Woman arrested for lewd and unseemly conduct in local area subconscious. Details at 11.
I miss dreaming.
come hither - back off
I'm quite sure I dream. Unfortunately, my previous little neurological incident resulted in a tendency to remember nothing at all of my nightly subconscious romps amongst a bed of amoral petunias. I do have occasional moments of rue, as my past history of dreaming was quite spectacular. Filmworthy, frankly. Better yet, I used to sleepwalk. Therefore, not only did I freak myself out with my less-than-appropriately-childlike dreams, I'd make it a family affair.
For instance, late one night about 25 or 30 years ago, my mother was awoken by noises outside her bedroom door. A little concerned, she crept out to investigate. Like a clip from The Shining, standing dead centre in the hallway was a little girl wearing a frilly dress, staring at her unblinkingly. An immediate "does not compute" warning blared in dear Ma's noggin. It's two in the bloody morning. There's a girl in the hallway. Looks like my daughter. Can't be. What the hell is that thing she's wearing? Dress. No, pyjamas. Must wear pyjamas. Not dress. Pyjamas. Dress. She's wearing a dress. I don't recognize it. How can you not recognize it? You make all her bloody clothes! Look, when I say I don't recognize it, I don't recognize it. I didn't make it. Did too. Did not. You had to. You think she sewed it herself in the past 4 hours? Well, you never know -- it's possible. Obviously you've been awoken from a deep sleep, otherwise you wouldn't be thinking freakish insanity. Your daughter can barely write her name, yet suddenly she's the next Chanel? How long have I been talking to myself while standing in the dark staring at my daughter staring at me? Do I look like I'm wearing a wristwatch? Perhaps I should say something. You think? Right, I'll say something.
"Mmm glark pruckie smoor."
"Smoog, dear, are you awake?"
"I need a brick."
"Where did you get that dress? Where are your pyjamas?"
"You can't wear pyjamas to a party, silly."
"Oh, of course."
"The queen gave it to me."
"The dress. The queen gave it to me. It's pretty."
"Yes it is. Queen Elizabeth was very nice to give it to you."
"There's another one?"
"Well, which one gave the dress to you?"
"Queen Snowflake. She's a horse."
"Um. I see."
"What? What brick?"
"I need a brick."
"Why do you need a brick?"
"To build the house."
"This one, silly!"
At this point, obviously disgusted with the moron who had been sent to assist me, I flounced back down the hallway into my bedroom. Mom followed, to discover I had immediately thrown myself back into bed, frilly dress and all, and immediately sunk back into deep sleep, my pyjamas crumpled on the floor. The next morning I woke up, very puzzled as to why Mom had decided to change me out of my pyjamas into a costume from the play trunk, a dress she had worn as a girl in a dance recital.
Actually, it was the same dress I had worn when I had a top bunk and my younger brother had the bottom one. It was again a late night, and we had snuck into the trunk to play dress-up. I was in the frilly dress, he was in a Dracula get-up, and I was whispering merrily to him while hanging my head over the bunk edge when I fell out. And landed on my head. And knocked myself unconscious. After a few moments of extreme whiteness, my vision returned to reveal 3 heads hovering directly above me: my younger brother's, my mother's, and my father's. None of them looked particularly happy to see me. I wonder why?
On another occasion, my sister was lucky enough to wake up in time to follow me down the hall, down the stairs, and into the kitchen, where she found me taking a loaf of bread out of the breadbox, putting it into the oven, wrapper and all, and turning on the heat. She became convinced I was out to kill them all. Of course, she thought that only because on a previous occasion, I had sleepwalked out of the lower bunk, climbed the ladder and stayed there staring down at her. She woke up, screamed, and woke me up, at which point I proceeded to throw up all of my dinner right beside her head. Linda Blair, eat your heart out.
These days, my dream life is relegated to bizarre instant snapshots upon waking which, having absolutely no context, lead-in, or conclusion, are rendered even more bizarre than your usual, run-of-the-mill dream. Like an image of me wearing a scuba suit in Grand Central Station. Or an ice cream cone loaded down with cow dung. Or an image of me stuffing an anteater into a wood chipper. While these tantalizing tidbits are sometimes enough to initiate some very interesting conversations, they are certainly not enough to allow me to continue my dream of one day being universally respected as certifiable. Therefore, I have found another solution to my dream deficit.
There's a window of opportunity just before the brain flips the switch and renders a person unconscious, a time when the mind begins a wobbly, fluttering wander through itself in a very sleepy, relaxed kind of way. It's like daydreaming on Valium. Whereas in a daydream, you often strictly monitor your brain to ensure no cranial criminal activity ensues while you're in a meeting with your boss or buying groceries, leading you to accidentally yell aloud, "Baby, pick my mushrooms!" or somesuch, pre-sleep nighttime daydreaming is far more pliable, far less mannerly, and far more likely to make you blush profusely as if everyone within a 5 mile radius has a video output jack rammed in your ear.
This is how I dream. I now feel quite fulfilled by my collection of randy, festering fantasies, and fully expect to continue to lullaby myself to sleep with X-rated, irreverent, childish, freakish, criminal thoughtstuff.
However, lately I've been puzzled.
It all started when during one of my nightly neuronal romps, I began to dream about a man I knew only passingly through work, a man in his fifties with no ass, a ratty moustache, male-pattern baldness and bad teeth. I didn't just dream about him, either. I stripped him naked, stuck him in the trunk of my car, drove to an amusement park, painted him with clown make-up, threw him onto the Ferris wheel, and made hot, passionate love to him as the crowd below chanted, "Almost there! Almost there!"
That isn't what puzzles me. Are you kidding? That's fare for Sesame Street in comparison to my usual goings on. No, what puzzles me is what's happened since. Now it's not just the balding moustache man that has been ravished by the brain that ate Manhattan, it's his whole family. First, his wife. She ended up being recurrently ravished in a manner similar to a previous cranial ravishment I conducted upon someone else's wife. Obviously, I'm a homewrecker in dreamland. I'm in a blues bar, onstage. I'm the lead singer. Moustache Man is my sax player. Tenor, of course. Me, I'm dressed in a fuchsia pink rhinestone-encrusted pantsuit and cape and sporting an Elvis coif. Très chic. I finish my gig to rowdy applause, sneak out back, and jump into a pumpkin orange Trans Am with yellow flames down the side. It's dark, it's finished raining, and while driving slowly down a back alley, I spot the wife walking down the wet sidewalk. I pull up to her, roll my window down, and ask her if she wants a good time. Of course, she jumps in. I drive her to a motel - I'm nothing if not classy - open the door to my suite (I had originally typed "suit" - Freudian slip), push her in - and proceed to serenade her with Broadway show tunes. Obviously, she is overcome with lust at the sight of me, rips my pantsuit off, and proceeds to have hot, sweaty sex with me.
Now it's the daughter. She's about nineteen. This time, there's a farm involved, a big mud puddle, edible panties, and a forklift.
You may not think this is anything with which to concern myself; after all, I'm just dreaming. It's not supposed to be respectable or make sense. Why brood over it?
Here's why: they own a dog.
make idle gossip (7 comments so far)
Last 5 entries:
Hosted by Diaryland