on the boat alone and she was doing a voiceover while I was watching like a film as the camera slowly zoomed in on her face and you could see the age on her face but it continued to swoop into her eyes until she disappeared. That’s all I remember. What the hell it means, maybe my libido is saying “I’m on my way to China, there’s no action around here” or maybe it means I had a crush on my neighbor’s grandmother when I was four and all she did was spit walnuts at a picture of Richard Burton. Those nasty bagged walnuts that probably had been through two to three incarnations as another nut before being hosed down and tossed on a shelf. I get freaked out by what I ate when I was young. Hallowe’en makes my teeth hurt; my teeth remember the gallons of candy I used to rack up in Indiana. When I was young I wore those awful plastic body bibs with the plastic mask spray painted with asbestos and crushed dolphin babies with two slits half the diameter of an M&M for your nose to breathe through so it gave you an idea of what it really felt like to be Darth Vader; I remember keeping the mask on not for joy of imagination but to fight for the fucking candy! Give me the candy! I’ll keep this CIA designed torture device on my face and breathe my death to get the candy. At that point I started designing costumes using boxes. Ample body room and no involuntary facials. One year I was a robot. The next an airplane with about a three foot wing span. Since then, I’ve celebrated All Hallow’s Eve with some of the greatest costumes ever set to human body,a ll homemade: Beetlejuice, Blackula, three eared killer rabbit, undead Colonel Sanders, Emperor Palpantine (pre Robot Chicken), Nancy Kerrigan, and other costumes for other parties include Mary Lou Retton and Harry Carry, cubs broadcaster; in recent years it’s lost is fervor in me. Ah well, I do have two ideas for the next parade or party, be it this Saturday or Arbor Day.
I did have that dream with Elizabeth Taylor. If I wake up feeling it, I know it lives inside me somewhere. I’m down with the natives here, or my angry native spirit guide whom I’ll refer to as Chief Double Down, as we’ve reduced them to blackjack tables in legalized gambling pockets all over this impending spiritual geyser dubbed America. Dreams are the smoke rings of the native American’s sex with nature. It is all a wonderland of our being and I value dreams; I go through phases where I record like mad and sometimes I forget. I used to have this dream dictionary I got for $10 by this German sounding dude named Werloff Vempkt or something like this. $10 to pay for my psyche, really. Pick any object you dream of, like a pair of tweezers and I’d get this kind of meaning:
tweezers: to dream of using tweezers means you will be eaten by a leprechaun. If you are swimming with tweezers toward a waterfall you hate your mother and you will kill your mother. If the tweezers are attacking you bad luck will befall you and your nursemaid. Hail Hitler!
That might be the same dude that wrote my sex ed book for the Catholic Church in 7th grade I talked about earlier. Maybe they were lovers or wanted to be. How the hell I got that book was in a discount bin at Barnes and Noble.
Some dreams tack themselves inside the wall of your being and melt under your skin and stick for years. I’ve had a couple of those. Some follow me around for a couple of days. I’ll get a feeling that I’ve actually been to wherever I dreamt because I can feel it walking around more than walking by the bodega. The barnacles of life ares sometimes rolled up in quiet little frenzies whirling through our dreams , letting us know that somewhere we have another pulse.
