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Sunday, January 18th, 2004
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3:39 pm - DR. BENWAY, I PRESUME
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lately my dreams have taken a frightening bent toward the biologically perverse.
the constant theme of the rather conspiratorial nature of the human body seems to have picked up a notch or two, to expand outwards, to include not only the body itself, but those who work on it.
an unholy alliance of skin merchants and the unruly flesh.
the first was from a few weeks ago.
i was headed to a rather drab and unassuming brick building, under the subtext of either doing an interview, getting a job, or finding a lost object.
as i made my way from room to room, searching for whatever it was, i kept bumbling into one erotic mid afternoon coupling after the next.
each room would have a man and woman, grasping desperately at their tailored clothes, trying to cover up their heaving and sweaty flesh.
trousers rapidly pulled up, skirts deftly yanked down, shirts closed and hastily buttoned.
one room i would find people on a desk, a couch, even on a working copy machine.
until i found a rather impatient doctor. to complete my task, i needed a physical. post haste.
i sat on a table, and suddenly my hands were duct taped to it.
the doctor emerged with the standard sanitary white mask used during operations, but with large green rubber gloves, worn when cleaning sinks and unclogging toilets.
"let us begin" he says, and large instrument whirrs and clicks into view, and makes its way slowly towards my rectum.
i struggled and squirmed, but to no avail. my legs kicking out from me like strands of wet spaghetti.
a third person point of view shot showed the instrument getting closer and closer to me, and for entry, they had to make me laugh, causing my asshole to quiver, before the metal point found its home.
to do this, they had the rock chase around a secretary, while engaging in witty banter.
there was a loud pop, and i realized the instrument had pulled out a large, intestine looking sack from me, which lay in a wet pile on the floor.
"shit. this is really not good."
was all i could get out.
"don't worry" the doctor told me, "that is a typical reaction. the body will fix itself in due time."
and as if on cue, my innards made their slow, slurping march back to whence they came.
current music: willie bobo -- fried neckbones and some home fries
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| Friday, August 1st, 2003
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7:17 pm - Gun wounds again?
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it seems that bad dreams are going about.
nightmares a-plenty.
in discussion, i will ask a random person:
"random person, what was the distress that caused you to wake from sleep, sweat upon your brow?"
"i dreamed i had a fight with a loved one. and you?"
"the typical. i am being chased by a cabal of die-hard satanists, or being hounded by some cia spook squad."
"ah."
the first one dealt with my knowledge of being forever linked to the dark lord by some godless ceremony. the set was the same: it was night, mildly foggy, with the ground an unearthly purple.
its a color i never notice outside of nightmares and drug visions.
i had apparently been initiated into this dark and secret cult by the cutting of my hand and exchange of blood with another. the old satanic spit brother routine.
except now my body was to be harvested, and a demon was to placed inside me. i could do little more than watch from afar as my body would twist and sway under nefarious control.
to seal the deal william s. burroughs' disembodied head floated above and explained his new invention, which allowed an individual to climb the sheer face of brick buildings by latching himself to a harness connected to what looked like mechanical pinchers. now one could peak in and take compromising pictures of people in high places.
demonstrating, the flash bulb of his camera went off, starting a flash fire, and suddenly he was ablaze.
"still a few bugs to be worked out"
he commented laconically, as his body was rendered to smoldering ash.
the second dream revolved around the end of semester in some finishing school. it was final exam time, but it was supposed to be easy. yet all the questions were of a subjective nature that made them impossible to answer rationally. i would try to match cryptic questions such as 'the tiger lays in the lilies' to equally baffling answers, like
a) hide from the pain of day
b) all is gone. silence is the key
c) birds fly by the seaside
my head would swirl, and i would lose myself. it would feel as if i was being folded from inside out from hands inside myself. my point of reference would involuntarily shift as i slowly fading out, as if my consciousness was the brief flicker of a television signal between channels, then i would snap out of it, and forget my answers.
this repeated itself until the teacher called for pencils down.
the class let out an exasperated sigh.
"did you have any difficulty?" the professor asked, as he donned a black hat and dark shades.
"i suppose you did. you have been subjected to a secret cia mind control experiment. the drugs should wear off in a few hours, so if you want to sit back, we will collect our findings, give you the exit interview, and you can be on your way. thank you for your cooperation."
somehow i think this is your standard unpreparedness dreams wed with the specter of jangled nerves i always get when looking for a new job.
that or i need some extra thick reynolds wrap for my sombrero.
current music: wu tang clan - 7th chamber
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| Tuesday, February 4th, 2003
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11:49 am - HOURGLASS AND ASHES
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national socialism seems to be jack-booting its way into my dreams of late, with frightening regularity.
the hitler loving slime had returned full force, and were plotting new weapons, the like which the world had never seen. since the culmination of the second world war was brought about by the introduction of the atomic bomb, the third world war would be won by a newer, more diabolical invention:
my alarm clock.
the ringer was so awful, so blood curdling and terrible, that they merely had to tweak it a bit to cause an earth shattering, reality altering transmission, that would destroy human life as we know it.
night and day they slaved on it, in subterranean laboratories. as they were about to set it off, my actual alarm clock rang, nearly causing my heart to hammer itself through my chest.
last night it was more subdued, but with certain fascistic overtones. i was in a large cathedral, lined with ancient books, written by hand or with antiquated printing presses. the roof seemed to hang somewhere in the shadows above, and the stained glass let in a feeble light which mingled with the candles.
a lunatic of presumedly high political office had created a large spiral of dusty manuscripts and unmentionably dense tomes, doused them with gasoline, and set them ablaze with an old fashioned torch.
since the base of the tower was elevated, we were able to walk underneath, and observe the swirling tower of flame. thick blankets of ash fell, as individual pages separated and took momentary flight on fiery wings.
"what history we cannot control we will destroy."
the maniac muttered with solemn pride.
current music: joy division -- dead souls
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| Monday, July 22nd, 2002
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4:10 pm
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i seem to be growing immune to the sound of my own voice.
its not really me anymore, but not alien enough to be anyone else.
its like the slow humming of incorrectly installed overhead lighting. it only becomes real in comparison to dead silence.
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| Tuesday, June 11th, 2002
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4:42 pm - ONE OF THEM DAYS
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i am so close to snapping, i just described someone's finances as dead matter, the slow and steady replication life from dead matter, a reproduction of life from death.
the dead, and rotting corpse of after tax issuing forth an army of maggots and winged bugs of taxable income and earnings...
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| Wednesday, June 5th, 2002
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3:36 pm - WET AND BILE
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there is something uniquely liberating about anger.
maybe this isnt the case for most people, or even myself for the most part, but every once in a while you can simply just ride out the delicious toxic cocktail of pure bile and rancor and funnel all of your fears, all of your doubts and pain, and pull it together into a tight little ball of plastic explosive, and then let it all out in concentrated form, like a laser beam, turning the normally destructive current into one you can use for your own personal ends.
the woman came at me, guns a blazing, yelling and screaming, not wanting to do anything constructive, she just wanted to attack, to claw, rip and tear until she felt better.
its the standard anger trip.
its a total loss of control, but one out of emotional weakness, an inability to rationally and calmly carry oneself without resorting to the actions of a child.
she wanted blood, because the world didnt start and stop at her convenience, and did not let her know personally when she was making a mistake.
she had a dirty mouth and wasnt afraid to use it.
after the profanity started to fly i just snapped.
i saw strange colors, and had the subtle feeling of being slowly submerged.
"ma'am, if you do not immediately cease and desist with your profanity, i can, and will, release the call."
i tasted copper. my mouth became bone dry.
"charming... oh, that is charming...
can i SAY charming..."
and i began chuckling to myself, letting it slowly rise up into a full blown laugh.
this shit is better than milton bradley.
current music: tool -- swamp song
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| Thursday, May 23rd, 2002
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9:38 am - CAR 54 WHERE ARE YOU?
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before i went to bed last night, i did some mental exercises to ensure that i dreamed... when i saw what was floating around my unconscious, i almost wish i hadn't...
i was in some sort of gas station near my house. the sort of dream landscape that is both familiar and alien at the same time. i was at the end of a long line at the register, waiting.
an old car rolls into the parking lot, and several men get out, looking quite suspicious. and one has a gun...
a handgun, but somehow he thinks he can hide it by putting a washcloth on it.
i begin screaming at everyone, pulling on their clothes, trying to warn them, but they simply ignore me. seconds later they enter, demanding money.
when i hand over my money, with some sort of slight of hand i extend a bill, then retract it, fooling one of them.
the rest take off, with the one with the handgun making sure nobody moves... when his head explodes.
it was as if the skin on the back of his head was violently ripped open and draped over his forehead...
(they do not even show such graphic killings in the movies. i dont know where my unconscious gets this material)
everyone in the store begins to cheer loudly, as the cashier lifts high his smoking rifle... when he himself is gunned down by the other thieves, followed shortly by the cheering customers.
i escape out the back of the store, and hide in alleyways until i find my way home...
current music: monster magnet -- heads explode
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| Wednesday, May 15th, 2002
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9:44 am - "HELLO ME, MEET THE REAL ME..."
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before awakening, i was about to meet myself in a boxing match.
it was the rational, day to day, nine to five rational me versus the more free spirited, laid back self.
in a bare knuckle throw down, winner takes all.
i was about to knock the living hell out of the corporate me when the alarm clock rang. i set the snooze for five minutes to slip back into the dream and beat up the stodgy me, but he was nowhere to be found.
although this dream did make me feel a bit better, so battle won.
now all i have to do is fight the urge to follow the workers fiddling about in the roof above my cubicle. i want to climb up the ladder and squeeze into the crawlspace and drop paper clips on my fellow employees.
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| Friday, May 10th, 2002
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9:14 am - FAME, EH?
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i just found out that the number one song in the country when i was born was FAME, by david bowie.
as trivial as this is, it makes me quite happy.
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| Thursday, May 9th, 2002
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4:09 pm - LIFE AND DEATH, AMERICAN STYLE
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each day is a carbon copy of the course of my life, in miniature.
i wake up, groggy and have to grumpily get out of bed, the same way i squeezed screaming out of the womb.
i spend an indeterminate amount of time on the highway, to get to my destination, only to forget the whole experience for the most part.
sounds pretty much like my youth.
the rest of the day is the shaky start of my teenage years, which bleeds directly into middle age, until lo and behold, i can go home.
it never changes. each and ever day it is like some blessing from on high, that time i thought would never EVER come, and i knew that would never come, actually arrives. i dance around like a monkey on a string, happy to be away from my cage for the night...
and is gone before i know it, only to lead to work the next day.
retirement. relaxation. death.
the rest of my time is spent as i see fit, which is usually me just laying around, recuperating. i have read that on the average of someone retiring from work in their sixties lives on the average of six to twelve months after.
if this model is correct, i have scientifically proven the existence of reincarnation.
current mood: corporate viral technology
current music: the beatles -- tommorrow never knows
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| Monday, May 6th, 2002
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3:22 pm - THE STASIS HORRORS
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you ever get that feeling when you are sitting very still, slightly leaned forward and it feels like you are traveling backwards through space time rapidly with a sensation closely akin to your brain stem being stretched and stretched like a slinky into some other super-string dimension outside the confines of standard 3D space/time?
ummm... yeah, me neither...
current music: pink floyd -- interstellar overdrive
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| Thursday, May 2nd, 2002
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12:57 pm - "JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!"
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i have just been harrassed on the phone by a man named MICHAEL JACKSON for the last ten minutes.
he says he isnt the real michael jackson, but i know the score here, jocko.
current music: michael jackson -- man in the mirror
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| Wednesday, May 1st, 2002
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1:13 pm - LORD, GIVE ME STRENGTH
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the players -- an older man, named william.
and me.
customer: you says your name is william?
me: yes sir.
customer: i gots me a question for you. do you go by bill or william?
me: my friends call me bill. but officially, its william.
customer: well let me tell ya. BILL is the right one ta use.
me: really.
customer: you ever see a duck stick its william in between the holes in a fence?
i dont care what they say, but humor is the first to go.
current music: michael jackson -- billie jean
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| Tuesday, April 23rd, 2002
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11:13 am - HELLO FLORIDA or WRESTLE WITH DRAGONS AND DRAGONS YE SHALL, BLAH BLAH BLAH
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there must be something in the land of florida itself which gives me these dreams...
the setting is the ubiquitous swampland of my dreamtime landscape. straight out of some black and white tarzan movie, but with heavy purples and subdued blues. dangling vines and dead trees.
my family was on some sort of road trip. my mother was behind the wheel, with me in the back seat. my father and sister may have been present, but that was more implied than anything concrete.
all of a sudden my mother hits something with the car. outside we see a large alligator, nearly twenty feet long, floating lifeless in the water. we drag it on shore, to keep it from drowning. its left arm has been severed.
(the second time in a week where the left arm of some animal has been hacked off. i wonder if it has some symbolic meaning outside mere conincidence? left=sinister? of what i have read the right arm symbolizes your outgoing nature, while the left is the nurturing one.)
its dead. or at least i think so before its leg begins to move. we head back to the car when all hell breaks loose.
a large snake slithers from out of nowhere.
i think it might be a rattlesnake. as if on cue its tail begins rattling.
i get into the car, but my mother gets bit.
i start to get out of the car to help her, when more snakes appear. except they appear to be a mixture of cobra and butterball turkey. they seem to roll, then come to a dead halt, one deft striking patterns.
pulling myself into the car, i realize something is grabbing me through the window. out of the trees fall all manner of monkeys, all jet black. no eyes, but just pure dark forms.
i grab one and swing him over my head by his tail, before bashing him on the ground.
gravel flies as we drive quickly away.
but my mom refuses medical attention.
the symbolism is getting much more obvious the more time that passes. of my guilt weighed against the fact that it was something i could not change.
current music: talking heads -- swamp
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| Sunday, April 21st, 2002
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1:13 pm - REACH FOR THE SKY
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in my dreams, it seems, i am a cronenberg entity, with a firearm permanently embedded to my hand...
i decide that i am tired of working. its getting old.
all the loss of time, of energy, all for a paycheck just isnt working out for me. so what do i need for a new life?
capitol.
so i decide the only thing to do is rob a bank. as the thought crosses my head, i am already in motion. past that point where you can stop any particular endeavor.
the first guards are mowed down quickly. the directions are instinctual, as if i have been inside the bank before.
the next watchmen i see i pull the trigger, and small fragments of silly string shoot at him, which seems to befuddle him more than anything...
at the end of the hallway, the end of the line is a small room, with a large safe, of which i have no idea to open.
my shoulders slump. i have failed.
the door flies open and a tiny bank clerk and a middle aged woman with a clipboard enter.
i turn, hands in the air.
"no need for that."
she explains.
"this isnt even our department."
i notice an exit sign and make a run for it. the gun is gone, absorbed into a part of me. a friends house is around the corner, and i make it there and avoid capture.
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| Tuesday, April 9th, 2002
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4:37 pm - THIS ABOUT COVERS IT
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a seventy three old man called today, and stopped, mid sentence, and asked if i could wait a second.
i told him i could.
in a few seconds he explained:
"when you get old the mind slows down.
its like a clock with grease in it when it gets cold outside."
and i had to agree.
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| Friday, April 5th, 2002
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11:15 am - "April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers"
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they were all standing around, their clothes immaculate, every hair in place, every crease and fold perfectly set. yet their faces were etched in a permanent blandness, like they could only exist for extended periods of time away from some host of indeterminate origin.
in their hands were little dinner plates, covered with caviar, fresh vegetables, little crackers. a dullness emanated from them, like low level radiation. they were like spoiled school children, playing dress up in front of their indulgent parents.
then they turn to me, and ask to be entertained.
i wake up. i can barely move i am so tired. the hypnopompic moment where the dream scenario still feels real. i look at the clock. its around 3:32 in the A.M.
i close my eyes, and they have regrouped. not only am i to entertain them now, but i have to serve food, clean up spilled drinks, listen to stories, laugh at jokes. i try to run by they hold me in place by some sort of manifested web of their own smug self satisfaction...
there is nothing worse than a lingering bout of paranoia wed with fatigue.
current mood: catatonic
current music: the pixies -- debaser
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(6 comments | comment on this)
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| Tuesday, March 19th, 2002
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2:37 pm - GOD LOVES HIS LITTLE CHILDREN...
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... and he can have them.
sometimes i look around and wonder if everyone i see is of the same species. i am sure if you break it down to a base scientific, genetic level, that is the case, but each and every person seems to be in and of themselves a different universe unto themselves.
some of them seem a bit wiser than their years, other duller for theirs. life seems to radiate from some, some seem to suck in the scenery...
super novas and black holes.
but in almost all cases, you know how someone is going to be just by looking at them. not judging them by physical appearance, but what energy they give off, their body language, etc.
for the most part, i deal with the dullest of the dull. you have to assume that if you are on a help line, you are not going to be dealing directly with the ones on top of their game. the wheelers, the dealers, movers and shakers.
if you do, they are in and out in sixty seconds, leaving nothing in their wake.
the rest stomp their filthy footprints of their wasted, wretched lives all over your soul. they blame everyone but themselves for their mistakes and shortcomings, and somehow try to transfer their blame and misery of existence through the phone lines, directly into me.
so when someone comes to me with kindness, and childlike curiosity, i get all excited. i will take all the time in the world to explain things to them, take the robotic tone out of my voice, and go out of my way to help them in any which way i can.
i get one of these once or twice a week. in a good day, two or three of them.
never many more than that.
but by the time i get off the phone with them, i am near tears.
and from an undemonstrative creature like myself, this is about as baffling as it gets.
current mood: paternal
current music: talking heads -- crosseyed and painless
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| Thursday, February 21st, 2002
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12:40 pm - ZEITGEISTIAN WOW!!!
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| Monday, February 11th, 2002
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12:55 pm - THE MILD ONE
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more dreams within dreams, with celluloid and nostalgic import.
tim roth, with a huge nose and flaming nostrils ran around, acting intense, breathing heavily, breathing conspiracy into every word. he was yelling at some young lady who seemed to be acting out a role for him.
i ran into the bathroom, with the banner headline on a newspaper screaming MARLON BRANDO SHOCKER: IN REALITY, A HORRIBLE ACTOR.
the next day, later that night, i cannot discern...
i am once again at the house i grew up in. outside a crazy woman accosts me, babbling about insanity with accusation in her eyes. blaming me for this and that, for things far beyond my control.
i call her crazy and run inside. she tries to follow, but a gang of skinheads pulls up in the street in front of my house. the crazy woman jumps on one of them, and begins to beat him horribly. they try to grab the woman, but she pushes them back inside the car, and leaps in after them.
the car speeds off, without a sound.
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