Tag Archives: dream

The Trout And The Flounder

ebo0354samplex

YES, LIKE MILLIONS OF OTHERS, I watched the debate last night between the two "major party" nominees for the US presidency last night. The entire event was a Nashville snoozer. Enter Obama, McCain, Brokaw. Exit. An embarrassing snoooozer. Just plain awful political theatre. But this morning, just before opening my eyes with full awareness, my brain did its own version of the shuck and jive by churning out a quick metaphor consisting of a rather short string of bizarre images, tossed together with no particular connection to my own political sensibilities, but indeed rich with Jungian and Freudian innuendo and provocation.

The Flounder

First scene. I was standing on a balcony overlooking a rather frisky river. I seemed to pose no particular function in my presence there on the balcony for the first few dreamscape frames, but was statically admiring the choppy waters and the lush green forests hemming the river's edge on all sides. Only then did I notice the fish. Whole schools of fish, shiny silvery flounder in fact, the river thick with these oddly shaped flat fish. Subsequently I noticed, standing to my right just a few feet away from me, was none other than Senator Barack Obama, his white shirt rolled up to his elbows holding a long cast reel, and not being a fisherman myself, the reel was of no special distinction to me. Out the corner of my eye, I could see that Michelle Obama stood a few feet further away at the far edge of this deck balcony. She was encouraging her husband, cheering up his fishing skills, but neither of them seemed to notice me standing just three or four feet away, a stranger in the mist. Suddenly I became aware that I was clutching a long stick in my hand, not quite but nearly as formidable in length as Mr. Obama's shiny reel. Remember, this is that sort of dream, where quick non-sensical edits are the norm, so without linear thought I find myself probing my branch stick into the water just at the point where a large baited flounder and the Senator's hook were converging. In a flash, the end of my stick was tangled in his rod line. Both Obama's immediately sensed alarm, and turning glared solemnly at the culprit. I was speechless, of course, but gained enough composure to soon begin an apology just at the moment the scene shifts.

The Trout

Scene Two. I am standing in the main room in a cabin, perhaps the same cabin owning the balcony I'd just been intruding upon. There is a fiercely glowing log fire in the aged brick fireplace off to my right. Directly to my left on a stand is a large basket of fish. I first intuit that these fish are not flounder but are trout, fattened rainbow trout perhaps. As I gaze around the room, noticing the kitchen is oft to my far left, Just beneath a window along the wall is a larger table attended by two shadowy figures fussing over another large basket, but no, this time it is a large kettle of fish. Suddenly one of the shadowy figures turns around, and I see a woman. It is Cindy McCain. It is then that I recognize her husband just as he whips around, rushing the basket of trout near me, and leaning in, flashes that grin, that infamous bearish grin of his, while grabbing the basket of rainbow trout and hurling the entire undressed lot into the flames.

Senator McCain then returns to the kettle still on the table and begins gutting each fish, also rainbow trout, with an unseen knife, one at a time until I begin to notice the strong fishy odor which seems to be emanating from the fireplace, but, of course is probably the overpowering stench of guts that McCain is now creating, and awaken. To my amazement I detect a strong odor of fish rot as I immediately begin to ponder this dream, and continue to suck air into my nostrils until I am positive no real fish odor exists in the room. It was all in my head.

Very odd dream. But believe me, this story, while part of a sleeping dream state, was a very real event. I have recreated the arrangement of images and impulses as I experienced them to the best of my abilities.

To even attempt a rational interpretation of this very vivid experience today would be too exhausting. I shall return. Perhaps after the election.

Where Are You Sleeping?

bird-collector
The Bird Collector
samplex

Orginally published on February 22, 1997

I sent this to Steve earlier this morning. Just to tide you over until I can focus on DAY 2 of the Fevers...

In other words, what is your current address? All I've got is those Taft Street digits. This morning early, after waking up in a fit of harrumph from an intrusive dream starring the "bar none kidz" Tim & Jennifer, yes, after listening to them prattle on about how much they didn't appreciate this and that about how badly I treated them last month...of course Jennifer was doing most of the squawking while bringing out the PERQUACKY gameboard she wanted to engage with Tim, while strong silent type Tim was in the kitchen elbowing Sue in helping himself to the coffeemaker, and suddenly I realized I had a hard-on, typical morning wakeup dream, and my nemesis because all the women I had ever known were slow risers or late sleepers who had to rush off to the office and preferred late night delights when I was too tired to make the effort...

I've been busy since early in the wee scratching out postcards, lovely postcards I threw together a couple of years ago on heavy stock with various old and contemporary photos of me, and of me and the Suzy, all embossed with typical GT crytic title. Sent my dad a batch back then but I was told he never received them. Thought I'd send you one since I'd already addressed and stamped a batch, knowing you'd probably appreciate the younger Mohican Gabriel. It would be a shame that you've never had a sleeping chance to get a good laugh of me in the Eighties.

Reality is indeed a wicked business, full of overloads, overlords, and understudies. Marsh grasses, foggy bottoms, and tricks of the trade. But even in the beer leagues one plays to win.
Back to the dream. The "bar none kidz" had arrived at the back door together wanting to make amends, which in their vernacular, was to point out my unprovoked rudeness. At one point Jennifer blurted out that she wanted the money she had spent on me returned, uh, she bought me a hamburger at Ruby Tuesday's on Monday's field trip to the shopping Mall (oops, that part of the story hasn't been written in blood yet!), and she came bearing a bottle of champagne the Saturday she arrived, but that pretty much sums up to the penny (well, gasoline to drive down) the whole of Jennifer's financial support in 12 years of Dollhouse maneuvers. I told her to forget it, no way, no mula. How about her share in the $500 bucks we plunked down for limo, booze, and food when she was here?

She backed off with the wince of an Ellis Island immigrant. Uh, geez, and I thought she knew how to make an argument. At one point I grabbed her in a bear hug, and walked her upright to the backdoor, but as soon as she was free she rocketed off on how she didn't appreciate being manhandled that way, and besides she hadn't played her game yet. In my drippiest sarcasm I mock the easily offended sensibilities of a woman scouring the AOL gutters as a submissive painseeking thrill artist while shoving this big fat lie of forever love up the nose of somebody she has known way too long to shaft like this. Meanwhile Tim is grumbling in the kitchen in his best Rodney King, "Can't we just get along" reasoning. I had finally had enough. I go beserk, trumpeting all arms akimbo:

"Wait a damn minute. I tossed both of you out of here, and I haven't invited either of you back and from the general sniff of things nor do I intend to, and yet here you are, making yourselves quite at home. Tim, get OUT of my kitchen! Jennifer, PUT that board down. It's not even mine. It's Steve's..."

That's about the gist of it. I grabbed her up again and was making my way to the backdoor since she had once again adopted the diningroom table as her podium, before I woke from the sofa, and noticed my hard-on was gone. Sharing this whole cinematic reel du force with Sue just a few minutes ago, with the summation that as boring as the dream sequence was, unfortunately, there's not much distortion in that version from what we both imagine, knowing them as symptomatically as we do, in how Tim and Jennifer could waltz in proud as peacocks to the beat of their own hummer humming six weeks, six months, six years from now...

I allow myself to feel a slight remorse that I pushed the envelope of no return by taking a stick to old friends, but like your own proverbial red-face, it flushes and soon passes. Reality is indeed a wicked business, full of overloads, overlords, and understudies. Marsh grasses, foggy bottoms, and tricks of the trade. But even in the beer leagues one plays to win.

Guess Day 2 of the Six Day fever is overdue, but to borrow a phrase, I'm playing it by ear, having too much fun tweaking the nipple on my Macintosh laptop, my Destouches dream dancer...

GT

Wading the Shallow End Of The Gene Pool

anoldman
The Assumption
samplex

Originally published on October 8, 1996

Yeah, I read about the code, haven't used it either, or have I? Wait a minute, seems I did, but it flubbed, or no, I found a page that linked it, but my viewer did not register the change, yes that's it, and I never dwaddled around trying to find out why.

Do you have to put in a full day today? The 8500 is in the shop. They ordered a new logic board which will be delivered on Monday. Hopefully that fixes it, and by the middle of NEXT week I'll be busying reloading software into the bubba box in native POWERMAC CODE.

Left foot has swollen up like an elephant's tootsie, but I'm hobbling around pretty good, yet without stamina. Upstairs, downstairs both feet give out in short order, and I don't want to aggravate too much these poor dogs with 265 pounds of brute force hunkering down onto them one step at a time. No red streaks up my calf, no hint of internal bleeding or other catastrophic parlay.

Woke from a bizarre dream this morning. Starts with Sue and I seemingly younger, she pregnant and bulging, me tattooed and as rich in ugly righteousness as I put to the camera today, strolling into a staid smalltown church of about forty people in the middle of the service. The whole batch of them stop their hymnsinging to turn and stare like idiots in the breeze. We sit sheepishly at the very back in a section of those common metal fold-out chairs behind the last pew although there is plenty of room in the the pews, but why make presumptions?

The stark surroundings of the church prompt me in the dream to question Sue in self-conscious whisper if this were indeed a Methodist church (Sue's heritage. I was raised primarily in a High Episcopalean diocese.). I looked around and saw that the pews were liberally integrated. Several Negro faces. Several Asian faces. Maybe even a Hispanic face. I was counting, just noticing the rainbow. All were visibly shocked by our arrival. I checked for dress code violations. Several men were without jacket, just short sleeves and ties, just as I was wearing, but none sported tattooes of course.

Perhaps it was only the extreme tardiness of our intrusion, for the service soon ended, the offering plates passed. I noticed I was carrying a fistful of change in my hand and as I dropped it into the plate the jingle of coin skirting over coin was long and impressive to several who were charting our every blink. The offering was the last event of the service, and since we were in the back of the church right next to the door, gawking folk were beginning to file past us with oooohs and aaaahs at the clink clink of what seemed an endless stream of coins dropping from my closed fist.

I know this kind of dream. I never win. This is the eternal chase, one confrontation after another with no clear resolution. I am never fast enough to fully escape nor fast enough to catch a culprit when in a rare twist I am in pursuit of them. A variation on the roadrunner and coyote theme no doubt. Thousands of these futile dreamchase scenes have logged in my head over the years, childhood and adult. The best resolution is simply to wake up. And I did. But the feelings I felt in protecting a pregnant Sue were quite warm and fuzzy. I was particularly touched by that portion of the dream...
The first to speak was a black man that I had to look up to see, although I recognized the voice, and then the face as the wizened but genteel man who played the boss in the fact-checking department of a big publishing house on the shortlived Herman's Head sitcom, a black man, who simply said to me, "Hello Gabriel, it's good to see you here."

It was at this point that I knew that this was not the beginning of the dream at all because prior to the church scene, this black man (wish I could remember his name on Herman's Head, or better yet his real name, but only Bernard comes to mind, and uh, that's my neighbor Chisley's given) had greeted me as the principal in a typical highschool scenario as I registered there.

Geez, back in highschool, but married with pregancy, seeking refuge in a bland Methodist culture...a wacky dream, but it doesn't end here. After this first greeting, my polite smile, a knowing nod, I am still cha-chinging coins but finally empty my palm just as some other black man comes dashing through the foyer door to where I am now standing with a shout directed straight into my face, "Now I KNOW God made Jesus a white man!"

I take this in, and squinch up my face before retorting, "No, Jesus was a Jew in diapers." Everyone in the now-crowded foyer hushed and turned the phrase over in their minds. I stared straight at Herman's boss, principal and deacon one might suppose, as he repeated it out loud with full affirmation, and I feel welcomed at last, and the dream then shoots to a pool scene. By the way, the Herman's head dude is not the preacher. A white man of no consequence suited up in that role, but his was a nearly silent part in the dream, but obviously this other character was the center of respect in this exchange.

The pool scene was a drag. Outsiders, insiders, debutantes, jocks, nerds, inepts, me and a preggy goodlooking Sue slippery and machiavellian in god-issued trunks and bikinis. The pool was huge, larger than most but certainly no football field. Positioning, bravado, and social powerplay the only game in town. Kids I recalled now from a quickscan of the schoolyard when I'd signed up earlier just before the church scene were all here. There were a series of poolwater confrontations in the dream, but none I recall clearly except the last one, when a secondary member, maybe third or fourth lieutenent down the dominant male rich kid insider's hierarchy suddenly announced he was well on his way to notching Sue, and there was nothing I could do about it because she'd agreed to swim as his partner in the"big race".

I knew it was time to wake up. I know this kind of dream. I never win. This is the eternal chase, one confrontation after another with no clear resolution. I am never fast enough to fully escape nor fast enough to catch a culprit when in a rare twist I am in pursuit of them. A variation on the roadrunner and coyote theme no doubt. Thousands of these futile dreamchase scenes have logged in my head over the years, childhood and adult. The best resolution is simply to wake up. And I did. But the feelings I felt in protecting a pregnant Sue were quite warm and fuzzy. I was particularly touched by that portion of the dream...

I do love her even if I am sterile and next to talentless, without money, a job, a future, a backup plan, well actually all I have are plans. Why she loves me is still the mystery dance my dreams have not revealed...

GT