dream aug 8th, 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crazy nocturnal vignette culled from the ceiling tiles of last night's dream: I was futilely surrounded by this Babylonian-eque army, all of them wielding arrows, all of them clad in gilded Spartacus-like headgear. I was trying to rescue this wispy-clad 'maiden' (i.e., my feminine side?) and this old man...we were surrounded at this impasse thwarting us from making progression and going forward. Infantrymen brandished arrows on all side but directly in front of us was this general who demanded that we pay a fee of gold (imagine that an artist needing money)... the general had a wild Bear on a leash and the bear began swipe its claws and snap its mouth in our direction, purportedly this Thermopylae was to be our demise. I looked at the girl and she told me, very vividly, "Remember the myth. What you need is inside." I brandished my own sword, and, in a single linear whiff, severed the ursine creature's head at the neck. I then sliced it again near (linear fashion) above the bears eyes. I reached in and grabbed the cerebral chandelier constituting the creature's brain and hurled it as hard I phucking could at the soldiers, bowling them over...when arrows began to fire upon us like a spring tempest I employed the top o the bear's head and his nape as a shield and the three of us were duly protected and were able to move on.....

 

 

 

                                                  

dream: July 8th, 2013

Two nights ago I had dream where I was driving through a vertical neon-doused Appleton with my mother looking for you. I kept trying to call you only you wouldn’t pick up. Finally you answered yer damn phone and told me that you would be late meeting me because you were “busy changing clothes,” (all these years later and the thought of you in bra and panties still turns me on…”

Two enthusiastic thumbs up, Gene..

Four years ago I had a dream where I was drinking at one of my “seedy Rick Baker writer bars” in the Southside of Peoria (bars with names like Duffy’s and Boa’s and Dave’s on Shelly. Bars where you can still smoke in and all of the female patrons have big boobs and bad teeth. Bars where it behooves you to take an insurance liability out on your liver before entering. Bars that I have to go in to by myself b/c all my friends get scared shitless to even go down the social-economic slope of Western hill even though I went to gradeschool just down the street at Christ Lutheran). In the hazy den of the dream-bar I was imbibing draught beer (Schlitz) with a young Roger Ebert. He had ruffled, unkempt grainy-hair the color of fresh kitty-litter. He was pudgy, ashen countenance that drooped from the lower hemisphere of his neck like a bespectacled Pillsbury dough boy.  He looked like the kind of kid who spent much of junior high adapting to the ill-time hazing of a locker room wedgie. The type of kid who spent much of the day mulling over Dungeon and Dragon manuals while fantasying about girls he would never date.

The type of kid who would one day be a writer.

In the dream I invited Roger to belly up next to me at the bar and we drank heavily. There were tufts of cigarette smoke, sawdust cumulus morels sprouting as if from the earth between intermittent sudsy swigs of beer and intermittent journalistic banter. In the dream we talked about the loneliness of the literary lifestyle, the critic who cavils vs. the critic who creates, but in the end of the dream I remember sitting next to Roger Ebert and looking around the room and all he would say to me is, “This is a great bar. It’s a great bar.”

 

Two days after I waded through this nocturnal-splotch of sifting images I stumbled upon the article linked b’low. For all the accumulative prizes he rightfully garnered throughout his four plus decades as a movie critic I guarantee the thirty year medallion mentioned below was his most valuable because (like the addled protagonist of any cinematic inflection) Mr. Ebert was willing to change while graciously goad such change via instilling hope in others.

So here’s to you Roger Ebert. It’s a great bar but it’s also a great life. Two thumbs up, Gene. The greatest review awaits you…

letter to Renae....

 
Oh dearest Renae, this is a beautiful crazy story that happened t’day and its just for you....
I should preface this e-mail by telling you that in my mid-twenties I lived a very poetic and peripatetic lifestyle (uhm, still do) and ended up crashing with this this older sage who was a Psychic (he was kinda Gandolf  to my
emotionally fretted Frodo if that makes any sense, best way I can explicate the nature of our rapport) His name was Mike Truskey and he was fairly well known in the local psychic community and he actually used to give readings to a very well known psychic who lived in Delevan named Greta Alexander who was always on the news (informing police where they could locate the corpse or whatever) back in the day.
Uncle Mike died a few years back and I was with him as he passed but hanging out with him for so long I was introduced to the world of metaphysics and light, ie, I have what might be classified as weird encounters, seeing what might be classified as ghosts and spirits and other shit that is weird and just hard to explain and that (except for those closest to me ) I don’t promulgate or talk about in public much at all.
So my old friend from high school now you know where I am coming from here is what happened t’day:


At five o’clock tonight I was sifting through my attic rummaging through old manuscripts for one of my novels when I came across a folder I had not seen in a couple of years. I took the folder to my writing desk downstairs ( I have the coolest writing desk ever) when what fell from the folder was a Xeroxed obituary of your father’s death. One thing Uncle Mike always taught was to say this prayer for the departed which I did. I then went back to writing and looked at read your father’s obituary and realized, as I was reading it, that (ironically??/mystically) it was the anniversary of his demise.
What happen next was one of those weird things I don’t talk about much but it happen.
I was situated at my writing desk reading the Xeroxed copy of your father’s obituary that I randomly found in the attic when it tumbled out of a folder I picked up when I hear a mans voice vividly resonating through my chest. The voice was middle age, semi gruff and he was happy and laughing.
Then the voice said this:

“Tell my daughter that I love her and that I am so proud of her.”
After that the room just flooded in a sheet of white light and I felt this warm presence and everything around me (what some psychics call vibratory levels) just echoed in peace.
Old friend I don’t mean to fuck with you at all, but that is what I heard today in my writing chamber in West Peoria.
I hope life finds you well and this message ferries forth perhaps closure and the peace I felt this afternoon. Your father was a good man Renae. And he loves you and is never far away….
DVB

 

Mystical Baha’I house of worship/golden copper dream for sister Polly…

Dearest Beloved

I experienced this dream around 11 o’clock this morning , beatifically buffeted by a gentle spring rain outside hushed in the avenues of dreams, sleeping in Uncle Mike’s old bed between shifts, the house nearly vacant now almost three months after his demise. (Important note: I usually dream about the house of worship once a month and have dreamt about you and the mystical latitude and limbs of our rapport hundreds of times for perhaps lifetimes on end but this is the only dream I can really recall where the copper manifests itself in its entirety).

In the dream I was chasing a flighty airheaded college girl past the house I grew up in, through the university that fired me and found myself on the steps of the House of Worship in Wilmette.

 
 When I ended up on the ivory steps of the house of worship they were hosting a famous oriental psychic (she was old/clad in a kimono) and lots of prestigious weird almost cult like psychics were in attendance. It was a very important affair and it was guarded and several conspicuous ‘celebrities’ were in attendance and had to wait in line. The convention was in the basement of the House of Worship and I learned that it was expensive to attend but for some reason I was allowed in for free. There was this famous blonde headed ‘celebrity/pyschic’ that people were also following around and when I was allowed into the basement of the House of worship people were having ‘energy’ work done with chakra orbs (you could see the orbs and they were also having their palms “worked on and read” in these silhouette-library carrels. I found you with yer sister in the back of the convention and we casually said hello. The psychics who kept on coming in kept in getting weirder in a non-spiritual esoteric –séance-cult like fashion. You seemed glum-eyed and sad and I told you I had something I wanted to give you. I reached into my pocket and unearthed the copper you gave me all those years ago but the moment it left my pocket it was pure gold RESPLENDENT and it shone BRIGHT…like chipped dry wall from heaven or GOLDEN coals from a mint barbecue, It was pure gold and it was hold and honestly (in the dream) I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything brighter. I handed the copper back to you and you turned to a nearby freakish psychic and said, “This copper has spent a lot of time on the cornerstone of God. This is where the true power is at.”



We then began to get uncomfortable with all the freakish psychics and tried to find a way out. Your sister followed behind us ( Fred, always trying to be a third wheel). In typical Diggory and Polly fashion we unearthed a “hidden passage trap door” in the bottom of the basement” with a spiral sylvan staircase stowed inside only we opted not to go in. Instead we continued to walk around the bottom circumference of the basement. We found a black and white poster a house of worship (it was a cross between the first house of worship in Russia and this cool picture I have a home) only the poster was TILTED. I then grabbed your wrist and pulled and fell to the ground under the picture of the TILTED house of WORSHIP . You were on top of my body in dry humping fashion and I started cryin, sobbing irrevocably/uncontrollably pressing my teary sockets into the gentle whiteness of your cheekbones. I then addressed you as “My dearest and eternal Polly Joon” and thenI started crying more and apologized and asked for forgiveness for yelling and emotionally erupting at you last autumn. Like that blissfull day on the parkbench (or in the hookah lounge. Or in the park here in P-town) we held each other for a long time and it was pure. You then told me that I was forgiven and we started breezing gentle kissed on the others cheekbones and forehead and smiling at each other. The moment you said the word forgive good ol’ anisa FRED jumped on to of us (think of a sports victory celebration) and we kissed her forehead (frontal lobe) as well. We then got up and decided to leave (we were all smiling—miss that smile of yers angelface) and as we left a weird gray-eyes guard psychic told us to hurry up cause the conference would be starting soon. I don’t think we were in a hurry to get back.

It happened again. Had a peaceful dream about "us," after the fuckipedia fiasco Sunday night.

Your whole family was in it--long, peaceful....you and I were wrestling and smiling. I think I let you pin me just so I could be close to you. Love your smile, even in my dreams I met your sister. Watched a football game with your father, Fred and Uncle Mike. My heart is heavy and anvil shaped and I don't mean to dangle but I'll splurge details next time we chat.


dreamt september 2006....polly-muse

FROM THE VAULT dream (Oct 15 2004...ironically I was trying to go a week sans vices then as well...incorrigible indeed).....

Collective vices: Who cares. I just had a dream where I was in love.

In the three hours allocated for sleep between third shift and school, I dreamed of my angel, my lover, my universal dual.

She was with me. We were in a writers workshop full of hot lesbians who availed their tops. She was next to me. She made me so happy. Our waists were buttoned at the hip. We wrestled, we flirted, we held each other. We were one.

There was a swimming pool. People were moving furniture. Uncle Mike was orchestrating the movers where to put things marshalling his thin fingers in the direction of the Indian Sun. Both antique furniture and posh loveseats milled around the dream like bees agitated in an apiary.

Human beings kept cannon balling in the chlorine blue pool. They took off their clothes and they jumped into the neon blue pond reflected throughout the house of mirrors of my eternal consiousness.

But I held my angel. We sat at the lip of the pool. We left our clothes on. We occasionally splashed each other. we felt like one.

We were at peace.

The only person I recognized in the dream (besides Uncle Mike) was myself. I was five. I had cinamon bangs neatly clipped across my forehead. My five year old self was in the pool. My five finger year old self was wearing one of my dad's undershirts. The shirt was dampened considerably from my frolicking. I could see the little stubs of my five year old nipples.

I was looking at myself back at myself from two decades ago. I was with the girl of my dreams.
My dream angel. The scattered jigsawed fragment that fit perfectly into everything I lived for.

As in reality, strangers were everywhere. They not only knew me, but they knew her. They knew us. They knew how much she had meant to me. I had no clue who they were, but they kept addressing us as she smiled. she was flattered. I enjoyed watching her smile.

We got separeted in the end of the dream. I went back to Uncle Mike's house. The house was fraught with women I had never seen. They knew me. Apparently they were having either a bridal or child shower for my dream angel.

Only she wasn't there. I had to find her.

I left the house only in my socks. I ran down hill, over hard chunks of gravel, trying to find my dream angel. Even though I was running down hill, I could feel the hard gravel leave flecks in my feet.




I was running down hill (ligonier hill sloping down into the south side of Peoria) and all these black boys were running up. Some were African tribesman with shiny chests and azure eyes and javelins. Some were athletes. They all had shiny black skin and I jostled their shoudlers as we past.

They didn't obstruct me. We were headed different in directions.

*

My alarm clock harshly shrilled into conciousness. That's the end of the dream. I was at Peace.

Before the dream convened however, just when I was closing my eyes, just as my mind was leaving the corporeal port, drifting into the blanket of sleep, I saw a shadow of my dream angel. I saw a silhouette. I saw her vividly. I saw her even more vividly in the shadow than I saw her in the dream (in the dream I saw her, but I mainly felt her)...

In this shadow, she was kissing the person she was with in real life. Kissing him on the side of the cheek. They seemed happy. She then kissed him again. Then her shadow left him sedated; breezed in my direction.

Then she took me to that place where I was happy. Our secret place, where we together, so happy, our limbs dangling and free....

Peacock dream for baby chop-chop (dreamt 11-28-10/afternoon)

The dream nocturnally convened we were walking around your neighborhood (Wheatfield) with a group of people and I was groping the ivory tips of your fingers into a gentle squeeze and you were smiling and we were both acting kinda goofy much to the chagrin of our nearby peers who seemed to kind of scowl at our fluttering follies. It was the neighborhood where you live right now but for some reason your family owned the majority of the houses (you owned my uncles house). I felt very serene and peaceful with you buckled in the grasp of my palms and we continued to walk around the manor in which you lived and you pointed out property your parents owned (there was also an abandoned swimming pool they owned).

We then entered yer house (the actual house you are living in, the one in the dream you sent me) and you told me that one of your sisters was very sick and you wanted me to meet her. We went up to the second floor of your house and it was exactly like you described it to me in your dream. I then heard this giant shrieking sound, seriously, it sounded like a bald eagle was being sodomized with a Molly Pitcher tampon, and you pointed in the opposite direction s of the bedroom, towards the back of the house and there was this labyrinth. You began to hold my hand even tighter as we skirted into the maze and you told me that your sister was “through here,” as we walked the shrieking began to escalate even louder even though you seemed to audibly be inured to it. The screeching got so insufferable and high pitched that I let go off your sheet music colored hands and clasped my palms over my ears and said something like, “What the phuck is that sound?” You just looked at me and said very nonchalantly and replied with a blithe smile, “Don’t worry. It’s just the family peacock. It won’t hurt you .”(Only you chop-chop).
We continued to walk towards the back of the maze past the good’ ol chop-cholland-heirloom family pet peacock and the bird continued to screech even louder and when I ambled past it (it was out of my peripheral vision but I felt it as it flapped over the top of my scalp) it emitted one final shrill and then bit a chunk out of the back of my head.
We then got into this really petty argument. I was like:
“Shit chop-chop, yer phucking familial peacock bit me and now I’m gonna get Pertusis.”
You then started laughing almost hysterically and said something like, “You can’t get pertusis from a peacock, silly.”
And I became even more irate (which isn’t really me) and I was like, “ I’m gonna get pertusis and I’m gonna get all my residents’ sick and lose my job.”
And you smiled and laughed and then got very hush-hush serious and tried to assuage my panic and spoke in a very endearing and gentle almost maternal monotone and said, “David, I’m a nurse. If you had pertusis I would tell you.”
You then began walking forward into the maze to see your sister but I said something like, “shit, I’m outta here” and ran outside yer house groping the top of my head. When I arrived outside it was sunny and time for your sisters wedding and there was this southern looking Gazebo (still in bumphuck wheatfield) where your sister was going to get married inside of and you were wearing this really (I think kinda yellowish (gold), spring flavored and smittenly stunning nonetheless) dress and you smoothed down the front of your dress and kissed the angular side of my cheek and said, “I need to meet with the wedding party so sit here and I’ll be back in a minute.” The table where I was seated was outdoors and there was all these hot girls wildly texting each other (Girls who, in the immortal patois of Holden Caulfield, ‘Look like they would be bitches if you got to know them.’) and I got bored and started cracking petty jokes, ie, I pointed at the Gazebo and started making connotations to Southern Comfort and said something like, It looks like the cover to William Faulkner’s Light in August) only none of the stuck-up bitches laughed or even acknowledged me b/c they were too monopolized tapping morose code like cryptograms into the cyclopic tint of their cell phones and then I took my cell phone out and purposefully dropped it in front of one of the girls so when I reached down to pick it up I could voyeuristically sneak and peek up her dress (even in my dreams I’m nothing short of incorrigible) and when I was lifting my head back up my dear friend Phoebe the hot lesbian was seated next to me and she was dressed to kill and her lips looked like she just spent the last half-hour making out with a maraschino cherry and she gave me a hug and asked me who I was here with and after I said your name she looked back at me in this quizzical fashion and said, “Chop-chop? I thought you guys were like exclusive?”
I then woke up to the bleeping herald of yer text arriving telling me that your step father has just said the word chop-chop (He must’ve been talking about going outside and cutting down some firewood after going hunting with your sister) and that you started laughing.

.......

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.

***

dream nov-23-09

Had a dream last night where it was the three of us (you, myself and Lord Byron) and we were crossing the road trying to get inside a trailer on the other side. You ran ahead and entered the abode first. I held your son's arm and we began to cross the cement arteries of the road together. Inexplicably, Amanda Shannon was behind us smoking a cigarette. A truck began to plough down the center of the road and I held your son's arm tighter so that he would refrain from running into the street and get hit by the smog- scowl of the oncoming vehicle. Byron then broke my grip and continued to run into the street as the truck accumulated velocity. I caught him at the last second and placed him in what in my vocation is called a small-child restraint (both arms lassoed around his chest in an X-like fashion) and we both barely avoided being hit by the passing truck...crazy...

(note:Jesskah and I broke up less than a week after this dream was perceived)

Letter from celine Montgomery about ex-love of my life....

"Yes, she is married. He proposed a few years back on the fourth of July--to lose your independence on independence day. They have been married almost two years now I believe. I am also under the impression they now live in Iowa. Strangely enough I had an apocalyptic dream a few nights back and guess who I came face to face with in the refugee field of the bomb shelter--none other than... Not exactly the last human being I want to see when the world is crumbling around me. Oddly her man was nowhere to be found and she made the announcement that they were unable to conceive children together. A dream of what is and of what is to come?"

10/7/09

dream about esme clack

about you last night. we were in the woods chasing a flurry of white tail deer when we found the paths "That the horses know well." When then decided to pack our provisions and follow the scent of the animals deep into the woods.....later we found out that we were really characters in this children's novel who had been given a quest on going on this epic sojourn to receive something that was lost a long time ago...hope all is well...

(esme got married four months declined fruther contact with this author)

arya dream

Had a dream last night where I met Daniela at Greenlake and we hooked up (naughty-naughty I know, but whatyagonnado). You were teaching overseas at the WORLD conference in CZECH with la Professor and we looked at a brochure and found your beautiful face.Things are beautiful and crazy. Got two more rejection letters yesterday (three so far this year but fuckit)...lots of more joyful craziness transpiring to impart but for now, my love........................................................

Dreams raked from the cement sidewalk dregs of my psyche during the last week of September, 2008

The dream convenes with the mysterious blue woman in the parking lot of the seedy town where I am waiting to catch the bus. She had black hair and was dressed in a riveting blue dress. The night before I saw her sitting on her blue back pack (she wore a blue hat as well) waiting for her ride, going in the opposite direction of me. Now she sat there, again on top of her luggage like a gnome and a stump, drinking what looked like hybrid between champagne and cheap forties. She then picked up her champagne bottle before hurtling it into the pavement turning the bottle into a jigsaw of shattered i-ching shards. As I walked over to her to see if anything was wrong and if I could somehow console her an oriental manager sprung out from a nearby gas station in harangue informing me that she was sylvia plathing out of control and that I was not welcome on his premises in an effort to quell her personal demons.


I was picked up by the skinny effeminate Mexican male in a truck. He took me to a seedy hotel room where he asked if he could make love to me. When I declined he brought in two other females and one man and said I could have either one I wanted. Later in the dream we were driving through the town when I told him that I lost my bus fare back home. He then gave me a fifty and said I could have it to pay for my travel expenses. When I arrived back at the bus stop the girl in the blue dress was still sitting there, looking the opposite direction, staring over a broken pond of crystallized shards, waiting for something that would perhaps never arrive.

****

Later in the dream I found myself paddling down the bucolic slither of nature that is Turkey Run with Dougie Closen, a grade school friend of mine. Doug and I were on a canoe trip purportedly with our church youth group. I had canoed down Sugar creek with friends a month prior (we actually partied so hard we were asked to leave the campsite but that's another can of gummy worms). My Uncle Larry was the head of the group but for reasons of destiny the bevy of canoes had split up and we found ourselves alone on the creek scattered from the remainder of the adventurous herd.

The creek was serpentine and split off into many winding escheresque rivulets and tributaries.
Doug and I were certain we were loss when we duly noted an upside down canoe and scattered paddles jettisoned and bobbing as if a ship wreck has just ensued and that surely someone had drowned. As we paddled over to the wreckage we realized that we were no longer lost and that we had arrived back at our starting point destination after all. My Uncle Larry then met us at the shore and lead us into the canoe rental building where we were expected to return our vessel. The lady was upset that I had been drinking in the canoe, stating that this was a "Lutheran" campsite. I, in return, started quoting Luther's small catechism and the lyrics to "A mighty fortress is our God."

As we began to clear out the back of our canoe my uncle handed us two blue duffel bags and told us that he had captured something, insinuating that it would be best if we not open the bags. My Uncle then set out in our canoe, down the river to look for the remainders of our troops. After waiting a few hours Doug and I became curious and unzipped the blue duffel bag. Inside was bifurcated lynx that quickly severed like a dented yin-yang emblem, transitioning into two feral

Jaguars. The demonic creatures leapt out and began to terrorize the inhabitants. Doug and I ran to the top of a two story look out post rising above the river. The campsite was in panic and disarray until a wise aged African man who was some sort of modern day tribal leader appeared with a musket shot the mother jaguar, stating that her dual, the child would be able not to fend for itself without her.

***

I found myself with immortal White Sox Slugger Jim Thome, pillaging through a mountainous heap of Junk in my grandmothers old garage. I was sifting through sunken debris of my childhood and youth, looking for the springed metal bed frame on which I was conceived. When we finally came across the bed frame (burrowed, very deep, Jim and I were wading up to the caps of our knees with swollen antiques from my youth) the lady who first hired me at my job at the library eight years ago entered the garage and snapped the bed frame from us, claiming that it was rightly hers and that if I wanted to keep my employment I would obey her request and yield the springed mattress accessory. After I watched her depart I realized I was late for a reading with my mentor, the late David Foster Wallace (god rest his soul). Since his suicide many a days have been spent trying to splatter my heart on to the court of the page in homage, thanking DFW (by far the writer who has had the biggest influence on my work) for simply everything he has given.

When I arrived at the poetry reading I was informed of Foster Wallace's suicide and told that all of the poems read that evening would be dedicated in his honor. I sat at the back next to a beautiful skinned yoga-anemic black haired woman who had her up tied up into a knob on the top of her head. She was wildly scribbling out poetic images into her notebook. One of her poems was about Johnny Depp and I chided her by stating something alliterative like, "What's gaping Gilbert grape." When It was my turned to read the Mc announced my name and a thunderous applause swept through the room. I looked into the interopr of my mocha-colored satchel, the bag where all of my literary tithes are stowed only to see that I had nothing and that I stared listlessly in my satchel at the David Foster wallace reading like a ten year old boy looking into an empty trick or treat bag.

I walked halfway up to the podium and the expectant din of the crowd when Jimbo (the village drunk) came up to me, his breath heavy with the rough scent of alcohol, telling me that he believes in me.

The next day I phoned the late david foster wallace's office in Pomona, even though he had been dead for nearly half a month. When I got his perfunctory voice mail I left a message of gratitude, thanking him for everything he has giving me, telling him even (in a non gay way) that I loved him, stating; "Love you buddy." at the end of my verbal homage, a serenade of unalloyed thanksgiving for every blessing bled from the calloused swirls of his fingertips given, so freely, to the ears of those who care enough about the human experience to listen and to seek.

Dream where I was in a banquet with david and sandy hale and that Mme Suhr
Was instructing a French exam and by the time I completed the exam I looked
Down on to the sheet and found my ink response a la francais that I had struggled to
Complete was blank….

Later in the dream I was dating an already married Stacy Ferguson (from kids incorporated, later of Duchess acclaim) and she was married to steve sanders from 90210 acclaim and the y lived in a shoddy house (the house was the house on the corner of ayres and cooper) behind the house where I actually lived, where the young couple lived, my mosdest father embarrassed to watch the wife sunbathe…

The house was drywalled plastered in little ant hills. I kissed “fergie” twice and asked her about rashan”the kids” and she told me she was gay before telling me that her marriage was failing. We kissed again. And I awoke.

Dream morning of october 24th, 2007

found myself in the front row of an awards ceremony in the auditorium of my grade school. There was an award for Sasha Cohen (hotty, red headed femaleOlympic figure skater) only Sasha was crippled andI carried her onto the stage. As I was ferrying her upto the podium I whispered to her that nothing turns me on more than watching someone who is "suffering overcome"I then kissed her pasty neck (which perturbed her) and then returned to my seat alone. After the ceremony I was helping to tear down the podium and chairs on the stage when sasha clattered up to me. She looked ravishing, was wearing a reddress and red shoes ( here's a pic I found later the next day)and the minute I saw her accosting me I knew she was a mystic.She was no longer crippled and the second she came close to me She pushed me down, supine on my back, straddled her limbsaround my torso and demanded, "Give me your palm!" (Note:pleaseremember Sasha's straddle first technique the next time you read my palm) She looked at my palm and immediately inquired: "So what's her name?" So I relayed the whole Diggory-Polly antics of our beloved dance, mentioning your name to herin my dream. She then continued to loose herself inside mypalm like a mirror for what seemed like dream days. I toldher more about our rapport but she seemed lost solely in my palm...I know...talk to the hand.....

dreamt 1-17-07