize the evidence from my hands, I rush out, then run like mad in no particular direction, apple cupped in both hands now, legs knocking into each other more than actually striding, because I am a scared lunatic. I have to find campus security and report that my teacher was either a drug abuser or dealer, but that nevertheless she had to be stopped!

At this moment, my dream self is struck with the unshakable feeling that it had once, at some former time, either itself dreamt this very sequence, or awakenly prognosticated the incident. Even more bizarre, my dream self recalls the motives it prophesied for his actions. Whether the prophecy was self-fulfilling or predestined, is indeterminate.

I feel a sense of accomplishment and gratification in busting my teacher for drugs – a criminal. Approaching campus, I think it best to show the security guard the apple. Instead, the black woman in the booth happens to be a moron and / or poorly trained, because the first thing she does is pick out each pill from the fruit and put them all in a metal tin, then walks me over to the headquarters to deliver the drugs to her superior. I was beyond appalled…the stupid bitch had just totally DESTROYED my case, because it could no longer be easily proven that the drugs had come from the apple! Instead, the contents of the tin were just a juicy mess of medication that could have come from anywhere.I was dumbfounded, stammering to the head honcho as convincingly as I could about what I had witnessed, with this bitch humming next to me, holding all that my life was worth in a box. Nevertheless, I try to explain what had happened. He nods when I’m done, then grabs the container from the woman and walks into an office, where other old, white, authoritative-looking men are sitting.

Everything was jeopardized, and to freak me out even more, at that moment Ms. Rosenbluth slides urgently into the office, doesn’t notice me thank God, and enters the chief’s quarters, probably to turn the story around to incriminate me! I creep around the office, laying low, feeling like a convict myself, wondering what will happen next, when I catch the security boss sweeping the halls, looking for me. Taking a risk, I make myself present, and he looks relieved; they believed my story and arrested my teacher!

Then, I became horrified: I actually took a bite out of that laced apple…who knows how many drugs I ingested simultaneously, and what sort of awful things are happening to me??? Am I going to drop dead any moment, or get so high and screwed up that my brain liquefies? Shit, Shit! I run to the nurse’s office, goddammit they won’t even let me in, I have to wait for the receptionist to buzz me in, then when I finally get to her desk, no one is there and I’m told to wait?! WHAT! And then, a bunch of Asians drunk off their asses blunder in, one of them slurring that they just got wasted on a booze cruise, and their friend needed immediate attention. For some reason, I grant them this; I forsake my health to let total strangers receive medical attention before me…why?

Well, when I saw the sick kid in question, I almost felt like throwing up, and my sympathy for his plight was more extreme than my own. This kid’s mouth was protruding grotesquely, his jaw might have even been unhinged, because there was a blockage of vomit in his throat. For some reason, his puke had dammed up in his mouth, and he was choking. I could see that he was getting no oxygen, and took control of the situation. Prying open his mouth with my bear hands, I inspect the mass of chum that is blocked up all the way from the back of his throat, as if his stomach were reversing itself out his mouth. I had his friends hold his jaws open, grabbed a broomstick, and jammed the handle (which looked like a toothpick, relative to the unnaturally widened, stretched-open mouth) deep down in there, shoveling out what I could to free a passage to the lungs. After loosening up the upset - bile and pink undigested food – by scooping globs of it out from his taut lips, the kid could freely vomit the rest up on his own, and did so, everywhere. He puked up his own bodyweight I’m pretty sure, as his friends looked on in stupefaction. I just ran out of there…I finally had to take care of myself.

Wandering the ship, I find a lonely perch of railing looking over the dark violent blue waters and force everything in me overboard.

Switch scene: From the fourth floor of Walsh Library, during finals week, I must run down to the first for some reason. Passing through a section of desks, I see Brandon Smith, completely wasted, annihilated, sick. His friend, a female, is comforting and coaching him as he vomits into a wastebasket next to his desk. His vomit contains an unnatural amount of dental floss. I don’t think I say much to either of them. I continue on until I get to the first floor, pass the help desk, then exit the place, intent on something.

Dreams: Naming

At some point in the future, for the sake of diversification, classification, identification...
I plan to start naming my dreams in conjunction with arbitrarily indexing them! I'll even apply this to those I've already blogged.

Also, once I exhaust my hard disk's catalog of dreams, I might start digging into old journals for dream entries, so you'll start seeing dates from, like, my high school era. I also must start being diligent about chronicling current dreams, rather than letting them slip away. Lately, I haven't been writing them down because I felt comfortable knowing that I still have a bunch stowed away. But in the spirit of Thanksgiving, I feel generous today :}.

Dream 6: Skeletal Michael

6 / 24 / 10

            Aside from universal neglect and abuse, I believe Michael was afflicted with immortality. His age, race, was indeterminate. But he was  over six foot and weighed less than 70 pounds. However much your skeleton weighs, was Michael.

            Michael was essentially a human corpse, matter that seemed to want to implode on itself at any moment, the taut skin - where there was skin - peeling itself over every corner and line of his grotesque face, actually so tight that he could not sufficiently open his mouth to talk. Or maybe he had lost that ability, or never had it to begin with. I saw Michael on just another day of his life, he and I wishing he would die already.

            Being near him, I was horrified. Even more horrifying was what I saw happen to him. He had been flayed alive, or skinned, or just starved so badly that his skin tore in places where it was too weak to contain his bones, that when I saw him flopping on the ground, I thought he had turned inside out. Oh My God he was just writhing there, growling and shrieking in the street! His limbs were trembling, and though he was stuck in the fetal position, he trembled violently from his narrow core, tossing his fragile head against the ground, because it was all he could do. If he could think, he might have hoped to finally lose consciousness (from head trauma), but his mind was never so alive. Like an animal wounded in the road, I wish I could have just shot him in the head to end his misery. Profoundly I pitied him, and couldn’t accept that the world had let him become so afflicted.

            Cops and officers rushed in, carrying blankets made of some mucus-y material, like whale blubber, a gigantic skin graft of sorts, or life-size band-aid, for the man with no skin and only hunger. They were trying to scoop him off the ground with their net of flesh, yelling at him like a beast who barely spoke their own language, “Michael! Get in the blankets!” And he just writhed and moaned guttural horror from his chest, becoming more wretched every second. At last they got him in their membrane-sac, a body-bag, sealed him up except for the head, and carried him away. The tiny drum-hole where his mouth once might have been still cried, whistled really, and his eyes were strangely full, the only organs with any moisture left at all. I recall feeling the tiniest bit of relief, knowing that at least he’d finally get some sort of medical care after centuries of withering, but it might have been better for them to just put him under by then.

*An anecdote related to me a few days prior to this dream: An old man had a heart problem, and was told that he would live for only a few more years. The diagnosis was that he would suffer for a while, then die. His doctor, in an act of grace, recommended a pacemaker. In fact, the doctor would not see the old man again until he consented to order a pacemaker. A few months after using the device, the old man developed severe dementia. He would live much longer now, since his heart was being regulated, but his aging and decrepit wife would now have to suffer as she cared for her vegetable husband until her last days. The old man lived longer, but no longer lived in his mind, as a result of the greed of modern pharmaceutical agencies. See, the doctor who recommended the pacemaker was paid tens of thousands of dollars by the manufacturing company for each unit he sold. His interest was not in the welfare of his patient, but rather his personal salary. The old man lived another ten years, retarded as a baby and, after his wife died, alone.

**In retrospect, I am ashamed to have been so nihilistic in my dream towards the ‘Michael’ figure. I did feel “the tiniest bit of relief” at seeing him finally rescued, but I reasoned that, given his unfathomable condition, his suffering had been and would continue to be too much for a person to bear. I preferred the act of killing him quickly to end his suffering. Such is the decision of many in the real world, no doubt; to pull the plug on a loved one, or not. I apologize to anyone reading this if I seemed insensitive and cruel, but this question is heavily moral and certainly real. Out of remorse, I’ll also note that, were there a ‘Michael’ among us, which there must be somewhere, I’d only want to see him alive and nourished, restored back to health if possible.

Dream 5: Opportunistic

5/12/10

* A party occurs on campus, among other trivial things *

In the final scene, I land somewhat in a hurry on Central Park West, bags and all. I am just trying to get home with all the stuff I had accumulated. I approach the ATM on the sidewalk, and as it senses me coming towards it, it dispenses a single dollar. “Oh, no….” I think, “this is some sort of test, and I don’t need any more trouble. I won’t take it.” Trying to ignore the menacing dollar, I punch in my numbers and whatever, get my money, and head downstairs to the subway.

Abject despair in the underground. Before I even got to swipe, a wretched beast of a black man was curled over the turnstile, homeless and rotten. I couldn’t even see his face. He was moaning indecipherably, but it was obvious he just wanted some change, or a swipe. I thought I could almost hear him crying, and thought he might have been crying all day. It was at that moment that I realize I almost had a dollar for this man, if only I had cooperatively taken the one at the ATM. Certainly, I could not surrender to him one of my own dollars. Nevertheless, I had to keep going, to catch my train.

Making my way further into the station, when I get downstairs, a phantom of a costume of Michael Jackson is leering at me. It is as if he is wearing a mask, for he makes no discernible facial movements… only an exaggerated smile, empty eyes, pointy chin, following me with a swiveling neck that leers lubriciously in my direction. Though I am not too nervous, I retreat a bit when I ask him bluntly and timidly, “What... do you want?”

“THAT is the Question!” he shrieks in response! And satisfied, possibly with the existensialism of my curiosity, he climbs onto a slow-moving bicycle and squeaks away, morphing into a shadow of a phantom of a costume of the artist formerly known as Prince in the process. But this was not the last I would see of him.

As soon as I made it through the turnstile, the subway platform was no longer... instead now a circular rotating disk, like some haunted carousel ride, and I in the center. All scenery melted into dark shapes, purple and yellow fog, swirling around the spinning floor, suspending me in this tortured limbo. “I want to leave!” I desperately cry, and exit, spiraling outwards, towards the outer edge of the ring, where I see Michael again, pedaling from far away. I call to him… maybe he has an answer! But joker as he is, he turns himself into a grotesque caricature of Spongebob Squarepants, bloated and decrepit, and itself assuming a multitude of faces simultaneously. He was of no help.

Dream 4: Temporarily Blind at Camp

4/19/2010

At camp, Adrienne H. had just woken up, and I was amused by her general physical / hygienic disarray. As far as girls without their make-up go, she really was unrecognizable for a few moments, as every surface on her face seemed to bulge or recede in the wrong places. She said a few things to me while looking over her shoulder and walking away, as if I were more of an afterthought than the words she spoke, and flitted away across the wooden floorboards in her nightgown. I watched her disappear through a door, and approached the door to follow. As I reached for the doorknob, a glint of light caught my eye, and my sight followed that glint as it sort of floated near my left shoulder. Upon closer inspection, the tiny shimmer looked to be either one of those cotton tufts that blow around in the Spring, or, even stranger, a small, silver, spinning coin.

Disinterested, I swatted the spinning coin with my hand, away from me, and proceeded to open the door to follow Adrienne. But then something struck my neck! It felt as if someone had come up behind me and jabbed the right side of my neck, or launched a blunt projectile at it. Seeing nothing around me, I realized that what I had previously swatted was an actual fairy, like Tinkerbell, and in retaliation she had attacked me! Although I suffered no physical injury beyond the immediate discomfort, matters soon became worse, as I lost my sight completely.

I was blind! The fairy had evidently put a curse on me, as a punishment for my aggression.

Now that everything was pitch black, I got real scared. I didn’t want to be blind!

But I didn’t believe I was truly, irreversibly blind either…I didn’t want to believe it! So I pushed and tumbled towards where I thought the door to the outside porch would be, because I was panicking and, like most people, I needed to get to an open space where I wouldn’t feel confined and threatened.

Stepping lightly, I felt my way around bed posts - round, brass bed posts, cold to the touch. The wooden floors were also cold, it was so early that morning. Nervous, I found the porch door, a wooden frame loose with age and decay. I considered that only the room had become dark, and once I opened the door, light would naturally pour in, my salvation. Pulling the door open, inwards…nothing. I still saw black, forever in front of me.

Until, the black grew into deep blue, through the glass pane of the secondary screen door. Then a brighter shade of blue! Then white streaks! It was morning rising, and I could see! I could see the woods beneath the house - the trees of Savannah, Georgia - and the dog, the yellow lab that was jumping up to lick my face!

Standing there in my shorts, I could see again. The dog greeted me…my opening the door let him in, and let me out.

Idea: Immersion Series: Prayer Position: 2nd Edition

See: Immersion Series: Prayer Position

Here is an adaptation of the original "Prayer Position" series, I guess you can call it an exhibition.

Background: Influences include: the stigma against capitalism in indie culture; the fact that I am currently reading American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis.

Execution: The gallery should be one room, with very small dimensions. Like, comfortably fitting 5 standing adults. The walls should be dark, if not black, and little light should be entering the room from the outside (perhaps by means of curtains). The only light in the room will come from little, hot spotlights, one for each wall (on which will hang a portrait). Though I place an emphasis on the minuteness (possibly concealed) of the spotlights, stark lighting is ideal.

On each of the four walls, in the tiny room, will hang a LARGE, that is, Larger than Life-Size, photograph of a "model" businessman: slick two-piece suit; side part (or some other sophisticated style); expensive, dark jacket; expensive accessories (Rolex, nonprescription designer lenses, cuff links); perfect complexion; perfect teeth; etc. Like the original Prayer Position series, each of the four men are joining hands, although each man is in a separate frame. All aspects of the photo should be very flattering. The men are radiant, jubilant, proud, ecstatic about something, their heads seeming to toss back in rapture as they pray. Actually, their posture should really evoke the action of two people holding hands and spinning themselves dizzy, as done by kids on a playground. As if they are dancing like lunatics around...a pile of gold bricks? I'm extrapolating. But these are exactly the expressions I need in their faces: pure joy.

Although one might think the men are making themselves dizzy, the background should be still. Floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over a vast city, behind all four portrait subjects. The viewer must know that these man stand in the highest room of the tallest building in the city. It is a beautiful, clear blue day. On the walls behind the men hang plaques, diplomas, clocks, whatever might be in the office of a big-shot CEO. The decor should scream wealth, although I stress that for the most part there is window.

Other Specs: These "portraits" are photographs, and in order to intensify the larger-than-life aspect of these businessmen and really intimidate / awe the audience, the photos should be taken from approximately chest-level of the subjects, so that they are (just a little bit) looming over the viewer.

I request the walls of the gallery room to be dark and "starkly lit," so that an occult energy complements the expressions and motions of the praying businessmen. It makes these men, so self-important and invaluable to their company, the supreme point of focus, satiating their vanity.

Immersion Effect: Again, the audience has the option to feel like either (a) part of the circle or (b) the idol in the center. Or (c) The audience could also imagine that they are being mocked or derided by the subjects, the victims and objects of superciliousness / hubris.

The gallery room must be VERY small, I stress, so that one wall only fits one 8' x 6' (High x Wide) portrait. This way, there is a cap on the number of businessmen included in the circle, suggesting the exclusivity and cliquishness of these high-profile corporate positions.