tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69549190460813876832023-11-15T05:25:24.594-08:00...then i woke upa collection of rand's dreams, updated infrequentlyrandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954919046081387683.post-21221839996742018722007-10-08T09:58:00.000-07:002007-10-08T10:08:30.145-07:00Glass House Blue Goat Art DinnerI'm standing in an apartment.<br /><br />My friend Stuart is there.<br /><br />The apartment belongs to Mark Chester, a San Francisco photographer.<br /><br />For some reason unknown to Stuart and I, we are visiting Mark.<br /><br />We walk through the apartment and it is rather odd. Around the place are Mark's personal belongings, photography equipment and the like. However, the place itself is a strange construction.<br /><br />The apartment is a kind of "loft" that takes up the whole top floor of a building. The building is in the shape of a "u".<br /><br />The walls of the building are made of glass and we can see outside. In the middle of the "u" of the building is another "u" shaped building that is similar constructed and, inside that one, another smaller "u" shaped building. All have glass walls and I can stand in Mark's apartment and see into and through all the others.<br /><br />I comment on the apartments and think they're interesting - they seem so open and there's so much light. I see inside the other apartments on the same floor as Mark's place and see some covered furniture, but they mostly look empty. I ask Mark if anyone lives there.<br /><br />"They're away now," Mark says.<br /><br />Stuart and I continue to walk around Mark's apartment as he tells us about the place. I wonder what he's doing with his photography now, but he doesn't seem to be interested in talking about that.<br /><br />I look outside and it's getting to be late afternoon. Stuart and I are both feeling hungry, so we decide to go eat.<br /><br />We say goodbye to Mark, open a door at one end of Mark's apartment and start walking down stairs.<br /><br />Down and down we walk, around and around the stairway.<br /><br />We pass by different apartments, which all have glass walls. The building must have thirty floors, but the whole place seems empty.<br /><br />Outside, I see rolling hills and meadows.<br /><br />I comment to Stuart that moving from San Francisco to Maine must have been a culture shock for Mark and Stuart laughs.<br /><br />Soon, we reach the ground floor and open a door to the outside.<br /><br />It's a beautiful place - lush grass, flowers - and it feels like Spring. There are a few birds chirping here and there.<br /><br />As we walk, we pass by a field where there are about a half-dozen goats grazing. A couple of them bleat at us as we pass by.<br /><br />The goats are blue.<br /><br />Bright, primary-colored blue with white patches.<br /><br />"I've never seen blue goats before," I comment.<br /><br />"It's a special breed," Stuart says.<br /><br />"You mean they're not painted or something?"<br /><br />"No," Stuart says, "that's their natural coloring."<br /><br />Soon we come to a small wood building under some trees.<br /><br />A wood carved sign outside the place reads "Blue Goat Cafe".<br /><br />We step inside and it's a kind of rustic place; it looks something like a log home on the inside with wood walls and a stone fireplace.<br /><br />It's still a little early and the place hasn't opened or is getting ready to open for dinner. So we look for a menu as we wait for someone to show us to our table.<br /><br />On a little stand, there's a thick box that looks something like a book. It contains the menu for the place. The cover is hand-crafted leather, dyed blue, similar to the goats.<br /><br />I open the cover and see that the menu is some type of mechanical thing. I push a button in the lower right corner and it shows different meal options on little rotating banners, similar to the changeable signs they have at drive-through restaurants.<br /><br />By reading the menu, I discover that we're on the campus of Glaxo Smith Kline Arts University in Maine and that the campus was formerly called the "University of Maine" until the company bought the naming rights to the school.<br /><br />The menu is quite strange. Each week's menu is different. The food and options are chosen by a committee of art students at the school each week and work on a theme.<br /><br />This weeks theme is "I Ran So Far Away: Cultural Constructions of War" and each meal you can get is designed to be a statement about the Iraq War.<br /><br />The meals don't actually contain food - the idea is that you are seated at a table and brought some drinks and some type of artwork (sculptures, paintings, etc) as your "meal". One, for example, consisted entirely of Lego constructions - an appetizer of little figures representing Congresspeople having a hearing, an entree of an Iraq battle scene, and a dessert of little Lego coffins covered in flags.<br /><br />Next week's theme was to be "Race, Gender and Identity in Glass Houses".<br /><br />"This doesn't sound very good, Stuart," I said. "Do you want to see if there's a burger joint around."<br /><br />Stuart peered through his reading glasses at the menu, smiled and laughed.<br /><br />"Yeah," he said, "let's get a burger."<br /><br />And then I woke up.randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954919046081387683.post-13295464419176605752007-07-24T05:42:00.000-07:002007-08-10T12:18:31.953-07:00Red Rum Bicycle Space PlanetI'm at work.<br /><br />I'm not in my cubicle in the library or anything resembling the university where I work in real life. This place looks something like a hotel complex.<br /><br />But it's not like a traditional building.<br /><br />The walls, windows and floor have the contours of nature, almost as if this were a natural space. There are trees, foliage and grass, but spots might be filled in with an odd-shaped window or there might be a light fixture protruding from a boulder.<br /><br />I am in a room that resembles the layout of a bar. I sit at the bar working on some paperwork.<br /><br />My old friend from grade school, Scott, is sitting next to me.<br /><br />We talk about old times. He's working for the university now.<br /><br />Scott is now blind. He tells me a story about how he saw someone murdered at the university by a gunman on a bicycle. He describes the man - overweight, shaved head, acting somewhat retarded, riding a teenager's bicycle.<br /><br />For some reason that isn't quite clear, Scott tells me that he felt a pain in his eyes and he hasn't been able to see since then. I feel sad for him.<br /><br />Scott changes the subject, talking about a project we are working on.<br /><br />The room was already crowded when I first found myself sitting at the bar. Now, it seems stifling - people keep coming into the room. They are everywhere.<br /><br />There are more and more people trying to sit at the bar. Some people in the room sit in chairs with notepads in their lap; others stand, holding computers and talking on cell phones.<br /><br />The cacophony and press of the people feels overwhelming.<br /><br />I have to get out.<br /><br />I push my way through the crowd, trying to move towards an exit.<br /><br />Soon, I find myself in a corridor and another area that resembles a conference room, full of people. Then, I am in something like a large cafeteria, again, completely filled with people.<br /><br />I look out a large window in the moss-covered rock walls. I long for the open space outside.<br /><br />As I look, I notice that we were moving. The ocean surrounds us and there's a landmass in the distance.<br /><br />As I listen to snatches of conversation, I begin to understand that my workplace is a kind of floating island - it must be five miles long. All of us have been placed on this "ship" to work for a period of a few months as the "ship" makes it's voyage.<br /><br />I finally make my way towards a door and open it. The door closes behind me.<br /><br />I am outside - it is steamy hot, the kind of humid tropical weather so typical of the South in late Summer. I smell the ocean. It is finally quiet; the only sound are the waves lapping against the side of the vessel.<br /><br />I am on a path that leads to a tall building, just up the hill. I feel I need a walk and some time to think, so I start walking and follow the path.<br /><br />Eventually, I come to the building and go inside.<br /><br />It is the hospital side of the campus. There are large, roomy hallways and rooms. I walk and walk, not seeing any people in the building. It seems deserted. There are no windows in any of the rooms.<br /><br />I think I should get back to work. I make a turn and find myself at two large double doors. Through windows in the door, I see the path that brought me to the building. But, outside, it is night - the sun was gone and there are two moons hanging high in the sky. It is snowing and some of the snow has drifted in the path.<br /><br />I try opening the door, but it is locked.<br /><br />"You shouldn't go out there, you know."<br /><br />It hear a voice behind me.<br /><br />I turn and see a woman, dressed in a nurse's uniform.<br /><br />"This planet doesn't work like yours," she says.<br /><br />There is a small compartment next to the door; the nurse opens it and takes out a space suit. She offers it to me.<br /><br />"You'll need this," she says.<br /><br />I take the space suit and look down at it, confused. I look up and the nurse is gone.<br /><br />I put on the space suit, struggling to make it fit over my clothing and carefully placing the helmet on my head.<br /><br />The helmet locks in place and some lights on the helmet and suit come on. I can hear the suit steadily pumping oxygen to me.<br /><br />With the suit fully on, I try the door again and it opens.<br /><br />I slowly and carefully walk outside.<br /><br />It is difficult to walk - the gravity has changed and I have to struggle to take steps. If I move too quickly, I begin to float.<br /><br />The wind blows hard and snow comes from somewhere. There are no clouds in the sky and I can clearly see the stars and the two moons.<br /><br />Finally, I come to the building that I started from. I open two metal doors, step in and they close behind me.<br /><br />I am in a tiny room, almost like a decompression chamber.<br /><br />I take off the space suit and move forward through another set of doors.<br /><br />I am back in the room that looks like a bar. It is still packed with people, but the room is dark and quiet - everyone is asleep on the floor, in chairs, or leaning over on the bar.<br /><br />I quietly walk around the room, looking at the people and trying to understand.<br /><br />Then, I see it - through the window.<br /><br />There is a man with a shaved head, wearing a short sleeved t-shirt with large red and white stripes. He looks to be about forty. He acts as if he were retarded in some way. He is riding a teenager's "banana seat" bicycle on a path outside the window.<br /><br />It is the murderer that Scott had seen.<br /><br />I duck down, peeking out at him from the corner of the window.<br /><br />He stops, looks in the window, and takes a rifle out of a pouch hanging from the handlebars of his bike.<br /><br />He aims and shoots, breaking a hole in the thick glass of the window, the cold air rushs in. I turn and see a man that was sleeping at the bar; he has been shot and is dead. No one in the room moves or wakes up.<br /><br />The man on the bicycle presses another button near the trigger of the rifle and a bright red light comes from the barrel of the gun - it is some kind of high-powered red laser.<br /><br />On the moss covered rock wall, he slowly etches a message, letter by letter.<br /><br />It reads "RED RUM".<br /><br />He puts away the rifle and peddles away.<br /><br />Then I woke up.<br /><br />rand<br /><br /><i>Update, 7/30/2007: I told this dream to a friend last night who noted that it mixes up themes and images from three different Stanley Kubrick movies - "2001", "Clockwork Orange" and "The Shining". I hadn't noticed that... </i>randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954919046081387683.post-18349544089283583202007-06-28T05:31:00.000-07:002007-08-10T12:19:26.386-07:00Hermeneutic World's Fair AvatarsI am at a conference.<br /><br />I'm in a large meeting room space. People mill about, waiting for the session to start. A series of PowerPoint slides are shown on two large screens at the front of the room.<br /><br />According to one slide, this a conference on Race and Class Issues in the Hermeneutics of Genomic Virtual Spaces.<br /><br />It is being organized by my employer. My boss is supposed to give the first presentation, but she isn't there.<br /><br />She has given me a copy of her PowerPoint slides so that I can give the presentation. But I am also aware that she has given the slides to six other people and told each of them to give the presentation as well.<br /><br />I stand at the back of the room, rather uninterested and uninvolved in the whole thing.<br /><br />An administrator from the university stands up and brings the crowd to order. As people take their seats, she begins to speak, going through my boss's presentation.<br /><br />The crowd becomes restless, shifting in their chairs, coughing and looking over the program.<br /><br />A couple of people in the crowd float away.<br /><br />Then a few more. And a few more.<br /><br />Soon, only five or six people are left in the room; the rest have floated away through the ceiling and disappeared.<br /><br />I notice that the people in the room are strange - some are real people, while others are Second Life avatars.<br /><br />The administrator stops the presentation, a little unnerved, and announces that the conference is canceled.<br /><br />I walk out of the conference room. It appears that I am in some kind of high-tech hotel. There are little Internet kiosks scattered here and there and a few people - both real and Second Life avatars - wandering around or chatting with each other. Some have devices resembling iPhones or laptops; others have devices that look like something out of the 1960s version of 'Star Trek'.<br /><br />Both the "real" people and the avatars have little "bubbles" that appear over their heads as they chat, indicating what they were saying, sort of like instant messaging.<br /><br />There are walls made out of glass or some other material, from floor to ceiling, that allow me to see outside. The hotel is part of some type of large complex with futuristic buildings. Outside one wall, I can see something that looks like the Biosphere; going down the hall further, I can see buildings that resemble the Trylon and Perisphere from the 1939 New York Word's Fair. Beyond that is a structure that looks like the Eiffel Tower.<br /><br />I continue walking and come to a large door with a space on it to place my hand - I put my palm on the device on the door and it beeps and blurps, opening automatically with other assorted technology noises.<br /><br />I walk into a large, multi-story hotel suite as the door closes behind me. The place looks run down and dilapidated, much like it hadn't been remodeled since the 1980's. There are people there, but they don't seem to pay any attention to me. They look like tourists and have eighties hairstyles and clothing.<br /><br />I walk up a flight of steps to the second floor of the hotel suite. I go around a corner and suddenly find myself in a small, dimly lit room.<br /><br />"This way," a man says.<br /><br />The man is dressed in a kind of uniform. There are other men around me.<br /><br />We are all dressed in older-style suits and ties. We wear fedoras with a small card in the headband of the hat that reads "PRESS".<br /><br />The man in the uniform is conducting a tour.<br /><br />He directs our attention to a window on the wall. But it isn't a window - it's a one-way mirror that allows us to look into a large auditorium filled with people.<br /><br />There are dozens and dozens of people in the auditorium - men, women and children of all ages. Each is dressed in 1930's clothing. They sit in the audience, listening to a man on stage addressing them. He is dressed in modern clothing.<br /><br />The tour guide explains that these people all went to sleep in a kind of suspended animation at the end of the 1939 New York World's Fair. They are being updated on what had happened in the world since they had been asleep.<br /><br />The guide notes that this group of people first went into suspended animation at the Columbian Exhibition in Chicago in the 1890's and they wake up during each world's fair.<br /><br />For some reason not understood by scientists, they slept through the New York 64 World's Fair, Expo 66 and the Knoxville World's Fair.<br /><br />The speaker in the auditorium shows them objects and technology of 2007, explaining how the things worked.<br /><br />The audience seems interested, but not very animated.<br /><br />The speaker tells them about advances in television - that there are now over 500 channels available and that there are big tv's that look like movie screens that hang on the wall of the average American home.<br /><br />The crowd seems surprised. They talk to each other excitedly and enthusiastically applaud.<br /><br />And then I woke up.randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954919046081387683.post-2435744616912722152006-05-31T07:12:00.000-07:002008-05-21T07:13:59.526-07:00Telephone loop numbersIt's about 4:00 in the morning. I'm awake. I can't sleep.<br /><br />I get out of bed.<br /><br />I'm in my apartment.<br /><br />Well, it's sort of my apartment - it looks a little like where I live, but is much nicer.<br /><br />The moonlight streams in through the windows, creating a kind of strange, blue glow.<br /><br />The telephone rings.<br /><br />I walk over and pick it up.<br /><br />A female voice speaks on the other end. It is a recording.<br /><br />"The last number called from this phone was 590-1520," it says.<br /><br />Then, she hangs up.<br /><br />I pause for a moment. I hang up the phone and dial the number - 590-1520.<br /><br />The phone rings on the other end. It's the female voice again.<br /><br />"The last number called from this phone was 590-1520."<br /><br />I pause for a moment. I hang up the phone and dial the number again.<br /><br />There's a ring and the voice answers again.<br /><br />"The last number called from this phone was 590-1520,"<br /><br />I pause and, again, hang up the phone and dial the number.<br /><br />The phone rings and the female recording speaks.<br /><br />"Please hang up and go do something else."<br /><br />Then I woke up.randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954919046081387683.post-17180480673223716632005-06-15T06:01:00.000-07:002007-07-30T07:04:11.020-07:00Flashdance reunion movie drag queenI'm sitting in a crowded movie theater.<br /><br />I talk with other people there as a film starts; this is a special showing of a movie that came out when I was in high school or college, sometime in the 1980's. Some of us, including me, appeared as extras in the movie.<br /><br />The movie is a musical and looks something like "Flashdance" except that it takes place in a high school. It has lots of disaffected punk kids in it -- sort of like "Flashdance" meets the Sex Pistols on the set of "Grease".<br /><br />As the movie progress, people in the crowd gasp and say "Oh my <i>gawd</i>" or clap and cheer when they see themselves on screen. Some groan at their bad hairstyles.<br /><br />At one point in the movie, there's a big dance number that takes place in what looks like a nightclub.<br /><br />People in the audience get up from their seats and walk into the screen. I join them.<br /><br />I find myself wandering around the nightclub in the movie -- everything around me has film grain and scratches, like a movie come to life.<br /><br />I wander through this multistory nightclub, moving in and out of the crowd, listening to the synthesizer-based 80's pop music blaring and seeing the lights flash and pulse all around me.<br /><br />I am at the edge of what looks like a gymnasium floor. It is empty, people crowded around the periphery of it. The music plays, the lights are all around.<br /><br />A spotlight points at me.<br /><br />Next to me is a drag queen I used to know, Monica Marlowe.<br /><br />"You should dance," she says.<br /><br />"No," I say, a little embarrassed. "If I went out there and danced, I might run into myself. It would tear apart the whole space-time continuum of this dream."<br /><br />Then I woke up.randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954919046081387683.post-72830168534189898452005-05-27T06:06:00.000-07:002007-07-24T06:07:55.876-07:00Squirrel Chestnut FootballI am standing in the middle of a football stadium.<br /><br />But this isn't a real football stadium.<br /><br />It appears to be a giant board game.<br /><br />I see people in the crowd, the grass, and the lines on the field all are painted flat on cardboard. There’s a large plastic orange goalpost up ahead.<br /><br />I hear the sound of a whistle, the rumbling of the crowd, and a PA announcer. The sounds are tinny, like a speaker on a small electronic game.<br /><br />"Hut! hut!"<br /><br />A player throws me the ball.<br /><br />The ball is a chestnut, the size of a football.<br /><br />The other players are squirrels, as tall as I am, running and bobbing about on their hind legs. They are dressed in blue and red football uniforms.<br /><br />I run, dodging the squirrels, left and right, as I make my way up the field.<br /><br />I am supposed to pass the chestnut, but I don't know which player to throw it to.<br /><br />I'm confused.<br /><br />I throw the chestnut high into the air.<br /><br />It bursts into a flurry of fireworks bright white, red, blue and green.<br /><br />I hear the sound of the tinny speaker crackle. The crowd goes wild.<br /><br />Then I woke up.randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954919046081387683.post-56280855056678298502005-05-23T06:08:00.000-07:002007-07-24T06:09:37.408-07:00Mental Institution ChakrasI am in a tall apartment building in a city. My friends Stuart and Gil are walking through a hallway next to me.<br /><br />We pass several rooms. The lighting is dim, the tiles faded and broken, the walls a dingy grey.<br /><br />Gil knocks on the door of one of the rooms. After a moment, his ex-boyfriend Mitch opens the door and invites us in.<br /><br />We enter and Mitch sits down in a chair in the middle of this dark, simply furnished room.<br /><br />We are not in an apartment building.<br /><br />This is a mental institution. Mitch is a patient there.<br /><br />"How are you doing?" Gil asks.<br /><br />"Fine," Mitch replies, flatly.<br /><br />As they talk, I look around the room.<br /><br />There is a bed, neatly made in one corner. Along a wall is a set of bookshelves. They are empty.<br /><br />A single light is in the room, next to the chair Mitch is sitting in.<br /><br />On the floor at Mitch's left is a small round basket. I bend down and look inside.<br /><br />It contains small cheap toys you might find in a joke shop. There are Chinese handcuffs, fortune telling fish and little toys that would light up and make sounds.<br /><br />"Take one," Mitch says to me, "Everyone who visits here gets one."<br /><br />Gil, Stuart and I reach into the basket and we each take a toy.<br /><br />"We'd better be going," Gil says.<br /><br />Gil gives Mitch a hug as we step into the hallway and Mitch closes the door behind us.<br /><br />We walk to the end of the hallway to a large metal door, painted white. It leads to the exit outside.<br /><br />We open it and go down several flights of stairs.<br /><br />Finally, we come upon a corridor. At the far end of the corridor is another large metal door.<br /><br />The corridor is dimly lit, resembling a utility room. It has electrical switch-boxes and exposed metal pipes. We hear the sounds of the steam room nearby, the heating system hissing and churning liquids through the pipes.<br /><br />Along the left and right of the corridor are large glass aquariums, several feet high, towering over us.<br /><br />I feel a chill.<br /><br />We walk down the corridor and I look inside the aquariums.<br /><br />They have a layer of dirt inside and, on top of the dirt, are these large pulsating beings. They are brown and dull orange, round, like a beach ball, covered with dirt and slime.<br /><br />They pulsate and move on their own; some are stuck to the sides of the dirty aquariums.<br /><br />I find them repulsive.<br /><br />A man is there on a small wooden stepladder. He has a bucket of dirt and slime and he pours it into one of the aquariums, feeding the beings.<br /><br />"What are these?" I ask.<br /><br />"They're chakras," the man replies, "Some people keep them as pets."<br /><br />"Would you like to have one?" he asks.<br /><br />"No," I say.<br /><br />Then I woke up.randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954919046081387683.post-86843305585148835162005-05-22T06:10:00.000-07:002007-08-10T12:21:29.922-07:00Czechoslovakian Bathroom Weather ReportI am in a hallway in a school. It is similar to the elementary school I attended.<br /><br />It seems older, with narrow halls, lots of wood trim and many classrooms. There are worn tile floors and walls painted in dull, unappealing institutional colors.<br /><br />There are college students everywhere, studying for some type of final exam. They sit in the classrooms at creaky wooden desks and tables. They sit in the floors in the hallways and in doorways. I have to step over them as I walk.<br /><br />They read textbooks and their notes in silence. I watch them as I slowly walk around the hallways, hearing only an occasional cough, the turning of a page, or squeak of a highlighter drawn across the text of a book.<br /><br />I am supposed to help the students if they have a question.<br /><br />I have an urge to go to the bathroom.<br /><br />I really need to go to the bathroom. Now.<br /><br />I walk down the hallway to a large dark wooden door. I turn the brass doorknob and walk inside.<br /><br />The room I enter is very spacious with high ceilings. There are large older styled windows with worn wooden trim.<br /><br />Czechoslovak flags, dozens of them, are draped all around the ceiling.<br /><br />The room is filled with rows of wooden bathroom stalls. I walk to one and open the door, hearing the spring on it creak.<br /><br />I step inside and the door shuts behind me. I notice there are no walls separating one stall from another. To my left and right is a row of older-styled toilets, a wooden door in front of each one.<br /><br />Other people are there, sitting on some of the toilets. They look straight ahead, blankly, sitting in silence. One person reads a newspaper, slowly turning the pages.<br /><br />Some of the people are women; some are men.<br /><br />I don’t seem to be concerned about them.<br /><br />I unzip my pants and take a leak, the sound of the flowing water echoing in the large room. I flush the toilet.<br /><br />I turn around, open the stall and walk back out into the hallway.<br /><br />I look back at the door of the bathroom.<br /><br />A fancy brass plague is on the center of the door.<br /><br />"This restroom donated by the Republic of Czechoslovakia," it reads.<br /><br />I continue walking through the hallway. The students are still there, studying quietly.<br /><br />Once in a while, one of the students asks me a question.<br /><br />I point to something in their notes or their book.<br /><br />“Try that,” I say.<br /><br />In a corner of one hallway is a classroom. I walk inside, stepping over the students studying on the floor.<br /><br />I see a television mounted in the corner of the room. It is tuned to CNN.<br /><br />The students crowded in the room continue studying and pay no attention to it.<br /><br />On the television, a man stands pointing at a map, giving a weather forecast.<br /><br />"In this area of the country, it will be sunny and mild. But we’re also expecting a slight chance of inter-dimensional shifts," he says, pointing at the east coast.<br /><br />I walk further into the classroom to a desk sitting next to a window.<br /><br />A student sits there, graphing some type of mathematics problem on an old computer. He seems frustrated, his brow tensed, concentrating and adjusting his glasses.<br /><br />He looks up at me.<br /><br />“What should I do?” he asks.<br /><br />I point at the graph on the computer screen.<br /><br />“Try that point,” I say.<br /><br />The student types something into the keyboard. The screen of the computer slowly refreshes, redrawing the graph.<br /><br />The graph forms a perfect circle on the screen.<br /><br />I hear a loud clap of thunder.<br /><br />One of the students in the middle of the classroom stands up from his desk. He points at the window next to me.<br /><br />“Look!” he yells, “It’s the Swiss Alps!”<br /><br />I turn and look out the window.<br /><br />Strange clouds and fog are moving into the schoolyard.<br /><br />In the distance, I see the Alps, surrounded by heavy clouds. It is slowly drifting towards us.<br /><br />Then I woke up.randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954919046081387683.post-49379653798496184032005-05-20T06:45:00.000-07:002007-07-24T06:57:58.185-07:00Hometown Shredded Paper BoyfriendI walk down the streets of the small rural town I grew up in.<br /><br />It has the same kind of small town feel that it had when I was growing up. It is early fall, a chill in the air, bright warm sun, and the slight scent of burning leaves are in the air.<br /><br />As I walk down the street, I run into a man. We know each other.<br /><br />We are surprised to see each other here.<br /><br />I am living back in my hometown. He is visiting from another place. We had a relationship at some point and split up. We haven’t seen each other in years.<br /><br />We talk for a few minutes, the kind of things two people who haven't seen each other in a long time might say to each other.<br /><br />He is a rather odd man, sort of a combination of all the men I have ever been in a relationship with.<br /><br />I ask if he still lives out west.<br /><br />“Yes,” he says.<br /><br />“Maybe I can come by for a visit sometime,” I say. “How long does it take to get there?”<br /><br />“Oh … a long time,” he replies.<br /><br />"How long will you be in town?" I ask.<br /><br />"Just a few days.”<br /><br />"I'd like to see you again," I say.<br /><br />"Yeah," he said, "I'd like to see you."<br /><br />We walk our separate ways.<br /><br />I feel funny -- a kind of chill you get from this kind of unexpected encounter and, at the same time, an immense sadness.<br /><br />I think about how much I miss him.<br /><br />I am hiking in the woods with the man, the fallen leaves crunching under our feet as we walk.<br /><br />About halfway up a mountain, we come upon a large field of wheat. I look down and see a beautiful valley below us.<br /><br />"Why did we ever split up?" I ask.<br /><br />We stop walking. He thinks for a moment, sadness in his eyes.<br /><br />"Things don't work out sometimes,” he says.<br /><br />We both stand there for a moment, a little awkward, not looking at each other. A slight breeze stirs up the leaves; I look at the clear, blue sky and feel the chill in the air.<br /><br />"I miss you, you know," I say.<br /><br />"I miss you, too," he says, reaching out his hand and putting it around my shoulder.<br /><br />I place my hand on his back and snuggle up to him. We start walking again.<br /><br />I am sitting at a desk in my house in the mountains. It is evening. There is a small fire in the fireplace.<br /><br />I am sorting through some papers, throwing some of them away and shredding others.<br /><br />A cute little kitten is on the floor, playing with some of the shredded papers.<br /><br />I think about him again.<br /><br />I wish he was here.<br /><br />Then I woke up.randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954919046081387683.post-87396318366199561342005-05-20T06:13:00.000-07:002007-07-24T06:59:34.052-07:00Bleach-Blonde Performance Artists Collective DisasterI am at work at my university ... but it isn't my university.<br /><br />My co-workers and I are in a building something like the student center on campus, combined with a fine arts center I used to work in at a different university.<br /><br />Our offices are in little cubicles in rooms that seem older than the rest of the building; they have big wooden doors and bright open windows all around the space.<br /><br />It is a sunny day and the warmth of the sun streams in upon us.<br /><br />My boss is there, conducting a meeting with several of us.<br /><br />It is time for lunch.<br /><br />I exit the room and wander around the building, chatting with my coworkers as we go our separate ways.<br /><br />I find myself alone in the hallways of the building. I continue walking, aimlessly.<br /><br />I stand in an area something like the main entrance of the art gallery side of the fine arts center I used to work in -- there is an open walkway around the top, on the third floor, that looks down into an open area in front of the gallery. From there, I can see into a glass-enclosed rehearsal space.<br /><br />The room is something like a dance studio, with mirrors all around and a black floor. There are three people in the room, rehearsing some type of performance art piece.<br /><br />One of the men there is a wonderfully cute man -- he reminds me a bit of Jason (but it isn't). He wears a black t-shirt and black pants. He has a neatly trimmed beard and his hair cut is close on the sides.<br /><br />The top of his hair is longer and falls to one side. The longer part of his hair, on top, is bleached blonde.<br /><br />He directs an actor and musician in a performance piece. It uses keyboards, excerpts of some CD's and miscellaneous props. It reminds me of a modern take on ancient theater; in parts they put on masks or play a handheld instrument and do some kind of chanting, like a Greek chorus.<br /><br />I just stand there, watching them for a while. Then, I decide to move closer.<br /><br />I am on the second floor where they are, standing in the hallway near the performance space. I look on as they rehearse some more.<br /><br />The rehearsal breaks up and they walk out of the room. The man who is sort of like Jason smiles. He says hello to me as he passes by, carrying out a bag of instruments. I smile and say hello back to him.<br /><br />I do not know him or who he is.<br /><br />They leave the hallway and I am alone again.<br /><br />I decide to walk down to the ground level. I stand in the open entrance in front of the gallery and look at the strange wooden bird-like sculpture hanging from the ceiling, three floors up.<br /><br />I glance outside through the large windows of the lobby.<br /><br />It looks dark, like some great storm is coming up.<br /><br />I hear all kinds of alarms and sirens suddenly going off. It starts to grow even darker.<br /><br />I see people rushing around outside. I walk out of the lobby towards them.<br /><br />"Go home!" a man yells at me.<br /><br />“What’s going on?” I ask.<br /><br />The man tells me that some kind of lynching happened this morning. There are riots breaking out in different cities all over the country.<br /><br />He tells me they have called off work. Everyone has been ordered to go home.<br /><br />I decide to go for my car that’s sitting in a far away parking lot.<br /><br />I head out on to the lawn in front of the arts center, then onto a sidewalk. I keep walking through different parts of the neat campus, then through neighborhoods and city streets.<br /><br />The clouds grow darker; I hear alarms and sirens and, in the distance in all directions, I see buildings on fire. Some people rush by me, in a panic.<br /><br />For some reason, I do not feel afraid or concerned. I am just confused about why this is happening.<br /><br />Turning a corner on a little city street, I run into the sort-of Jason performance artist again.<br /><br />"It looks dangerous out here," he says. "Why don't you come with me?"<br /><br />I agree.<br /><br />We walk together, talking about the performance piece I saw him rehearsing. He tells me what it was about and the intention behind it.<br /><br />Soon, we arrive at a kind of brownstone, the type of building you might see in older parts of New York or San Francisco. We walk inside the building into a living room.<br /><br />The room is filled with all manner of bric-a-brac and artwork, from floor to ceiling.<br /><br />There are several men there -- some older, some younger, some thin, some bearish. All wear black t-shirts but have different types of pants camouflage, blue jeans, dockers.<br /><br />They all have haircuts similar to the sort-of Jason that brought me there. They have different hair colors, but all have the same longer bleach blond hair on top of their heads.<br /><br />Sort-of Jason introduces me to a man who seems to be the leader of the place.<br /><br />The man is about my age, a little taller than me and heavy set. He is blond and has a beard.<br /><br />He has a similar haircut to the other men there, but the long hair on the top of his head is dyed black. (Or, perhaps, it is the other way around - he is naturally black-headed and dyes the rest of his hair blonde.)<br /><br />He welcomes me there. He turns to one of the other men and chats about some type of underground magazine they are putting together.<br /><br />Another man walks up and the leader answers some questions about an exhibit they are staging.<br /><br />The leader tells sort-of Jason to show me around.<br /><br />The house has several spacious rooms, all pretty much like the living room. It is an older place with high ceilings and wooden floors; some of the rooms are studios for painting, drawing or sculpture, while others are like recording studios or video editing facilities.<br /><br />All the men seem to be working -- preparing dinner, assembling some kind of artwork or just moving things around the house.<br /><br />Soon, we are back in the living room and sort-of Jason turns me back over to the leader.<br /><br />"We've been watching you closely," he says.<br /><br />"You have?” I ask, “Why?”<br /><br />"We have an opening in our little group here,” he says, “We've been watching your work and feel you'd be perfect for us."<br /><br />He explains that this is an artist's collective, or commune, and that they all work together and live in this house. He said they all make decisions together, as a group.<br /><br />"We try to comment on the world, but do not wish to remain a part of it,” he says.<br /><br />I wonder what he is talking about. I don’t exactly consider myself an artist.<br /><br />He explains that I what I do can fit nicely with their work. He says I might learn something there.<br /><br />I tell him I have to think about it.<br /><br />"We just had a space open up,” he says, “We wouldn't want to offer it to anyone else until you have an answer."<br /><br />"We try to balance things out,” he says, “We could use a Democrat here."<br /><br />Then I woke up.randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954919046081387683.post-65935167249615413492005-05-19T06:47:00.000-07:002007-07-24T06:58:21.294-07:00Bumblebee Frat Boy StormI am visiting my parents.<br /><br />I am staying in my grandmother’s old house nearby. It had been used for storage for several years, but it has been fixed up as a kind of guesthouse. It’s older and simply furnished, much as it was when I was a child.<br /><br />My parents and I sit in the living room, talking about work. I look out the window.<br /><br />There are many cars rushing down the road outside the house. Strange, ominous storm clouds are gathering.<br /><br />We turn on a portable radio sitting on a table in the living room.<br /><br />The announcer on the radio says that a storm is approaching. The county is being evacuated.<br /><br />“Gather the things that are most important to you and leave,” the announcer on the radio says.<br /><br />We leave the guesthouse and walk to my parents’ house just up the road. It is the house I grew up in, a house that has not existed in many years.<br /><br />My mother gathers family photos, some clothes, and my grade school report cards. My father gets some tools, money, and important papers.<br /><br />I only have a few things with me, since I am visiting, but I can’t find my passport. We look all over the house, in drawers, under beds, and between the cushions of chairs. We finally find it.<br /><br />I get into my car, my parents get into theirs and we head out into the traffic.<br /><br />I keep driving behind them, trying to follow in the heavy traffic through twisting mountain roads. Rain and hail begin to fall. The wind picks up. It grows darker.<br /><br />When we cross the county line, I see my parents stop at a roadside diner to get something to eat. It’s one of those landmarks near my hometown that’s been there for many years.<br /><br />The diner is crowded with people who are evacuating because of the storm. They talk about it being related in some way to a war.<br /><br />John is there. He walks around with an antique tape recorder, interviewing people about their experience with the storm.<br /><br />I want to talk with John to find out where he is going and how he is doing, but I lose him in the crowd.<br /><br />Amongst the people there are three men dressed as bumblebees. They are drunk and loud, acting like frat boys.<br /><br />I am annoyed with them.<br /><br />The place gets more crowded and people start pushing against me. I decide to leave.<br /><br />I push my way through the crowd reach the door of the restaurant.<br /><br />I open the door and walk into the parking lot. It is night and a gentle rain is falling. The clouds are beginning to move away.<br /><br />I get into my car. I hear someone and look behind me.<br /><br />The bumblebees are in the back seat of my car, still drunk and acting like frat boys.<br /><br />I am annoyed.<br /><br />Then I woke up.randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954919046081387683.post-2729933774006207422005-05-17T06:12:00.000-07:002007-07-24T06:13:19.486-07:00Mining Car Elevator CafeteriaI am standing in the lobby of a tall office building.<br /><br />It is the kind of place you might find in mid-town Manhattan, with fancy marble floors and a dignified reception desk.<br /><br />I am headed to work and wait for an elevator. There are other people there, milling about and going and coming from work.<br /><br />Joan Rivers walks up.<br /><br />She seems to know me. She asks how I am doing.<br /><br />I explain that I am working on a sit-com with some other writers on the fifth floor.<br /><br />“You should stop by,” I tell her, “We could always use your advice.”<br /><br />Joan presses the button of the elevator and chats with me some more about the television show she is working on in the building.<br /><br />The doors of the elevator suddenly rush open. They close again very quickly.<br /><br />Joan is puzzled.<br /><br />"Oh, you don't know?" I ask.<br /><br />"Just wait," I say.<br /><br />I push the button on the elevator, carefully watching the floor indicator above it.<br /><br />Just as the elevator arrives on our floor, I grab Joan and push her in, the doors of the elevator closing quickly behind us. As we begin moving, Joan lands on her butt on the floor of the elevator.<br /><br />"You have to be quick around here," I say.<br /><br />Joan talks more about her show as we ride in the elevator.<br /><br />“The writers are terrible,” she says, complaining about a sketch they made her do.<br /><br />The elevator has glass sides -- we can see the inside of the elevator shaft going by as we travel from floor to floor.<br /><br />The elevator stops. Joan steps forward as if she is getting ready to exit the elevator.<br /><br />"Oh no, it's not ready yet," I say.<br /><br />The elevator, on some kind of track, flips over on its back, tossing us around. The doors open and we ride through a large cafeteria.<br /><br />There is a track that runs through the center of the cafeteria, the elevator gliding along like one of those little cars they use to move material in a mine.<br /><br />There are people getting food and sitting at tables on both sides of us, all around the cafeteria. We watch them through the glass sides of the elevator; we can stand up and almost peer over the sides of the elevator car.<br /><br />"The food's really good here," I say. “You should try it sometime.”<br /><br />Then I woke up.randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954919046081387683.post-65249602804174124782005-01-01T12:35:00.000-08:002007-07-30T12:44:31.717-07:00Movie poster house dungeonI standing in the living room in a little two-story house in an older suburban neighborhood. It reminds me of the quaint two-story homes that they have in the West End, where I used to live many years ago, in Winston-Salem.<br /><br />It is a beautiful, Spring sunny day<br /><br />I hear a knock at my front door.<br /><br />It is my friend Stuart.<br /><br />I am surprised to see him. He explains that things hadn't worked out for him in New Mexico, where he moved a few months ago. He had sold his place and was going to get another one out West. Until things got settled, he wanted to stay with me.<br /><br />I show Stuart around the place. Each room is done up with a theme and includes posters from my movie collection.<br /><br />As we look around the house, we talk. I explain that, somehow, I had bought the house outright.<br /><br />I tell Stuart that I'm not working full-time for anyone and have enough money to live on for a couple of years. My plan is to write and work on films to try to make a go of it for two years; if it didn't work out, I'm going to look for a job in this new town.<br /><br />The place isn't ornate; just simple and tasteful. There's a "studio" where I have my computer and some video editing decks (with some posters from documentaries); a nice living room and dining room that are open and bright with high ceilings. *It's where I keep my best posters that I want to show off.) There's also a "library" room full of my books, cd's and movies and a nice comfy chair for reading.<br /><br />I show Stuart to his room -- it's on the second floor, across from my bedroom, and it's called the "Fellini" room. It's decorated with some posters from Fellini movies. Stuart seems very pleased.<br /><br />We talk and work out an agreement where Start would help me build a dungeon in the basement of the house while he stayed there.<br /><br />It was good to see Stuart there. I felt some really good vibes from his presence and missed him since he had moved away.<br /><br />"Make yourself at home," I say, "My house is your house."<br /><br />And then I woke up.randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954919046081387683.post-45089271434621733992005-01-01T12:31:00.000-08:002007-07-30T12:33:16.026-07:00Fright wig used car salesman imaginary movieI walk along streets in Raleigh, going to a basketball game at NCSU, for some reason. Along the way, I run into several fans who were really hyped about this important game, for some reason. I finally reach press area.<br /><br />There is an older woman there who reminds me of Nan Kehone, the president of Duke. The woman is wearing a fright wing and red clothes. The university has hired this woman to be a "professional fan".<br /><br />In the press area, there is a politician and his speech writer, working on some kind of speech for him to give at a rally for the crowd. They're having trouble with it.<br /><br />I ask if I might help. They hand me the script and I read part of it.<br /><br />The speech is dreadful.<br /><br />Suddenly ...<br /><br />I am a used car salesman in a lot located in a shopping center.<br /><br />The car dealership is doing some kind of promotion. I have to take customers into a theater and write down what seat they sit in in the theater -- it is supposed to give us an idea of how good their eyesight is to see if they would wreck our cars. The theater manager glares at me in the lobby as I and other car salesmen pass by, annoyed at us coming into her theater with our customers.<br /><br />And then ...<br /><br />I am at a family gathering.<br /><br />There is someone there I went to high school with. He was a real bum in high school. He had gone to college and worked with computers now.<br /><br />Suddenly ...<br /><br />Jason and I are in a hotel room. <br /><br />We went to see a of performance reunion by the cast of Charlie's Angels earlier in the evening. He is excited because one of the cast members, Cheryl Ladd, wore a dress that he saw he wear in person when the show was originally on the air. The dress was a quite hideous blue and red number.<br /><br />Cheryl Ladd is there, in the hotel room, lying on the bed, talking with Jason about the dress.<br /><br />And then ....<br /><br />I am driving an older car from the 50's, going to my new apartment.<br /><br />It had been raining and it's hot and humid. The car is full of wilting flowers.<br /><br />I am looking for water to put on the flowers so they wouldn't wilt. I notice that plants were actually growing out of some parts of the car. The car is very old and about to fall apart.<br /><br />Suddenly ...<br /><br />I am in a movie theater watching a Star Trek movie that doesn't exist.<br /><br />The movie is about a space station being invaded by an alien that would seep through parts of the station like acid. The aliens kill Nurse Chapel. (I am aware that, in her contract, she stated she didn't want to be in another Star Trek movie.) The crew didn't know what the alien was and rush around trying to figure out what to do.<br /><br />And then ...<br /><br />I am at my college graduation except, in this case, the graduation consists of only 30 or 40 people.<br /><br />One of the people at the graduation is a student who was doing his final assignment, a speech. No one listens to his speech - people just get up and leave. <br /><br />When the speech is over, the student talks to his professor, sitting at a nearby table. He is worried that he might not pass the assignment. The teacher gives him a large wooden block with the letter "B" on it and the hands a report card to him.<br /><br />Suddenly ...<br /><br />I am in a movie theater watching another movie that doesn't exist. It is a documentary about the Minneapolis music scene of the 1980's.<br /><br />The movie includes interviews with Prince, Morris Day, and several of Prince's girlfriends.<br /><br />And then I woke up.randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954919046081387683.post-59325935393215596752004-08-26T06:15:00.000-07:002007-07-24T06:16:34.518-07:00Airport Gameboy Plane Crash Birth DramaI’m in a movie theater, sitting alone, watching a film.<br /><br />In the film, there is an airplane, full of people.<br /><br />Richard Dryfuss, Ellen Burnstein and their small child sit in the airplane. They're arguing about the trip they're making; the small boy ignores them, playing with a Gameboy.<br /><br />Cut to the plane exterior. There's some kind of short or spark or something. The airplane's engine catches fire.<br /><br />Richard notices it out the window.<br /><br />"Look!" he says.<br /><br />They stop arguing.<br /><br />The fire gets worse and the engine stalls. The airplane starts going out of control.<br /><br />The oxygen masks come down, the passengers prepare for a crash.<br /><br />The plane starts going in a free-fall, straight for the ocean.<br /><br />Cut to the interior of an airport.<br /><br />Richard, Ellen and the kid are sitting in chairs at what looks like a concourse.<br /><br />The boy is still playing with the Gameboy -- Richard and Ellen are just waking up.<br /><br />They both talk about the dream they just had about their airplane crashing.<br /><br />Richard and Ellen continue to argue with each other about the trip for a few moments.<br /><br />Then, Richard notices that something's weird in the airport.<br /><br />There's strange Muzak playing in the concourse, but no announcements. No airplanes are taking off or landing, everyone is eerily quiet.<br /><br />Richard talks to one of the staff, asking them why things are so strange.<br /><br />The staff are calm, cool, and friendly, but almost completely emotionless. They are evasive and do not answer his questions.<br /><br />Richard and Ellen make their way around the airport, trying to ask different staff members what is going on.<br /><br />They tell the boy to sit down and wait for them to come back.<br /><br />They argue Richard thinks something is wrong, but Ellen doesn’t.<br /><br />They get no answers from the airport staff.<br /><br />Richard and Ellen go back to their chairs and notice the boy is gone. They look around for him, but he is nowhere to be found. They ask passersby if they’ve seen him. No one has.<br /><br />They turn around and there he is again, just popping up out of nowhere, still playing with the Gameboy.<br /><br />They’re relieved and tell him to sit down.<br /><br />Twice more, they argue, talk to staff and loose the boy. The third time, he doesn’t reappear.<br /><br />They go to a security guard for help.<br /><br />"Come with me, please," guard says.<br /><br />They're led to a back room that looks like a surgery theater in a hospital. A doctor and nurse are there.<br /><br />"Get on the table, please," the doctor says.<br /><br />Ellen argues, but the doctor is firm and calm. She gets on the table.<br /><br />"I'm afraid you'll have to go through the whole thing again," the doctor says.<br /><br />Stirrups pop up on the table and Ellen is strapped into place; another nurse appears from a nearby room to calm down Richard.<br /><br />Ellen's stomach begins to grow huge.<br /><br />She gives birth to her son all over again.<br /><br />He emerges from her vagina, fully clothed, Gameboy in hand, the same size and age he was before.<br /><br />Richard and Ellen are again on the concourse, sitting in their chairs. They look at the child, then at each other. They wonder aloud if what just happened really happened.<br /><br />Richard finally seems to understand.<br /><br />“We’re not in an airport,” he says. “This is purgatory.”<br /><br />Then I woke up.randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954919046081387683.post-30153828805592546042004-05-08T06:17:00.000-07:002007-07-24T06:17:53.959-07:00Technicolor Hostage Cereal GangsterI am alone in a huge movie theater.<br /><br />I am watching a movie.<br /><br />It looks like a bright, vibrant Technicolor movie from the 1930's. But the film is one of those Warner Brothers gangster movies, which were all done in stark black and white.<br /><br />A gangster is holding a woman captive on some kind of road trip. With them, they have a Black cook, a young girl.<br /><br />The man resembles George Raft; the woman reminds me of Loretta Young.<br /><br />The house they're staying in is dark, with high contrast shadows all around.<br /><br />The clothes the characters wear or objects in the room are vibrant reds, greens, yellows and blues, standing out from everything there.<br /><br />They’re about to have breakfast. The gangster sits at the table in the dining room, reading a newspaper. He talks about the cops not being able to find them.<br /><br />The woman tries to figure out how to get away. She nervously drinks coffee and spreads some jam on a piece of toast.<br /><br />The woman says something about checking on breakfast and goes into the kitchen.<br /><br />The cook is there. The woman starts yelling at the cook and the cook recoils.<br /><br />She leans in close to the cook and whispers in her ear.<br /><br />“He’s trying to kill me. Just play along.”<br /><br />The woman takes a stack of brightly colored dishes and throws them to the floor. She yells at the cook, asking her why she has to be so clumsy.<br /><br />The woman leans in and whispers in the cook’s ear again.<br /><br />“Run away and get help.”<br /><br />The woman crashes some more dishes against the wall and yells at the cook again.<br /><br />The cook seems like she’s in a state of shock and doesn’t know what to do.<br /><br />The woman pointss at the door. She pleads with the cook, motioning with her hands.<br /><br />The cook quickly and quietly scurries off.<br /><br />The woman regains her composure. She picks up a tray that has some food and dishes on it, along with two boxes of cereal.<br /><br />The woman carries the tray into the dining room.<br /><br />"What was that about?" the man asks.<br /><br />"I just fired the cook - she’s so incompetent,” she says, trying to remain calm.<br /><br />The woman moves the tray towards the table.<br /><br />Two boxes of Life cereal are on the tray -- the kind of boxes they had in the 1960's with "Life" spelled out in brightly colored letters.<br /><br />As she sits the tray on the table, some of the letters on the cereal boxes float away into the air, forming the word "Lie".<br />Then I woke up.randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954919046081387683.post-87712626188247449962004-01-01T06:50:00.000-08:002007-07-30T03:55:46.444-07:00Alien Blowfish Duck Lamp SacrificeI am a lamp.<br /><br />I am a common, everyday lamp. One that would sit in a typical American home in the 1970's. I have a tapered ceramic base in some strange orange and burnt umber colors, a 60 watt bulb for my head, and a head covering consisting of a paper lampshade.<br /><br />An obese man sits in a Lazy Boy recliner in his t-shirt. He takes a drink from a can of Budweiser and sits it down on the table beside me. He is watching a large 70's era console television set.<br /><br />There is shag carpet on the floor, a sickly yellow and brown color. The room has plain wooden paneling. The lighting is subdued. It is night.<br /><br />Sitting next to the television, near a window, is a toilet. The bowl of the toilet is filled with flowers, as if someone is using it as a decorative planter.<br /><br />I hear someone in the hallway next to the living room.<br /><br />It is an elderly woman. She is plainly dressed, her face wrinkled. She reminds me of a character actor one might see on a 70's British sitcom.<br /><br />Her face begins to look distorted, almost like a blowfish when it's beginning to expand.<br /><br />"Perhaps I should go upstairs," she says, apologetically, in a stoic, very British voice, "If the aliens are really here and taking over people, it might be best to just get them out of the way where they won't disturb anyone."<br /><br />The man in the recliner stares at the television and seems to ignore what she is saying. His chair faces away from the hallway towards the television and he cannot see her.<br /><br />Her face and head distort even more, growing larger and looking more like a blowfish.<br /><br />Strange noises start coming from her body.<br /><br />"Quick! Hurry!" I hear my friend Stuart say, "You have to be a sacrifice for the alien!"<br /><br />I turn to see legs and arms sprouting from the toilet, like an anthropomorphic character from a tv commercial. It stands up.<br /><br />"You have to be a sacrifice for the alien!" the toilet says in Stuart's voice, moving it's seat like a mouth.<br /><br />"I don't think that's a good idea," I say, somewhat concerned.<br /><br />Suddenly, I see a log in front of the television with an ax in it. The man rises from the chair and grabs the ax.<br /><br />I feel funny.<br /><br />I look down and see that I am now a duck, standing on the table.<br /><br />The man grabs me by the throat; I flap my wings and feathers fly as he moves me towards the log.<br /><br />"It's the only way," Stuart the Toilet says, "You must be a sacrifice for the alien!"<br /><br />The woman's head grows larger and more distorted. Her body begins to shake.<br /><br />"No!" I scream and squawk, "You be the sacrifice - not me!"<br /><br />The man firmly places me on the log, his hand around my neck. He holds the ax high above his head.<br /><br />"No!" I squawk, "There's got to be another way!"<br /><br />"You must be the sacrifice!" Stuart the Toilet intones.<br /><br />I see the blade of the ax coming closer towards my head. I struggle and squawk, but can't break free.<br /><br />Everything goes black.<br /><br />My head feels strange, as if part of the top center of my brain is empty, missing.<br /><br />Then, something like a rush of electricity or bolt of lightning surges through the hole in my brain.<br /><br />I open my eyes.<br /><br />I am still a duck.<br /><br />I am standing in a room all by myself. The floor is black tile. All of the walls of the room and the ceiling are covered with mirrors.<br /><br />"Damn," I squawk, "what the hell happens now?"<br /><br />Then I woke up.randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954919046081387683.post-6479617504939730632003-10-31T06:18:00.000-08:002007-07-24T06:19:42.314-07:00Classroom Rune Goat LunchI am in a classroom. It looks like a room in my old high school.<br /><br />It is a nice day and the sun streams through the windows.<br /><br />I stand at a chalkboard with a class full of students. These are not high school students these are men and women who are all adults, their ages varying quite a bit.<br /><br />The students all sit in rapt attention as I stand at the board lecturing. I draw some strange symbols on the chalkboard, discussing the significance of each symbol.<br /><br />I glance down at my watch. It is noon.<br /><br />"Let's take a break for lunch," I say.<br /><br />The students in the room rise up from their desks. They head out a door in the back of the classroom, murmuring and chatting a bit with each other about the lecture.<br /><br />I know that they will be going to some type of cafeteria or restaurant for lunch.<br /><br />But, at the same time, I know that I am not supposed to eat there.<br /><br />I look to my left.<br /><br />Standing at the front of the classroom is a goat tied to a chair.<br /><br />"That's lunch," I think.<br /><br />I walk up to the goat. I look down and have an ornate long curved knife in my hand.<br /><br />I cut the goat's throat and drag it in front of my desk.<br /><br />I take the knife in both of my hands.<br /><br />I chop off the goat’s head. The goat’s body falls to the floor.<br /><br />I carefully place the head, blood gushing from the base of it, on the desk.<br /><br />I get down on my knees and use the knife to skin the goat.<br /><br />I look up and see a little mound in front of me. There is a spit and a fire is slowly burning.<br /><br />I drag the goat's body to the mound.<br /><br />I insert the spit into the goat and place it above the fire.<br /><br />I notice as I turn the goat on the spit that there is a strange thing in the center of its belly -- it is like a hole, a couple of inches in diameter, to its insides, almost like a round window.<br /><br />Around the hole, impressed into its body, are two circles. Between the circles are strange rune-like symbols, similar to the ones I drew on the board during the lecture.<br /><br />There is good fire going and the goat is cooking pretty well.<br /><br />I look up and see a hole in the ceiling. The sky shows through the hole -- the smoke drifts through the hole in the roof to the outside.<br /><br />The goat is ready.<br /><br />I rip off some of its flesh.<br /><br />I look over at the desk. I see the head of the dead goat just sitting there, staring at me, blood steaming down the front of the desk.<br /><br />I have to eat the goat, but the thought of doing so repulses me.<br /><br />I need to eat the meat, but I cannot bring myself to do it.<br /><br />I wonder why.<br /><br />I think it’s a cute goat -- it would be like eating Bambi or something.<br /><br />I feel sad for the goat.<br /><br />Then I woke up.randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954919046081387683.post-1429246892304180242003-10-03T06:33:00.000-07:002007-07-24T06:35:16.481-07:00Naked Jewish Boy Bus Trip PartyIt's a bright, sunny spring day.<br /><br />I'm riding on a school bus, sitting near the back.<br /><br />The road seems very twisted and the bus speeds along around the curves.<br /><br />The road is near some kind of big body of water, like an ocean or really huge lake. The road goes around the side of these cliffs. I look down and see the water on the left of the bus.<br /><br />There are a dozen people scattered around the bus, all of them are adults. Some are men; some are women. I don't know any of these people.<br /><br />All of the people on the bus are naked. They chat with each other pleasantly, enjoying the ride.<br /><br />I hear a voice behind me.<br /><br />"Are you going to the party?" a man asks.<br /><br />I turn around and there’s a young man there. It is John.<br /><br />He has long blond hair, a nice thin build and a bit of a shadow beard. Like everyone else, he's naked.<br /><br />He wears a necklace that fits close around his neck. The necklace has different colored beads on it.<br /><br />"Yes, I suppose I am," I say.<br /><br />We chat with each other about the weather or something.<br /><br />I happen to look down and notice that he has a really nice set of tit rings.<br /><br />I also notice something else.<br /><br />John has several piercings in different sizes. The rings are placed all the way up the front of his belly and chest, from his waist to just below his neck. They are all in a row, each ring about a half-inch apart.<br /><br />The rings are arranged in a manner that resembles an erect penis, with smaller rings forming the shaft and the wider rings making up the head of the cock.<br /><br />"It's going to be a great party," he says.<br /><br />Suddenly, I am standing in a shower in the building where the party will be held.<br /><br />It's a little musty and run down and the lighting isn't very good. It appears similar to open multi-person showers one might see at the gym.<br /><br />I wear flip-flops and have a towel around my waist. I take off the towel and place it on a hanger.<br /><br />I walk to one of the showerheads, turn it on and shower myself down, enjoying the feel of the cool water on my body.<br /><br />I finish the shower, grab the towel and begin drying off.<br /><br />"Where is he?" I wonder to myself.<br /><br />"He's not here,” a voice says from behind me.<br /><br />I turn around. It is one of my aunts.<br /><br />She stands there in front of me, fully clothed.<br /><br />I ignore the fact that I'm standing in front of my aunt wet and naked and just continue toweling down.<br /><br />My aunt rambles on about some kind of cake she's baking.<br /><br />I finish drying off, tie the towel around my waist and start to walk off.<br /><br />"You should find yourself a nice Jewish boy," she says.<br /><br />Then I woke up.randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954919046081387683.post-14515842841826708152003-09-05T06:38:00.000-07:002007-07-24T06:39:28.469-07:00Flies and Pearls in Bodega BayI am in the middle of a large office complex.<br /><br />I stand in the center of the office complex, a series of hallways going out in all directions, with escalators going up to higher floors.<br /><br />The office complex has a high ceiling, similar to a multistory mall and, in front of me, is a large geodesic dome. There is fake greenery planted all around the dome.<br /><br />People wearing business suits rush around the office complex. They look worried.<br /><br />All of them have pinks slips of paper. They talk with each other about being laid off from work.<br /><br />All of the businesses in this office park have gone under.<br /><br />They talk about their jobs, their friends, and good times and bad times in the offices as they worked together.<br /><br />Some hug each other and get teary-eyed.<br /><br />I decide to walk down one of the hallways of the office complex.<br /><br />The hallway, with doors of businesses on each side, opens up more as I walk along. It changes as I walk.<br /><br />I am on the street of a small coastal town. It is similar to Bodgega Bay in the Hitchcock film, “The Birds”. I see small shops and a café. I smell the ocean breeze.<br /><br />The local people in the streets talk about tourists that are coming. They talk about the factories closing in the town and the new shops and businesses that are opening to appeal to the tourists.<br /><br />I see a small shop up ahead, a large wooden sign showing a fish hanging out over the sidewalk above the door. I walk inside.<br /><br />There is a line of people, waiting patiently. I get in the back of the line.<br /><br />There is a Latin man, the owner of the shop, sitting at a counter. He has dark skin, a moustache, and wears a white rumpled shirt and hat.<br /><br />The people in the line talk to him about scheduling a fishing trip with him as a guide. He owns a boat.<br /><br />It is my turn in the line.<br /><br />"What do you want?" he asks.<br /><br />"I'd like to learn how to make flies," I reply.<br /><br />The man looks me up and down, glaring at me and playing with his moustache. He is annoyed and surprised.<br /><br />"Do you know how boring that is?" he asks, "Are you sure you don't want to go fishing?"<br /><br />"No, I want to learn how to make flies," I say.<br /><br />"Have you ever been fishing?" he asks.<br /><br />"A few times," I say. "It was okay."<br /><br />"Are you sure you really want to learn how to make files? It's really boring," he says.<br /><br />"Yes. I like doing things with my hands."<br /><br />"It's really boring. What's the most boring thing you've ever done?"<br /><br />I don’t have an answer.<br /><br />The man thinks for a moment, looking at people in the line behind me.<br /><br />"Sure, okay,” he says, smiling. “I'll teach you how to make flies. Come back in a couple of weeks and we'll get started."<br /><br />I turn and walk away from the counter.<br /><br />The people at the shop sit at wooden benches eating fancy French and Italian deserts.<br /><br />There is an empty seat at one of the tables; I sit down.<br /><br />The owner of the shop walks up behind me, sitting a dish and spoon on the table in front of me.<br /><br />I look down at my dessert it resembles vanilla ice cream, floating in a cloudy white liquid.<br /><br />The owner examines the bowl.<br /><br />"Excuse me," he says, "There's a pearl in yours. I'm terribly sorry."<br /><br />He picks up the spoon and retrieves the pearl. He takes the pearl with him as he walks away.<br /><br />I dig my spoon into the desert and it hits something hard.<br /><br />I lift up my spoon and find a whole string of pearls hanging from it.<br /><br />I am on the main street of the town. It is cold and getting dark. The town is deserted.<br /><br />I walk along the streets. Everything looks run down and dilapidated.<br /><br />I notice the shop I had visited earlier. The sign hangs askew, the wood weathered and the painted fish on it faded.<br /><br />I open the squeaky door and walk inside. There is dust everywhere; tables and chairs are overturned.<br /><br />I walk to the counter. There is a slip of paper there. I pick it up.<br /><br />It reads, “He left his tantric ways and skipped town. There's nothing to see here. Keep moving. -- Matt Redbear".<br /><br />Then I woke up.randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954919046081387683.post-63715674440231630052003-09-05T06:36:00.000-07:002007-07-24T06:38:20.414-07:00Golden Gate Airport Filing CabinetI wake up in an apartment in San Francisco.<br /><br />The place belongs to someone else. I am visiting the city for a few days. They are letting me stay there.<br /><br />It is a beautiful apartment in an older building, warm and inviting, with big windows. There’s a wonderful view of the Golden Gate Bridge.<br /><br />I stretch and yawn. I move the white sheet to uncover myself. I get out of bed.<br /><br />I walk around the room towards the window in my underwear. I look around, stretching and waking up, feeling the warm sun all over my body.<br /><br />I hear someone else stirring in the room.<br /><br />A drop-dead gorgeous man is in my bed. He leans back on a couple of pillows, naked, the white sheet pulled up to his waist. He stretches and yawns, the golden sun beaming off of his hard tanned body.<br /><br />"Morning," he says. "It was nice."<br /><br />I am taken aback. I don’t recognize him.<br /><br />"We spent the night together?" I ask.<br /><br />"Yes," he says. "But, don't worry. I'm just a figment of your imagination."<br /><br />"Oh," I reply, somewhat confused.<br /><br />I notice the man’s eyes as he looks at me. They are so blue and intense they almost glow.<br /><br />“Your eyes are beautiful,” I say, “What kind of work do you do?”<br /><br />The man tells me about his favorite ways of having sex positions, locations, what he would do with my body.<br /><br />“I really enjoyed last night,” he says, smiling.<br /><br />He doesn’t mention what he does for a living.<br /><br />“I’d better go take a shower,” I say.<br /><br />I walk out of the apartment and into a hallway, making my way to a bathroom I know is up ahead. The wooden floors of the hallway creak as I walk; I feel the soft warm carpet running down the center of the hallway beneath my feet.<br /><br />I open the door and go into the bathroom.<br /><br />Two men are there, going about their morning. One is toweling off, just having taken a shower. Another stands at a mirror, shaving.<br /><br />There is no eye contact between them and myself. It’s as if we share the same space, but they cannot see each other nor can they see me.<br /><br />Things seem strange I decide to skip the shower.<br /><br />I exit the bathroom and walk back into the hallway. It has changed it seems to go on for miles in the distance.<br /><br />I decide to explore, to see what’s ahead in the distance. The apartment building hallway changes as I walk.<br /><br />I am in the lobby of a large office building. There are people milling about, going in and out of a set of elevators in front of me. Some stand and talk with each other.<br /><br />I wait there for a moment, still in my underwear, and watch them. They are dressed in suits and carry laptops and briefcases. They do not see me.<br /><br />I continue walking through the lobby and enter a revolving door that leads outside.<br /><br />I am on a long, narrow airport concourse with windows on either side.<br /><br />Passengers rush about, going to and from their flights. Some carry or roll baggage. There are men and women, all ages. Some look like they are on vacation, others are dressed for business.<br /><br />I am still just wearing my underwear. They do not notice me.<br /><br />I look out the windows of the concourse. I recognize that I am in Los Angeles.<br /><br />I continue walking and, up ahead, I see a film crew. They are shooting a scene with two men chasing another. They have guns. I step aside as they pass by.<br /><br />I look through the windows. I want to go outside and enjoy the sun.<br /><br />Suddenly, I am in a college, standing in an empty hallway. Everything is quiet and still.<br /><br />There is a lecture hall ahead of me. I walk into it, feeling the cold institutional tiles beneath my feet, looking at the drab, somewhat dirty, beige concrete walls.<br /><br />I walk into a tiered lecture hall. It is filled with old desks, all tightly packed.<br /><br />I see a small wooden door, about three feet tall, on the far wall of the lecture hall near the podium.<br /><br />I must get to the door.<br /><br />I can barely walk because of the tightly packed desks.<br /><br />I examine the desks. They are worn and covered with graffiti.<br /><br />Each of the desks has a small rectangular wire frame on top for an index slip, similar to what one might see on a filing cabinet. Each frame contains a slip of paper.<br /><br />My name is written on the slips of paper.<br /><br />I finally make my way to the small wooden door near the podium.<br /><br />I reach for the brass doorknob. I turn it and open the door.<br /><br />Then I woke up.randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954919046081387683.post-79445067604978389122003-01-10T06:39:00.000-08:002007-07-24T06:52:51.321-07:00Crowded Shower Box ToothpasteI am taking a shower. It is morning and I have just gotten out of bed.<br /><br />In the shower with me are moving boxes.<br /><br />I have just moved in to an apartment and there isn’t space for everything I had to put some of the boxes in the bathtub.<br /><br />I get out of the shower and towel myself off, working my way around stacks of boxes around the bathroom.<br /><br />I walk to the sink and take my toothbrush out of a small cup on the sink. I grab a tube and squeeze some toothpaste on the brush and put it into my mouth.<br /><br />It tastes strange.<br /><br />I look down and see that I am brushing my teeth with anchovy paste.<br /><br />Then I woke up.randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954919046081387683.post-53435037629259079942002-10-12T06:40:00.000-07:002007-07-30T07:02:23.263-07:00Pregnant Elongated Jodorowsky Bio-PicI am in the living room of a simply furnished, small suburban house.<br /><br />There is someone in the room that I know. But they are not there in a physical form. I only hear their voice.<br /><br />They invite me to look over their DVD collection.<br /><br />I walk over to a corner of the room and there are shelves of DVD's sitting next to a large screen HDTV.<br /><br />A highlight of the collection is a complete set consisting of what looked like fifty or sixty discs containing the complete Looney Tunes cartoons. I am amazed that someone actually released them and fondly recalled some of my favorites.<br /><br />The person in the room asks if I knew that CBS was broadcasting a bio-pic TV movie about the life of director Alejandro Jodowrowsky.<br /><br />I am surprised.<br /><br />“Would you like to see it? It’s playing now,” the voice says.<br /><br />“Yes, of course.”<br /><br />The HDTV comes on. The movie is already in progress.<br /><br />There is some kind of scene going on where Jodorowsky (played by his son, who is the lead in his film, Sante Sangre) is talking to another man. They are both dressed in 19th century clothing, sitting at a table in a saloon.<br /><br />The scene shifts to Jodorowsky and his wife in their 19th century home.<br /><br />They are having an argument -- Jodorowsky has been having an affair with another woman and his wife is upset.<br /><br />The other woman comes into the room. It is the man Jodorowsky was sitting at the bar with in the previous scene.<br /><br />The man, who has a beard, is dressed in 19th century women's clothes. His lips are painted red and he has eye shadow on.<br /><br />The man is also very pregnant.<br /><br />Jodorowsky and his wife keep arguing.<br /><br />The “other woman” tries to get their attention. He/she falls to the floor and goes into labor, screaming hysterically and thrashing about. Jodorowsky leaves the room.<br /><br />Jodorowsky, dressed in a dark suit and top hat, walks on a wooden sidewalk in a 19th century Western town. There is dirt in the street; horses and wagons pass by.<br /><br />Everything in the frame is distorted, like a Salvador Dali painting come to life.<br /><br />As Jodorowsky walks, his figure is stretched and elongated; some other people on the street appear normal, while others have enormous heads, feet, or hands. Some look like a beach ball and just roll along.<br /><br />A horse, standing on its two hind legs, leans against a post, watching people go by with a toothpick in his mouth.<br /><br />Wagons pass on the street with strange elongated or half-broken wheels that don't seem to affect their operation.<br /><br />Jodorowsky passes a dead tree planted in the middle of the street. It begins sprouting leaves as he passes by.<br /><br />A sign in front of a bank has an old style clock. It is melting.<br /><br />As Jodorowsky walks along on the sidewalk, there are people on the other side of the street dressed in winter clothes, trying to walk in a snowstorm, while his side of the street is sunny.<br /><br />A man throws a cigarette into some kind of sewage drain on the edge of the street. There's a giant explosion -- nobody flinches or even notices.<br /><br />I sit there amazed by all of this, thinking that no one had before thought of using digital effects in this way. It’s a true surrealist film, brought to life in vivid high definition.<br /><br />Suddenly, the picture fritzes out on the tv. It goes black.<br /><br />There is a small bang and the tube cracks. Some smoke pours from the front of the tv. I hear a hissing sound.<br /><br />I feel very disappointed.<br /><br />"It appears that it exceeded the expected surrealist quotient of the current equipment,” the voice in the room says.<br /><br />Then I woke up.randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954919046081387683.post-91458105511485496742001-12-17T06:41:00.000-08:002007-07-24T06:43:27.850-07:00McDonald’s Chocolate Milkshake OperaI sit in my car at a McDonald’s restaurant drive-thru.<br /><br />A voice comes on the intercom.<br /><br />“May I take your order,” the voice says.<br /><br />“I’d like a chocolate shake.”<br /><br />There is a short pause the intercom comes to life.<br /><br />“Okay…drive around.”<br /><br />I pull up to the drive-through window. I see a woman inside, making my milkshake.<br /><br />She wears a nametag.<br /><br />Her name is Carmen.<br /><br />She opens the window of the drive-thru and hands me the shake.<br /><br />“You’re eligible for a free CD,” she says.<br /><br />“What kind?”<br /><br />“It’s the opera ‘Carmen’,” she replies.<br /><br />“Sure,” I say. “That would be fine.”<br /><br />I drive my truck around to the front of the restaurant. I shut off the engine, grab my milkshake and get out of the truck.<br /><br />I open the doors of the restaurant and go inside.<br /><br />I sit down at a table and begin sipping my milkshake through the straw.<br /><br />A UPS van drives up outside the restaurant. The driver gets out and walks inside with a package.<br /><br />He comes to the table and hands me the package. As he walks away, I open it.<br /><br />The envelope contains a CD of the opera ‘Carmen’.<br /><br />A fancy certificate falls out of the envelope.<br /><br />The certificate reads, “Order a hamburger from Bertha and get Wagner’s “Ring” cycle, absolutely free.”<br /><br />I’m not in the mood for a hamburger.<br /><br />Then I woke up.randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6954919046081387683.post-1348770256110925912001-11-23T06:44:00.000-08:002007-07-24T06:45:09.330-07:00Parking Space Tiger GateI am visiting some old friends from college -- my old roommate, Paul, and his wife Kim. We are sitting in the living room at their house, talking about old times and catching up with each other.<br /><br />We decide to go out for dinner. We walk outside; it is late evening. I get in my truck and they get in their car.<br /><br />I follow them to downtown High Point.<br /><br />Paul and Kim have a sub-sub compact car that looks like something out of a 60's British film. Other cars pass on the street -- everyone else in High Point has one too.<br /><br />The streets are about the width of an alleyway and it is very hilly, sort of like San Francisco. I find it difficult to navigate my truck on the narrow streets and fall behind them in traffic.<br /><br />Finally, I reach the restaurant where we are meeting.<br /><br />All the parking spaces are too small. I can’t find a place wide enough to park my truck. I drive around the block and double park, filling two parking meters with change.<br /><br />When I enter the restaurant, Paul and Kim are already seated and have food.<br /><br />I sit down and we talk some more.<br /><br />Then, we are back in their living room.<br /><br />“Why don’t you go outside and say hello to Buttons,” Paul says.<br /><br />Buttons is a small dog Paul and Kim had many years ago.<br /><br />I walk through the house and open the back door in the kitchen. I step outside. It is daylight.<br /><br />The backyard behind their house is all fenced off, with the fence connected to the house so that Buttons can’t get out.<br /><br />At the far edge of the yard, I notice that a gate is open.<br /><br />There is a small cat there, rubbing against the gate and wanting to get in. I decide to close the gate to keep the cat out of the yard.<br /><br />I walk over and shoo away the cat.<br /><br />“You’re not supposed to be here,” I tell her.<br /><br />I close the gate and turn around, watching Buttons play with a small ball in the yard.<br /><br />I hear a growl.<br /><br />The cat is on the other side of the gate. It has transformed into a lynx.<br /><br />Another open gate has appeared in front of me, making the fenced in area smaller, like a maze.<br /><br />I shoo away the lynx.<br /><br />“You’re not supposed to be here,” I tell her.<br /><br />I close the gate and turn around, watching Buttons play with the small ball.<br /><br />It happens again. And again.<br /><br />Each time, the beast turns into a larger member of the cat family. I tell the animal they shouldn’t be there and close the gate.<br /><br />The fenced in area became smaller and smaller.<br /><br />A beautiful large tiger appears.<br /><br />“This is ridiculous,” I say to myself.<br /><br />I reach out my hand, rubbing it against the tiger’s neck. I feel it’s soft fur and massive body against my fingers.<br /><br />The tiger purrs and licks my hand.<br /><br />I wake up.<br /><br />I am in Goatboy's cabin, visiting him. His partner Lane is there.<br /><br />We have all just gotten out of bed.<br /><br />I turn to Lane, stretching and waking myself up.<br /><br />“I think you’re influencing me to dream about cats,” I tell him.<br /><br />Lane looks at me, puzzled.<br /><br />“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.<br /><br />Then I woke up.randhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04078887897223655902noreply@blogger.com0