Holding eight baby chimpanzees in my/your arms. At the end of a hall, behind a curtain, during a film shoot.
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Tree Cottage in Washington State
A group of about 6 girls charge into the boy’s locker room, in towels, to officially request better treatment from a coach/official. Unexpectedly, they take the intrusion seriously and treat it the same as if boys had charged into the boys locker room, and have the police arrest them. They sit in a row in jail looking dejected and shocked.
Two sisters, one on a motorbike. Experience of sucking one’s own penis, but from the perspective of slutty sister. Feels like a baton or walking stick.
Watching what seems like a pricey daycare service van with a male driver yell at a few of the toddlers. I raise my eyebrows trying not to show my disapproval — it’s hard enough being male in childcare, I think, and the woman working with him looks like just as much a pill. I use a back door through the messy garage.
Tree in a grassy fenced backyard somewhere in sparsely-populated rural Washington state. I consider it for the site of a cottage-sized tiny home. But if instead I put it in the chain-link fenced lot next door, it looks like it would fit snugly, even have a backyard of its own.
There’s a zombie outbreak. Only one survivor, the smartest man there (someone who appears as the Deep Space 9 character of Chief O’Brien). The town has to be abandoned and they reboot the series.
Naked, in a coin-operated shower, in a parking lot, without glasses on. Phone is on the soap tray. I’m alternately wearing a shirt or pants, washing one area at a time. I see a group of plainclothes cops walk by and start preparing arguments in my head, concerning this being private property and the property owner losing money if these showers weren’t here. They pass me by as if the arguments were a forcefield.
I meet Lindsay Ellis who has a new convertible she named Felony (unexplainably). I swing above and around the parked car and we get to friendly conversing. But while sitting at a long wooden outdoor dining table, something I say or do shuts her down. She excuses herself hastily and drives away. My wife and I puzzle over it together; I lament that I didn’t even record the conversation.
I run out the front door after strapping on my paramotor flying machine and I’m airborne in a few seconds, I even see her car make the turn at the end of my street. But I never catch her and the dream ends.
A fancy diamond ring. The appraiser comments “I shouldn’t ask how you got this”. Two large studs sit on either side, with rectangular chunks shifting between them, rotating and moving in and out of alignment. It shifts before my eyes and the big, flat sides take on a tiger’s eye gem-like chattoyance — then its aspect shifts again, altering itself into a large, expensive house, the flat chunky side becomeing a fake 3-car garage. It’s a neat trick which fools buyers into thinking the house is worth more than it is.
Chicken John, holding a picket sign, demonstrates how perfectly covering a loudspeaker with it can effectively block all the sound produced.
Licking the back end of a very attractive girl — on behalf of a professor. In a moment, Soviet-type police start giving the professor trouble for not having permits. They tear off his jacket sleeve trying to escort him down a wide stairway. Because he well-understands jacket engineering (and the actual social hierarchy dynamic at play) he tears off one of theirs right back, starting with the coattails.
Old X-shaped motor-inn motel has been thoughtfully converted into big Asian restaurant with Tiki styling. While inspecting the layout, peeking over internal balconies on the second floor, I look through their vintage 1950s-70s tea brewing machines. Japanese-made, some have delicate tea room scenes built inside them. The last one turns out to be in current use, I’m startled to discover while peering closely, when a waiter comes over to use it.
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Doppelrätters
A group of tiny look-alike rats has sneaked their way into our home. I pick up a small one, it’s blocky, with chunky, almost gargoyle-like features. Henry chases one of them. I find many of them in a small 10-gallon plastic cage, noting that these wild intruders each appear be a different take on our existing rats.
Meanwhile, one of our own rats is missing (that we don’t have in waking reality) named Amethyst. I’d almost forgotten about him/her, but they haven’t been seen in weeks. We suspect it ran off.
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Flying Onto a Skyscraper at Dusk
Near dusk, while flying my paramotor, I buzz right above kids playing in a schoolyard and land in a corner of a vast skyscraper.
On the landing strip, helium is advertised by claiming that Iran knows about it’s production — something that I assume makes it less vulnerable. The wind picks up, and the helium tank on my flying vehicle becomes harder to control.
I need to leave a theater, a theater where they like me, even asking me personally to come back. Maybe I’m an actor. As I go, standing on the threshold of a shattered window, I fill my jacket pockets with plastic beads from a broken necklace and tiny pebbles of pyrite.
I find an M16 handle found in bag of my brother Chris’ old stuff, examining it on my apartment’s rear balcony.
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Ritzy Post-Soviet Neighborhood
Visiting a quiet city reminiscent of Eastern Europe. I drive my partner to a small, private neighborhood built around a flat, park-like open space. An older resident, a member of the post-communist bourgeoisie, shows me that you can fly up in the center and view the neighborhood from above. I see what can be described as concrete cubicles many stories tall, containing entire mansions the size of a city block.
I zoom in on the center of the street where stands a very good replica of the Parthenon, exactly as archaeologists found it, with all the ancient debris dutifully and artfully replicated in loving detail. They have at least one performer who re-enacts as a pre-socratic philosopher in daily performances. We drive out of the neighborhood, pulling away from the elegant, curving, grass-lined drive.
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my friend posted about a cat hair rug
Oh man, how do I do this? I’ve never shared it like this before.. um, ok, so in December 1978 someone made a bland, but relatable, but insidious observation, a copy of which never, ever leaves the space inside my skull. It lives in me.
Except every time there is cat hair, any cat hair (for it is the case that our thoughts of cat hair are its form in our world)… it emerges. Then again back inside, until the next time. And the next. And the next. It’s tiny, but immortal. Waiting. Listening. Silent. Ready. Until the next time. And the next.
And… I hope you can appreciate what it means if you choose to know it. I hope you can honor what it means to even allude to a presence, a presence like the one I’ve known.
An egregore.
Understand: you called to it. You spoke its words here and (in its way) it guided me to them. It sees, and wants to be seen. It calls now; it calls to you.
(How do you feel about “neutral evil” ? If you had a tumor, you’d rather it be benign, wouldn’t you? Is an idea alive, and if not, then how can it die? Do you believe today that you even know what a meme really is?)
I WASN’T EVEN ALIVE IN 1978.
Ok.
Last chance…..
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Here is a Garfield cartoon I saw as a kid. Yes.
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Volcanic Old Crush Sex
My third grade crush sits right on my face! See her hips move slowly down without seeing her face. Hairless. She’s rewarding me for something, my expertise and skilled performance. We’re glad to see each other again after so many years. I don’t think she has kids in this lifetime.
Two Danish tourists are swingers. Not important to the story, but they were there. I have an appointment to keep and need to climb the lines of a long diagonal tramway upwards to meet our Atlas Obscura tour boat. I get there with just a bit of time to spare, overlooking a small dainty Greek island I’ve been to before. So small, almost a carved model.
The volcano explodes, but I know what to do. It’s the first time in my life I’ve been close enough to feel the shockwave.
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Dara, a Pastel Rat
I spot my old crush Dara walking across the crosswalk outside my house. She’s dressed in faded pastels, a pastel hoodie pulled over her head. I recognize her despite the personally unlikely color palette and the odd gait she has, a side-to-side waddle like her hips are too big.
She turns into a rat, scrabbling around the kitchen for Teddy Grahams to eat. Squeezing inside an empty milk jug, I start feeding her Teddy Grahams.