Ghost Chicken

I had the most compelling, detailed dream I've had in a long time this morning.

I was in Japan with Sarah, which was apparently her homeland. She was telling me that the bugs got worse the closer you were to the east or west coasts. I asked, "Are we near a coast?" and just as I asked, we rounded a corner and came into view of the Yellow Sea. We went into a beach cabin right up against the water with the top half of the seaward wall cut out to make a window. I looked at the sea which, just like pictures I'd seen, was as blue as the Mediterranean (in spite of the name). I commented how pretty of a blue it was and Sarah agreed. I noticed that the big swells were coming up to the bottom edge of the window. I talked with Sarah. I'd had amnesia and couldn't remember knowing her that long and I was still learning about her, but I knew that we had had a long romantic history and I could feel it in our magnetism. The ocean swells got bigger and bigger, tipping over the edge of the window and into the room, rising in glorious curves and sometimes cresting a little before rolling over the low wall into the room. The room was starting to fill up with water. I got more and more lost in the wave motion as I became increasingly concerned about our precarious situation.
....
I went into the bathroom that I knew Sarah was taking a shower in to pee. Looking up I saw a girl was in the upper bunk of the shower/bunk-bed Sarah was showering in. I know the girl because I went to primary and secondary school with her. Her actual name in real life, weirdly enough and by the way, is Sarah (Rodgers). She was pretty and brassy with curly red hair, but we'd never had any affinity or much interaction in school. She was talking with my Sarah, who she was evidently close friends with. She'd gotten cooler with time. She'd seen me naked peeing, but her facial reaction indicated that she didn't give a shit and I decided I didn't give a shit either. I saw her partly naked later and similarly didn't care.

I went to another room to visit with some old high school friends, Nick and Dana. Like every nerd in my high school I'd had a crush on Dana (and had actually gone to prom with her), but she and Nick were genuinely close friends. Apparently they'd finally started dating in the last few months (in real life Nick recently married). When I entered the room, Dana was sitting on the bed and Nick was in the bathroom taking a shower. I attempted a stab at awkward conversation, talking about how many people have such specific and unique taste in jeans that it seems like they only own one pair of jeans, like the way cartoon characters always wear the same outfit. This was true of Dana and is also true of Sarah, Howard and a lot of other people I know. Dana was wearing her characteristic jeans in the dream. I was still trying to explain what I meant when Nick came in and gave Dana a provocative kiss. I feebly tried to finish explaining and/or relieve the awkwardness for another few seconds before I gave up and sheepishly left.

I went back to the bathroom where Sarah and her friend were talking. They mentioned a French word used in a Lady Gaga lyric. I asked about it. Sarah explained it was pronounced "Troce" and meant close affection. I asked how it was spelled and Sarah's friend patiently spelled it for me. It was spelled bizarrely (complete with three syllables and an "eaux" that wasn't even at the end of the word) and I knew I'd have to write it down, so I asked to hear the spelling again after I'd gotten pen and paper. The spelling Sarah gave was slightly different and similarly nonsensical. For the next few minutes I'd periodically interrupt their conversation to ask them to clarify how it was spelled and they would patiently spell it for me, each time more confusing than the one before it. Given my weird relationship with French, that of being the only of my close friends with strong French heritage but also being in the minority among them for not speaking it (and not even speaking another language fluently), the experience was naturally alienating and I was kind of jealous of the obviously close relationship Sarah and her friend had.
....
At this Mongolian fried chicken stand (little whole chickens on skewers), I had a brain wave to ask if the stand owner needed a new employee because Matt Wingert, despite his half-finished PhD in Mechanical Engineering, desperately needed a job to pay rent. The stand owner agreed to consider him so I brought Matt over. The guy asked if he'd be okay with killing chickens with his bare hands. Matt said "I'd love to", but the uncertainty in his voice was unmistakable. I told the chicken stand owner that though I'd masked my fear better when interviewing for jobs past, I'd always risen to whatever daunting task I was set to with aplomb and Matt would be the same way. To demonstrate, I offered to kill a chicken myself. I killed a defeathered chicken and stripped off the skin in one pull (like can be done with rabbits). The stand owner was happy with that and it sounded like he was going to hire Matt, but as we were talking the chicken skin stood up on its own and started moving around like it was alive. I was like, "Holy shit it's an actual ghost chicken!" but the owner said, "It's just epidermal nerve activity and muscle memory." The chicken started to move aggressively towards me. I tried to bat it away, but I was so unnerved, I wasn't very effective. The chicken advanced on me menacingly, preparing to attack. Then I woke up.

Cheers, All
Enjoy!

Turning Back the Clock

I had a dream that suddenly I was fourteen again, in my Dad's house. I asked Dad what had happened. He wasn't sure, but suggested that I take this opportunity to correct my life's mistakes. I thought about what I would do differently. I thought briefly that I'd have more incentive to keep my grades up. My life would be so much easier if I'd gotten a grade point higher by 0.07 (anything below a 3.0 is a tough sell for grad school). Thinking on that, I realized that no, I'd probably repeat that particular mistake. It wasn't as if I was unaware of the consequences the first time around. I'd know how to deal with a few ornery classes and professors, but it wouldn't make enough of a difference. I'd probably be more successful with dating, knowing how to deal with girls. I thought about all the roads untaken and how different of a person I could be but for a few matters of happenstance. Would I have flowered in a more competitive university like Berkeley?
I looked for the bathroom, but I'd forgotten that a little later in my original timeline my sister had discovered two secret rooms in Dad's house that had been converted into the main bathroom (the other one had become a closet, I think, by 2011). So, I re-"discovered" those secret rooms, thereby changing the course of history according to my priveledged knowledge of the future.

I'd forgotten how incredibly small Bri was when I was fourteen. Now she's roughly my size, give or take six inches, but back then she was much smaller than me. She hadn't had any kind of growth spurt and was the little, feisty kid I remember her being. As soon as I started knocking at walls she began ferreting out the painted-over outlines of hidden doors and casing the new rooms.

The Aimee Mann Journey

I played an album on low volume while going to sleep from freshman year until I started sharing my bed. I have returned to that tradition since moving to my new room. Last night I forgot to search the album to exclude the rest of my library, so I woke at one in the morning to the crooning of Aimee Mann, remembering a dream that involved her.

I was trying to get across San Clemente to an Aimee Mann house show. I remember images of different parts of the city that I passed through. I remember kids playing at a park/beach and climbing up the slide to get to the street. I remember trying to get my bearings from the remarkably mountainous coastal hills. I remember the frustration of being lost, of being late and wondering whether I'd ever get there.

Then I was there. I was talking with Aimee Mann about some promotional chocolate she'd given out at her last show. It had been really good and I wanted to know where I could get more. I wanted a pound-- no, maybe more. It was, after all, really good. I remember deciding I'd be willing to buy a hundred dollars worth of chocolate, whatever the rate, so that I could distribute it to friends. That's when I woke up and realized my itunes was still playing.

I've been unsuccessfully trying to get myself to go to some KDVS house shows recently. Jill seemed to like the few shows I took her to, but I suspect she unconsciously let house shows die. I could never get my roommates to go with me before Jill, so most of my memories of house shows are going on my own, chatting sporadically with acquaintances but mostly feeling alone in a crowd. The music was always interesting and usually worth it. It seems like an appropriate thing to pick back up now that I'm on my own again. I'm going to make a point of at least attending the upcoming ORMF.

Sensualist Dream

My fellow blogger Rob challenged some friends to write a paragraph with the title "Sensualist Dream", whatever we thought it should be. Here's my submission.

Curled up in my bed, comforter wrapped around me, I gradually become conscious of the world. I can hear rain on the roof and sense the light of the muted sky. I am curled up, wrapped around my blanket and my blanket is wrapped around me. The walls are insubstantial, they are only half there. Now only a third, now a quarter. Soon I will forget there were walls at all. I am a cloud, floating on the sea, drifting away. I notice delicate conformational changes in my cloud. Finely tuned responses to invisible forces around me, my form moves in perfect concert with my environment. A passing bird wouldn't suspect my cloud as anything but ordinary. My cloud begins to take interpretive liberties with its reciprocation, flowing more and more freely, assuming wilder and wilder forms. Maybe a giraffe, now a ballerina, now a simple, beautiful girl. Her very curves caress and embrace me wholly. I linger on that moment. The pattering rain reminds me of the preciousness of every moment. I think of the dew-cool land stretching out in all directions. I think of the hills near the bay, green with rain, rolling endlessly, hiding oaks in their seams, and the blessed inhabitants of that Eden, the fluffy sheep. The fluffy sheep don't believe in time. I don't either. The fluffy sheep bah in unison, at first very quietly, but with increasing volume until it feels as if the entire world has joined in. The fluffy sheep have crowned me king. King of the dew-cool grass, king of the sky, king of the hills and of the oaks hidden in their seams. King of all things conceived, king of all the worlds pulsing, exhuding, emanating from my cloud. My clouds' wisps are fractals. Worlds within worlds, thoughts within thoughts, my realm is bounded cozily by infinity. I take to tracing the outline of my realm. The vast expanse yawns ahead of my walking figure. My pace quickens. Faster and faster, until I am rushing with my thoughts sprawling rampant alongside me, like a stampede of animals fleeing wildfire, the desperate glint of animal fear in all their eyes. Squirrels, rabbits, deer and bears alongside each other, fur flying, trampling each other, the desperate agony of flight overshadowed only by the threat of fiery death. Outlines of some animals blur into phantom streaks of outreaching terror, others burst into flame, flying like torches through the night. I can hear the torchlight like a million needles, like grim laughter. Hopelessness grips me and my will falters. I allow the wildfire to overtake me. Like a wave, it overtakes me all at once. Yet, it does not burn. The flames licking my flesh are pleasantly warm. I lean back into the feeling. The flames lick over all my body. I close my eyes and withdraw into my mind, searching for patterns in the sensation. The heat intensifies gradually, almost imperceptibly, to a pleasant burn, then hotter. Pleasure begins to flicker back and forth with pain, but still the heat grows. I fight to keep my attention on the good in the feeling, but the intensity makes my task increasingly difficult. I can only perceive the heat as pain. Barely tolerable, my skin begins to sear. Every nerve ending in my body screams with pain. My mind's order begins to break down and writhe. My mind joins in screaming chorus with my skin. My muscles capitulate soon after, thrashing against the unbearable scorch. Then, just as suddenly as that wave of wildfire had overtaken me, the inferno vanishes, leaving all but the vestigial glow of heat on skin. Like a sunburn, I feel all my skin radiate heat off, to my blanket, and reflect back onto my skin. I bask in my oven of afterglow, pondering life's caprice.

The Dream Where I Chat Up George Bush

I guess it's the warm weather and my screwy summer sleep schedule, but it seems like every morning I wake up remembering some wild dream. The other day I had the craziest of them all.

The first thing I remember is that there were thousands of people piled on a couple of huge yellow plastic sheets, floating in the ocean. They were refugees, I think from Katrina or something, and I don't know why the plastic sheets supported them, but they did. Now the bigger one started sliding over the smaller one like two icebergs or two continental plates. I knew the people covered over would drown, so having somehow moved from an observing position to being among the refugees I got someone I knew to hop into the water with me to help pull the larger plastic sheet towards shore and off of the smaller one. We swam hard and pulled and soon we had freed the other raft. Don't ask me where I got the strength because I haven't done anything remotely grueling all summer.

Our work done, we started swimming for shore. What I had taken to be New Orleans levees now appeared akin to the breakwaters of Dana Point harbor. We had a quarter mile to go. By the time we swam into the harbor the person with me was this girl I was interested in. Not one with any correspondence in real life, before you ask. When we were only a hundred yards from the docks, John Lazur and an unidentified buddy of his swam out to meet us and John offered to swim me to shore. I may not be the fastest swimmer, but I can certainly hold my own, so naturally I felt a little patronized. I said we didn't need the help, but John replied that it would be silly to refuse when it was no trouble for him. Before I could respond, he grabbed me tightly and swam fast as a rocket to the main dock.

While we were getting out of the water, I thanked John for a bottle of wine he had given me for my birthday. It was a really good bottle of wine, I said, like probably a twenty dollar one. He said it was just something he'd had laying around. I insisted, but he repeated that it was just something he had lying around and refused to admit it was an expensive bottle. He explained that he had been thinking about giving me one of his one-third-full bottles of good gin (apparently he owned an array of brands), but had rather give away the bottle of wine.

On our way home I was still trying to catch the interest of that girl. We were in a bus with a bunch of people. The girl spoke up and proposed a group party with pizza and cake and offered to host. I sat there trying to figure out if it was a good sign, fully aware that I was completely over-analyzing the situation.

I found myself visiting Washington DC in the late afternoon. There was some sort of convention that evening that I was attending. I presume it was Democratic, because the proximity of the DNC and of all the time I've been spending with politically-obsessed Democrats. Looking for a way to kill time I noticed the White House was nearby and walked over to check it out (it looked suspiciously like a super-sized version of my great-grandmother's old house). I noticed none other than George Bush chilling in the back yard. A little star-stricken, I struck up a conversation. He turned out to be friendly and easy to talk to. I mentally confirmed that poll about Bush being a good guy to have a beer with. While we were talking the White House collapsed. George Bush didn't seem concerned and we continued chatting. I started asking him about his Presidency. Being mindful of my historic hatred of the man, I was careful not to say anything that might offend him. I asked him about how his administration worked internally. Perhaps he perceived it a loaded question or maybe it was too journalistic, but at that George paused and before he had a chance to say anything he began to fade away. He faded away until he was gone completely and with it, my dream.