.......

Dream where I am waiting for the pope to arrive on world youth day in the snow and it starts inexplicably raining cherries....cherries in which everyone starts to eat....

I love how fifteen minutes before I received your last e-mail I had this dream about us (God, the endless cosmos of dreams nested and shared over the years!!!): In the dream we were both attending classes. You were attending a business class and I was attending a creative writing class. The classes were in the same room only they were separated by a door frame and a window. Before our respective classes convened we met each other in the doorway and began to embrace. Your black hair was dripping down into your shoulders in sexy shroud like fashion and you were wearing a black hat just like this. My classroom was full of a lot of my real life writer friends and poets as well as a few of my residents who were older. Your classroom was full of these semi-hoity lloyds of london white collar business lads. We held each other (tight) for what seemed like usurped seconds of a slipped eternity. I told you that I wanted to be in your class because I wanted to learn how to make money. You told me that you wanted to be in my class because you wanted to write. I then got angry and conveyed to you that, "all the writers in my class are wannabe writers and alcoholics." I then (almost arrogantly) informed you that I thought I felt that I was better than most of the surrounding in class talent, including the teacher. My lips then parachuted and lovingly perched into the side of your neck and I began to embrace you more ardently. You said that you wanted me to hold you but were embarrassed because you were still in a classroom setting and didn't want all of your cohorts to see you. You then pushed me away and went to sit down in your room. I went to my side of the classroom with all the raucous writers and sat in the back of the room and began to look at my reflection in the window that separated the two classrooms. AS I began to lose myself in the translucent gaze of my reflection I realized that I wasn't looking at my own reflection but staring into yours (like one looking into a mirror)...you were seated all alone in your own classroom still wearing your funky black cap and had the saddest look stitched into your face I had ever seen. I felt like crying just looking at you. The teacher of my own creative writing class then entered the room. She was frazzled haired and looked agitated and had two litte (diggory and polly) four year old kids with her. The kids told their mom that they needed to use the bathroom only the mother admonished them and said that she could not leave the classroom. I then raised my hand and said that I could take them and that is how the dream ended, with myself, leading two young kids out of the classroom of hedonistic writers, helping them find the place they needed to go...
dreamt 5/21/10

Dream ferried via facebook dreamt by Miss Ambra Haake

"I had a dream last night that you were on Survivor. I woke up before I found out if you won."

Walking in a metropolitan city, lost and ai run into my ex-girlfriend Ash classy long-haired girl from Nepal. We seclude ourselves in an area. Ash hoists up her skirt and flashes me. I then avail my own inheritance towards her. I ask her if she has been with anyone else since last we departed and she said she has been with three men. She then bends over and I begin to make love to her. I have three empty beer silos scattered around the ottoman like candles and I find myself screwing her in my place of employment. When my boss inquires where the beer candles came from I tell him that I found them outside and that I had planned to recycle them. I pull out of Ash and my other boss comes in and tells me that I am being suspended. When I ask what for he begins to tell me just as I am waking up…

dreamt January 10th/2010

Dreams expereinced a month prior from getting shitcanned from Bradley University (excerpted from a letter to a dear ol' friend)

Good God girl, I should have known all this shit was comin’ due to the damn dreams.


There was a dream I nocturnally waded into like a stream in late October in which I was dangling off the hairlip precipice of a craggy cliff in the cemetery where the ashes of my father lay planted in a mantle of earth, grasping with all the temerity my soul could muster, wailing for help, watching as my boss (as well as a bevy of rich yuppies in fulsome sports cars) whizzed past and observed my supplication but refused to offer any assistance before I lost my grip and helplessly spiraled into a fumbling gothic meadow below.


There was a dream harvested in the autumnal magic of Mid-November where I found myself in a bleak college town living with a glitter of college students (sorority sirens and excessive make-up mermaids) in a dilapidated apartment complex, offering to buy them beer because they are not yet of age. The bacchanalian collegiate Girls Gone Wyld wet-t-shirt fete is in full swing when I leave and when I return with the alcohol the house is completely sad and empty and desolate. I then waltz over to a white marble sarcophagus-shaped box which I internally psychoanalyze as being the container where all my literary offerings and manuscripts are stowed and, upon creaking open the hinges sadly discern that the box is vacant and that I had yet to write a single page, that I had forgotten to fuel the linguistic armor of a lone word with the poetic petrol of my heart, that I had failed, after all this time dwelling in a collegiate setting, to scribe out the amorous scent and sound of a single worthy syllable.


Exactly one week prior to the emotional 9-11 detonating the interior architecture of my chest into a nest of ashes and hurt I started having dreams of lovers from the past two years. Rice-sized Esmeralda, Ash, Tricia and Tara— plus (!!!!) a beautiful serene dream of union and joy where the two of us dipped and waded together in a very somewhat familiar parkbenchesque setting (ahhhhhhhhh). In each of these nocturnal vignettes my feminine cohort (including you) were pointing like an airline stewardess to something inscrutable and cubist drifting in the tang-hued horizon above like a banner.


Finally the night before I was canned, I harbored a dream where I was hanging out with dear ol’ David Hale (ie, Big Dave, whose spirit you’ve met) and I was explicating to him that if I didn’t get out of the library now, I would be lethargically lodged in there for another thirty years.



I know, damn david and his damn dreams.

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