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dreams and soforth
dreams and soforth
They wake me from a particularly vivid dream where this girl I used to know sneaks me into the old high school theater after classes and we find ourselves in the changing room, that one with that broad mirror which filled the entire room along one wall. There's a disconcerting effect of people giggling, while playing "tag" on-stage and among the seats, the houselights brightening and dimming, flickering. In the dream we were fumbling out of clothes and knocking over stacked accessories and props in the dressing room, rolling around on a freezing cold floor amongst the fallen costumes. The potential for being caught in this act was extremely high at the time given the excessive volume my partner in crime chose to adopt, but in this dream I was hardly worried since it already happened in ages long since spent and besides and I remembered that somehow, the best part of my dreams lately is that vague terror of doing something which may get you caught, and yet being lucid enough to realize most of those worries are insignificant in comparison to the moment recreated, intensely reimagined and reconstituted to fit an entirely seperate scenario:
we abruptly leap to an image of the Indy 500 and the Kentucky Derby rolled into one fiery bloody event, then something else to do with myna birds or macaws or parrots or something. Then we cut to a crack-house, where I mutter in a corner cradled in my own filth, and twitch to and fro and whatnot. Bored. Lonely. So pretty (except for those dark circles under the eyes and that constant smoker's cough). Clever and drunk-nimble, always dexterous with those large calloused hands but castrated by merely the idea of ineptitude in such high-quality magical farces or low-quantity (and to be honest, perfunctory) performances inherent in the outcome of somesuch familiar occasions of opposition, sneaking up on that subconscious fear of failure and similar self-fulfilling prophecies... fighting the ego and the truth of the matter ( a painful thing, being better than most at nearly everything attempted without even trying too hard).
There must be a digital camera to record the event. A blank tape overwritten to the point of subpar recording quality... all scratches and blips taken into account and removed before any fuss could be made, the whole lot of them trundled outside and shaken down in the rain, heavy pat-downs by bouncers lingering around the nether-regions, checking for weapons and weapon-like devices concealed in or around the genitals. That "new car" smell the virgins (rare among those blips and scratches) carry with them like gamblers carry a pack of unopened playing cards.
Extremely edited reality television will temporarily alleviate the revelation of all potential bruises and needle-tracks we will no doubt make along the "roadmap to peace" that I tattooed along my left forearm when visiting Tijuana just last winter. "Freedom sleeves", if you will, complete with Olde English Text describing me and mine as bound to one adjective alone, specifically the namesake and description regarding all patients which leave our offices in a daze after thourough examinations (mostly treatments for hysteria)... a single word which sums up the resultant swampiness of any successful conflict, which is to say: "J-U-I-C-Y" (this of course being one of those words, along with "moist" and "shaft", which irks the sensibilities of the fairer sex, more often than not, so we will again apologize without meaning it, and then flip those aforementioned offended parties the bird as soon as their back is turned).