Dream Three:

DREAM THREE:

I really have to start drinking Valerian Root more regularly. Coupled with hard cidre it is the very epitome of relaxation, depressive triggers notwithstanding. For once I can treat myself to the comfort of an entire five-act play. Shannon was wrong; art really does emanate from the same place as do dreams. And Jung was right; if you strip away the surface, you can find underneath the curtain of consciousness a drama more elaborate than Shakespeare.

Being nocturnal, sleeping during the day, helps as well. Or so I hope.

THE PARTY:

Prior to waking up in what might have been a cold sweat, I dreamt about the Old Group.

I must have had a false awakening. It was night when I discovered that my parents had gotten drunk and let some of my old ‘friends’ into the Family Home. I was roused from my slumber, whether literal or figurative, by the voice of Rob Pesta, going on to Andrew and (as I dreaded most) Kresten, probably about me. Here I knelt, in this same very room from whence I write at present, listening in at the door.

In the dream they had elected inexplicably to stay downstairs up until this point in stead of harassing me directly: an obvious reference to the lowliness of their egalitarianism.

I knew that it would not be long before they at least had the opportunity to come upstairs, so I devised in desperation a means by which to keep them at bay.

When Rob came knocking at my bedroom door, insisting that the guys wanted ONLY TO TALK*, I all ready had my hand upon the door Knob. It must have felt long before Rob took my silence for consent to enter, swiftly corrected by my stoppering hand. He became enflamed, his Venutian vanity turning to self-righteousness as he fought briefly with me for the door.

When he had given up, I stuck a nail into the exposed floorboard in the ceiling up above, so as to keep that door shut for good.

*to manipulate via Intersubjectivity.

It was not long before then however that I was out on the Balconi overlooking the dimly lit scene, coloured a nauseating hue like bad ground beef and soggy macaroni. Andrew was outside my parents’ room; I guess I had come out to protect them. He was pissed off, and I was pissed off at him for being pissed off. An altercation ensued. I ended up with him on the floor. I had him by the neck. He had me, too. But I had the upper hand. And his friends did not find the nerve to come up to our level to break up the fight or overpower me. So I guess both the Angry Jew and I had then the Higher Ground.

THE DOGS:

The dream changed. I was in the car with Rob, again. We had to find all the run-

Away dogs. Kresten was running after our car. But Rob kept driving. Together,

We managed to recover most of them. But then Rob told me that he was missing one.

He said he thought he knew who might have it. We were parked at a gasoline station. Kresten had stopped trying to Keep up with us. Rob dropped me off. I asked him who the perpetrator was. He said: a man without a face.

Then he drove off.

MIKE:

At home, my room-mate Mike Daniels told me that he had acquired Kim Jung Il’s old Hookah. We celebrated. We had a very surprisingly civil conversation about politics. We discussed the Olympics.

I explained the theory of Emotivism to him. It took a moment to sink in.

But old Mike got it. We agreed that being self-responsible means that you can blame any one so long as you have cause to, but you can’t blame someone for blaming Others. Not if they have cause. I agreed with Mike to pardon Andrew. After all: you can’t stay angry at someone for getting angry with cause. Pretending that Andrew did not have cause did not give ME cause for anger. Mike promised to deliver the message to Andrew at the Hospital. He said that had he been there he would have stood up for his friends.

KYLE:

Mike and I then took a drive in his new Z to Kyle Mylonakis’ old home. It was Easter. His father had succeeded in what Kyle, in Actuality, had all ways gone on about: buying annually a dead goat. As the beast stared at me and Mike with lifeless eyes Kyle lectured us on the early orthodox Christian notions of the scapegoat and how it related to the archetype of Capricorn.

Kyle’s dog then ran up to me. He began to attack my crotch. The dog, I mean. Mike got the dog off of me as Kyle laughed. I recognized the dog. It was on a photo that Rob had showed me.

ROB:

Mike and I called up Rob and returned the dog to him. Rob was relieved. He invited me and Mike over for tea. As he poured some sort of ginseng bullshit I asked who the faceless man was. He said that he was not qualified to divulge this information. Mike got a Knowing Look. When Rob left to use the bathroom, I told Mike not to hate Rob so much. Mike told me he did not. We finished our tea. Rob came back. As we took our leave of his place, Rob told us to Keep an eye out for his new Elliott Smith covers. I guess rap lends itself to Indie Rock really well if you do it Right. We stepped outside then.

Within moments Mike was screaming uncontrollably. Apparently someone had stolen his tires. Rob and I wondered about who could possibly have followed us all the way up the Mountain where Rob lived. Rob then suddenly wore a Knowing look not unlike Mike’s.

The dream ended with the last dog barking.

Dm.A.A.