I dreamt that I was at home with my family. The time of day
must have been no later than the mid-after noon,yet the gray sky had a quality
of dreariness to it that felt almost unending and permanent in its constancy,as
though it had the comfort of serving an ashtray. It felt bleak but
dynamic in its sterility, forgiving in its very impersonal and objective
detachment, yet looming as though behind the black pepper-gray veil of the sky
lopomed a whirlpool.
I was in the nook of the kitchen. My family accompanied
me, although I only really remember my mother and father.*My sister’s
involvement would have been so affected that it was at most insubstantial
and,at best, she was absent;therelative vivdness of my parents’ appearances
underscored this.
*vividly
A grizzly bear had appeared in our back yard. I saw him from
the patio outside the nook. I might revise that statement to say that We saw
it. He (I presumethe bear to have been male)did not appear vicious, but he
acted with a primal authority
resembling nothing of our civilised manner. He evoked strongly Ali’s wolf; he was only a menace to us by virtue of an impersonal natural
pattern. Were we bears, we would have probably had no conflict with him.
We rushed to lock all of the doors and windows. He could not
reach us once they were all secured, which we accomplished promptly. He had
nomalicious intent towards us; in fact, he appeared quite innocent,though his
power and status were of intimidating
superiority. He wanderedabout beyond the glass that would look out on the back
yard. I glimpsed him from the kitchen.He was mere centimeters from the glass
window in the television room. He was aimless , but wild.
An anxiety lingered among us, naturally, in juxtaposition to
our sense of assuredness and security.We found Pumpkin to be safe when we had
closed the windows, but only after we had done so. He kept barking.
The dream sequence repeated after something or another
distracted mefor some short time. Maria had with certainty been present
in the house,but she may have made no appearance visibly.
When the sequence repeated, we did not get the window-doors
closed in time.
A long and elaborate set of transitions took me to the setting of an independent rock
concert. Unless I am mistaken, some peers and I had fled near dusk to a beach.
The steep stone wall from Kresten’s recurrent dream stood behind us. The
beach was populated by predominantly people ourage but, inclusively, people of
practically all ages taking part in a celebration in spite of total anarchy as
though in the midst of an unsteady truce with a fascist ic force.
Prior to
this or following it, though probably prior, we were aboard aship that was, in
retrospect, probably Kresten’s vessel. It was populated by a crowd,however,
that formed a kind of disorganised mo nastic order of punks and other people
with the demeanour of lower-class
gruffness. I say ‘monastic’ because of the stringency with which the members of
this group,most akin in dynamic and function to the cast and’crew ‘of a
theatre, enforce d social expectations amongst their crew which were of almost
Kafkaesque ambiguity and absurdity. It washard to tell who was running the
event and who was a mere spectator,though the leader was very
clearly distinguished. The overall operation must have been to transport this
vessel of fugitives.A concert was going
on this entire time. It was a battle of the bands. I had made an effort to
assemble a band, taking up the bass guitar.
We pract iced little. I was ultimately left on my own in the
crowded cabin venue to play my bass guitar.I tried joining a band on bass.A
minor riot from the audience
interrupted, if memory serves, our awkward set.Soon, the cabin was as
desolate as the gray walls of its interior.The riot may have been caused by the arrival of our captain,the aforementioned feared
leader.
The riot was not by any means a revolt against him,but
something he had either wittingly or unwittingly prompted.
By another bizarre chain of segues, I wound up in Rancho
Bernardo. The settings and event might have been a mirror image, in particular
least, of my long ponderous walk with Pumpkin. My at tention envelope d all the seedy, amoral aspects of the Carl’s Jr. plaza that my waking consciousness like to omit. As though
to elucidate the Shadow of my wak ing mysticism and idealism, a treacherously godlike glow
overlooked the intersection of what I will call Sivrita and Venusto*like a mechanical eye glossed over with a film like
soap in the midday Sun.
Kyle Mylonakis accompanied me along this path towards a lawn.I
maintained a dialogue with himthe ntire
time.
Ultimately, he had me confront a dog that was entirely white and
had a wolflike snout.He had her on a leash. She tried to attack my
*In Actuality, far from Sivrita, I am referring to the
intersection that, coming down a slope, one is met with a small but captivating
grove of trees reminjiscent of a forest and a small bunch of houses, like the
head of a horseshoe crab, enclosing a slope running deeper down into a gated
community to one’s left. The The Rancho Bernardo Community Center is to the
left and ahead diagonally, its entrance justdown the road one meets.
Crotch.I had tried,
prior to our arrival at the corner of
the intersection just past the Community Center, to count the b eats in a
melody of my own composition to see if it could accord with one of,I think,
Kresten’s . This was a mirror of conscious neurosis – a replica. Upon attack
by the
dog,I admitted to Kyle that I was repressing sexual desire for my
mother. He grinned.
Our dialogue continued as a stream of consciousness after
I passed into the waking world,
becoming more and more muddled until mymother looking into my bedroom submerged it definitively.
dm.A.A.
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