Sunday, March 6, 2011

Dreams For The Dollar Theater.

The dreamworld is not always a kind place, or for that matter, an interesting one. It would seem there would be a part of the brain that would be a sort of box office for dreams, and the dreamer would get some sort of choice as to what was dreamed, even if that meant some odd dream would eventually have to be dreamed. Let’s face it, there must be some reason odd dreams are dreamed, but let’s have some sort of menu, shall we? Let’s schedule the monster and terror dreams for those nights we’re not doing anything the next day and don’t need the sleep. Let’s have disjointed dreams Monday night because Tuesday is such a wreck anyway. Let’s have sex dreams only on those days that end in a “y” and let’s have dreams of still being married to the ex on those days when there is a Mexican-Jewish Holiday celebrating the birth of man who invented the spork.
            Last night I dreamed there was someone in my house I couldn’t get rid of at all. They guy said he was a friend of someone I knew, and he had to get some money for some gas, and I told him I didn’t have any money, or any gas, to give him. I don’t have company every often so this dream is some sort of invasion of comfort zone dream and mirrors the anxiety I’m feeling about all the activity my neighbor is having at his place as of late.  They’re building something down by the lake, and so there is a nonstop stream of trucks and people. I usually don’t see any traffic out here at all and that makes any sort of comings and goings seem much worse. I once lived in an apartment over two major streets in Tifton Georgia and dreamed the Circus had come to town. There was a never ending stream of cars and suddenly I awoke to discover my alarm clock had died and the noise I heard was rush hour traffic, in as much as Tifton has rush hour traffic. I was late for work, but marveled at how my brain had taken traffic noise and turned into part of the dream.
            The Dream of the Annoying Invader turned into one of those dreams that reaches into the subconscious for a compilation of people I do not like and complies the traits into one. This would be like a character actor in a movie that has a bit part to play, a big bellied truck driver meant to be as a part of the diner as the stools. The dream person last night wandered around the house asking question about this thing and that book and all the while I was telling him he had to leave. It’s a South Georgia thing, I think, when asked to stop doing something annoying the source of annoyance will proclaim, “I ain’t hurtin’ nothin’” and for some reason the use of “ain’t and “nothing” in the same sentence seems to drop the speaker’s IQ fifty points in an instant. Many years ago a friend of mine brought a friend over to visit and the friend of a friend started stacking up albums he wanted to borrow and we got into a heated discussion as to whether or not he was or not. A lot of this dream reflects that incident, and had I not been so totally stoned at the time I think I would have been more able to handle it. Good fortune smiled upon me then because my next door neighbor, who I had sold some really good pot to the day before came over and threatened to kill the guy. The drug culture is a lot like that sometimes, at least down at the lower end of the socio-economic ladder. There really isn’t a lot of respect for the property of other people when you might have to either sale what you have for drugs, or steal what someone else has.
            But the dreams shifted and I was walking around in some small town, and I felt lost as hell. I didn’t have a car, or a truck, and I didn’t know anyone there. There wasn’t anything open, and no pay phone, even though it did seem to be an earlier time. It was a bright sunny day, but there was no one else around at all. I looked into store windows and could see newspapers that had fallen off counters, pencils beside crossword puzzles, canned drinks left where they were forgotten, and all the sort of things you’d expect to see in an inhabited place, like the fat bellied truck driver in the diner, all the things that were supposed to be there were there. Someone once told me to look at my hands if I were to force myself to wake from a dream, but I took my left hand and placed it on the glass window of a closed store and wondered how long my fingerprints would linger there, and wondered at what point they would degrade so as to be useless in saying that I had been there, not that anyone would ever have looked, even in a dream.
            The dream shifted again, and I was in bed, and it was dark. The redneck was outside of the house and he was waiting for me to get up so he could pester me so more. He had no gas so he could not leave, and that meant I was stuck with him until someone helped him or I did. I was getting fed up with it all, really, and was getting to the point I was ready to do something violent. He whistled really loudly and the dogs leapt up and started barking. I sat up in bed, and was going to get dressed, but I was awake, and the dogs were still on the bed. They were looking at me like, “Top of the food chain my furry butt” and I understand why. It was light outside, and for some reason, that was very unsettling.

Take Care,
Mike

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