Tag: dreams

I was at a truck stop in the middle of the night waiting for something to explode. A thin woman of ill repute eyeballed me. Her eye was wretched, like the hairless ass of an old street bitch who’d seen too many litters pass through her. While waiting in witless contemplation, I was compelled to approach a handsome gentleman seated at a booth and accompanied by several comely young ladies. I proceeded to strangle him. All he did was turn his handsome face into a bulldog face and bark. His last few hoarse croaks were sickly. I’d say they bubbled. I was then inside a glorious mansion adorned in wild flowers without and arches everywhere within. I sat down on the nearest upturned arch and waited witlessly again until a door opened and someone descended the stairs. She sat beside me on the arch. We proceeded to talk about memes we could create and the miracle of salvia. It would be our religion. A question was asked and when I took too long to respond she said “agaeve absent, screw this” and disappeared.

I read somewhere (alright so it was an episode of Batman because I did not read books until I was in my twenties, and even then) that people can’t read in dreams because dreaming and reading are functions from different hemispheres of the brain. There are limitations even in dreams; you’re a real bastard, universe.

Are you able to quiet your mind?

I was at a truck stop in the middle of the night waiting for something to explode. A thin woman of ill repute eyeballed me. Her eye was wretched, like the hairless ass of an old street bitch who’d seen too many litters pass through her. While waiting in witless contemplation, I was compelled to approach a handsome gentleman seated at a booth and accompanied by several comely young ladies. I proceeded to strangle him. All he did was turn his handsome face into a bulldog face and bark. His last few hoarse croaks were sickly. I’d say they bubbled. I was then inside a glorious mansion adorned in wild flowers without and arches everywhere within. I sat down on the nearest upturned arch and waited witlessly again until a door opened and someone descended the stairs. She sat beside me on the arch. We proceeded to talk about memes we could create and the miracle of salvia. It would be our religion. A question was asked and when I took too long to respond she said “agaeve absent, screw this” and disappeared.

I read somewhere (alright so it was an episode of Batman because I did not read books until I was in my twenties, and even then) that people can’t read in dreams because dreaming and reading are functions from different hemispheres of the brain. There are limitations even in dreams; you’re a real bastard, universe.

Are you able to quiet your mind?

I dreamt that a Turk lopped off my tongue in a grog house fight so that it may be acceptable to write everything I want to say.

Or get a replacement silver tongue.

I dreamt that a Turk lopped off my tongue in a grog house fight so that it may be acceptable to write everything I want to say.

Or get a replacement silver tongue.

You dream that a high school buddy of yours is going to have lunch with Lorrie Moore and won’t introduce you to her when you ask him to. You decide to stalk him and then run into them “by chance” where you’ll make your move by impressing her with your knowledge of her work and the best of your charismatic magic.

There is a subplot wherein you try to speak with two tattooed Russian girls who are working a counter at a lemonade stand at a mall food court. The detail of their tattoos is inconsequential. They are terribly young and their bored eyes are by far their most striking feature. They never speak a word but you just know. They are one person.

After this it becomes clear that you’re at the mall because that’s where your buddy and Lorrie Moore will be. They lunch at a Mongolian barbecue place. All of the seats are made of fiberglass and the decor is themed mustard yellow. There is a bar and that’s where your friend and Lorrie Moore sit to lunch. Their conversation appears to be moving along swimmingly.

You notice the two Russians are sitting in a booth near yours, with older men. You try to tell them to stop but realize you haven’t the right.

You hear your buddy yell, “Fuck you!”

Then you hear her yell, jokingly, “No, fuck you!” Then she laughs, and it occurs to you that you would never have yelled “Fuck you” at Lorrie Moore, not ever. Maybe that’s what you’ve been doing wrong all along.

You would have told her, Lorrie Moore, that you’re a huge fan, and that you write, too, and although you don’t do this in the dream you can still see her eyes glaze over and prepare to say, “Thank you very much. So kind of you. Keep writing.”

You wake up and listen to the ceiling fan flow like a distant river. You curse the flashing LED lights of a dozen aparatii and wish for a blackout, for total darkness. You are prepared to sweat through the night from lack of ceiling fan.

You fall into another dream in which you are sitting in a surgery observation area overlooking some poor sap getting his brain cut into but don’t really notice because you are too occupied by  making out with a blonde woman who is perhaps five to seven years older than you and wears thick burgundy lipstick, a lot of which ends up on your lips, cheeks, and neck, but what you remember most of all is that waxy cigarette and beer taste that remains in your mouth and on your shirt and you just wish you could remember a single name and not a list of them.

You wake up again and stand in the shower letting the hot water cool you off because now there’s nothing left to do except remain awake until a day has passed and you’re too tired to dream.

You dream that a high school buddy of yours is going to have lunch with Lorrie Moore and won’t introduce you to her when you ask him to. You decide to stalk him and then run into them “by chance” where you’ll make your move by impressing her with your knowledge of her work and the best of your charismatic magic.

There is a subplot wherein you try to speak with two tattooed Russian girls who are working a counter at a lemonade stand at a mall food court. The detail of their tattoos is inconsequential. They are terribly young and their bored eyes are by far their most striking feature. They never speak a word but you just know. They are one person.

After this it becomes clear that you’re at the mall because that’s where your buddy and Lorrie Moore will be. They lunch at a Mongolian barbecue place. All of the seats are made of fiberglass and the decor is themed mustard yellow. There is a bar and that’s where your friend and Lorrie Moore sit to lunch. Their conversation appears to be moving along swimmingly.

You notice the two Russians are sitting in a booth near yours, with older men. You try to tell them to stop but realize you haven’t the right.

You hear your buddy yell, “Fuck you!”

Then you hear her yell, jokingly, “No, fuck you!” Then she laughs, and it occurs to you that you would never have yelled “Fuck you” at Lorrie Moore, not ever. Maybe that’s what you’ve been doing wrong all along.

You would have told her, Lorrie Moore, that you’re a huge fan, and that you write, too, and although you don’t do this in the dream you can still see her eyes glaze over and prepare to say, “Thank you very much. So kind of you. Keep writing.”

You wake up and listen to the ceiling fan flow like a distant river. You curse the flashing LED lights of a dozen aparatii and wish for a blackout, for total darkness. You are prepared to sweat through the night from lack of ceiling fan.

You fall into another dream in which you are sitting in a surgery observation area overlooking some poor sap getting his brain cut into but don’t really notice because you are too occupied by  making out with a blonde woman who is perhaps five to seven years older than you and wears thick burgundy lipstick, a lot of which ends up on your lips, cheeks, and neck, but what you remember most of all is that waxy cigarette and beer taste that remains in your mouth and on your shirt and you just wish you could remember a single name and not a list of them.

You wake up again and stand in the shower letting the hot water cool you off because now there’s nothing left to do except remain awake until a day has passed and you’re too tired to dream.

Memory is a means by which humans are able to remember and recall events, situations, requirements, or tasks. However, memory does not always transcribe the billowy poet bog that the ancient lords bestowed upon the subjects of the Corinthian lands beyond the wretched sea. Is there a haven; a fallen godman wishes solace. Such strange things and graceful muses in this place. How they dance and glide about the place. Silken gloves and stretched leather of fine Parisian shoes. A hard month’s salary is such a tiny thing. Things… all of them things. Her hair, a stream of sea across a woeful face; me. It is late by the witching hour and early by the Maynard’s carriage strum. Little children made of cheese do squander their talents in wasted endeavors. Jeweled farmers? Pompous fools, there is not a means of obtaining such things. Things… I remember things, strewn about. They were left there by the jealous man inside. She did not pick them up, not Evaline. She just sat upon a throne of tears. How quaint… perhaps droll. The dross of deathly diamonds does dock at Demon Diocese. I believe the dowager decked the drop of delicate dales at Drunken Dromer’s old destiny doomed to dwell in delicious domes. They glided to the mine of mine and his old horse said, “No.” “No?” I asked of it, and “no” it said again.

Wait, this place. Have you seen it before? I believe I have. Meadows have witnessed villages spring from the roots of dormant people, never knowing, never remembering. I finally found a garden in which the gels say, “howdy punk,” only I don’t understand the context of memorial randomosity. It’s in the ocean. Jump in and swim and I promise the mermen will help you along. If the mermaids (maids of the mar, el mer mio tan amable y agradable; yo quiero nadar) find you, well, hell, you best run. I seen the bravest soldiers tell me they ain’t stickin’ to no broad abroad, but they’s just plain unthinkin’. They ain’t rememberin’ what it’s like, up there ‘round them trees. It’s like, a memory. A forgotten rememberance of a past, of a reason to. What, then, are we doing? Ah, yes, we are remembering. Remembering things, which aptly applied, apply to the subject of memories.

A memory… what is it? I forgot!

Memory is a means by which humans are able to remember and recall events, situations, requirements, or tasks. However, memory does not always transcribe the billowy poet bog that the ancient lords bestowed upon the subjects of the Corinthian lands beyond the wretched sea. Is there a haven; a fallen godman wishes solace. Such strange things and graceful muses in this place. How they dance and glide about the place. Silken gloves and stretched leather of fine Parisian shoes. A hard month’s salary is such a tiny thing. Things… all of them things. Her hair, a stream of sea across a woeful face; me. It is late by the witching hour and early by the Maynard’s carriage strum. Little children made of cheese do squander their talents in wasted endeavors. Jeweled farmers? Pompous fools, there is not a means of obtaining such things. Things… I remember things, strewn about. They were left there by the jealous man inside. She did not pick them up, not Evaline. She just sat upon a throne of tears. How quaint… perhaps droll. The dross of deathly diamonds does dock at Demon Diocese. I believe the dowager decked the drop of delicate dales at Drunken Dromer’s old destiny doomed to dwell in delicious domes. They glided to the mine of mine and his old horse said, “No.” “No?” I asked of it, and “no” it said again.

Wait, this place. Have you seen it before? I believe I have. Meadows have witnessed villages spring from the roots of dormant people, never knowing, never remembering. I finally found a garden in which the gels say, “howdy punk,” only I don’t understand the context of memorial randomosity. It’s in the ocean. Jump in and swim and I promise the mermen will help you along. If the mermaids (maids of the mar, el mer mio tan amable y agradable; yo quiero nadar) find you, well, hell, you best run. I seen the bravest soldiers tell me they ain’t stickin’ to no broad abroad, but they’s just plain unthinkin’. They ain’t rememberin’ what it’s like, up there ‘round them trees. It’s like, a memory. A forgotten rememberance of a past, of a reason to. What, then, are we doing? Ah, yes, we are remembering. Remembering things, which aptly applied, apply to the subject of memories.

A memory… what is it? I forgot!