Tag Archives: Dreams

The mental harassment of telling someone your dreams

But I’m doing it anyway, briefly; I dreamt I was riding in the passenger seat of a limo driven by Chewbacca.  I don’t care what it really means, that I want to touch my mother’s allegorical penis or who cares really;  Chewbacca was as cool hand luke as you’d expect. That’s all.  Once years ago while consulting at Schwab in San Francisco I told him I dreamt that Goofy and Brooke Shields were turning with their hands that circular space station in 2001: A Space Odyssey while it was rotating in space and they were disproportionately large.  My friend told me I was full of shit and I said many times yes and aren’t most of us but this was true.  Of course, I didn’t believe half the things I was doing at that time. Once I showed up to work still high on LSD and the same friend just laughed his sober ass off while I kept rebirthing with this faint smell of piss and blood around me; that was the comedown all the way to work on the bus; this slight chirping sound in my head of piss and purple materials;  that he believes.  The night before my ex and I, both impatient, took too much after waiting a lofty twenty minutes or so for the first batch to kick in and then both sent us to what I called Vegas Buddhism; when I looked in the mirror it was like an early cut of Sgt. Pepper; I walked around my apartment blessing everything like the pope I never wanted to become; when I looked at my ex on the bed all I saw was the devil, curvy, red and full of trouble.  When we were on top of each other, I couldn’t speak English; instead, I kept saying maybe in a precursor to rebirthing “Spangle wambee jampers.” After all these years I still remember that phrase to the syllable better than my ex roommates name.  My ex was not pleased; at times I would pull out of it and speak solemnly in my solemn bank teller exchange voice “hey, I think I have this under control now” then start laughing and reverting back to my own special language that only myself and my suddenly free on parole inner infant could understand.  By dawn I realized this was still happening and being a Capricorn I had to go to work even if typhoid ants with mental problems were biting my on the legs; I went to work and after downing as much Vitamin C that my bowels doth not protest I somehow programmed my way through a comedown and made many special floating friends that day that did Riverdance around my head.  They were very supportive. It was the only and last time I did LSD; there simply too many other substances to fit on the schedule and squeeze in a full time job.  In a capitalist sin or ultimate act of wacky compassion a homeless man outside my apartment, as there were the finest and most well informed homeless in the country holding symposiums in my neighborhood across from Ocean Beach, a homeless man and I struck up a conversation about the necessities of war or the effect of metals on aerodynamics when he mentioned he wanted LSD.  I gave him the rest of it and before I could recommend a dosage he down the rest and I luckily it only caused him to sprawl;  for me that would have turned my limbs inside out with a load of lips that I always wanted to kiss but never did so now were going to eat me from the outside inward. One day I plan to write a musical based on my brief history of drugs.  Everything in my life at the time was changing like a diaper and so I had to sink and swim and fortunately as an  Capricorn which is symbolized by the amphibious sea-goat I could do both.

Maybe it all began when I was an Alpha Bits junkie when I was in elementary school. I used to deal Alpha Bits to other kids in the cafeteria. That’s what I used to do; I was a sugar dealer during lunch time, like a floor runner on the stock exchange; I would get maybe three white cakes for my braunschweiger sandwich, which my mother made me every day after I probably merely eyeballed the enlarged squashy yellow log when we were at the meat counter one day and that gave her the green light to order a lifetime supply. Extra logs hidden behind the toilet, etc. So trading it was a necessity. And if you’ve had braunschweiger, you understand what I’m talking about. If you haven’t, well, it’s like certain drugs. I always tell people don’t ever let me catch you doing it. Because I’ve done them and the big rule is you don’t introduce anyone else to them. And I feel that way about braunschweiger. Don’t ever do braunschweiger, though I just lost the possibility for an endorsement if it ever makes a comeback. I’ve lost my first commercial gig. Eh, well fuck you braunschweiger!

When I was ten, I worked my way up to getting hooked on Planters Cheeseballs: round, softer, versions of Cheetos, like Cheetos for women, to the point I demanded like a trailer park mama to my mama there be at least two or three extra large size cans in the pantry so when I watched Flash Gordon I could get high off the powder and live Flash Gordon. My version of Pink Floyd’s The Wall. I imagine myself like Andy Dufrane in Shawshank Redemption, when he’s dropping bits of wall dust surreptitiously from his pants while he walks around the prison yard. I did the same with cheeseball dust in my backyard, with Morgan Freeman narrative.  There’s a magnet I now have that says “Leap, and the net will appear.” So looking back, I realized I did the monastic Zen thing and leaped from cheeseballs to crack.

Maybe we’ll continue this discussion on stage.  My friend asked me if I would ever take drugs again and I say only peyote or shaman initiatory drugs so I can see the great Lizard Queen and give her a pedicure and she can let me drink of her toe nail clippings and I will reborn as someone who can heal old cars.  When I was high years ago, it would make my heart pound so fast it felt like it jumped out of my mouth like a freaked out Bugs Bunny cartoon character and on the way back in it would have another hit and I knew if my cartoon heart was taking drugs on top of me, it was trouble and one night, Elton John’s pacemaker appeared to me in a dream and said “Lee, I have a cousin sitting in a box in Albuquerque and your resume appeared.”  Since then, I think about my heart and the general shit generating machine my life became and I don’t even think about it.  Jedi training is not what they say in the movies.


Subatomic Imprints that seep into the night

I’m with the native Americans in that dreams are a map of our true palate, a wild unburdened place where the pieces of our soul that need to unfold and do our laundry can do it and let us watch the dryer tumble if we can remember. Most of my dreams are like dumping memories inside a kaleidoscope and then sticking it in a leaf blower, things of great detail and unrelated characters that I don’t think figuring it out is meant to be done;  some are stress burners and some are sex burners, like dreaming that there’s an assembly line of vaginas and I have to pleasure each one but it gets out of hand like that classic Lucille Ball episode.

Every once in while I wake up with a feeling that sticks around like an aftershock; sometimes the feeling is a few hours, sometimes a day and sometimes for years; last night I dreamt I was holding a baby and it was my daughter, of which, to my and my penis’s knowledge, I do not have, not counting my dog, and the gist of the dream was that i was surrounded by family, society world etc.. and they were taking her away from me.  I guess every parents goes through this and today I walk around feeling like I made a baby. Or more like a baby that’s following me. Maybe that’s more of the beat of the thing.  The dream has left its footprint in my guts and when it sticks, I always wonder what to do with it; I guess nothing.  It reminds me that dreams are more real than parts of the ole rustic matrix we wobble around in while pursuing the gorgeous ache of life. A couple of dreams I’ve had have reminded me of that more than anything that’s happened while upright.

Dreams of Armageddon and being lost in a hospital and terrified I will see mutations and blood are the only repeat downsides I have but they stick around for a bit.  How much is my psyche, how much is foresight and how much is alternate universe #23 hitching a ride on some quarks to lay into my slumber I don’t know. I do know the next step is to control dreams.  Hello Carlos Castenada. Merry Christmas.

Breath of French air

When I play piano I smell Paris.  It motivates me.  November reminds me of Paris because I was last there in November.  I want to roam the halls of Versailles and look for a secret entrance to underground tunnels where there will be a river made of broken promises. Somewhere in Paris I believe I will master the piano and uncoil the language and write my novel in French about Morin, the French astrologer from the Renaissance.  I love this cool weather and it is the best time ot be in Paris because the tourism is light and the air is cracker crisp.  This is the best thing I can say about my day, is the imagery of future memories; padlocks with an identity crisis.

And that I dreamt that Henry Winkler visited a house that I was in and turned into a man I knew in San Francisco only slightly older looking; given that I haven’t seen him in nine years my brain was painting as it could; like, as any drug user can attest, when I dream of smoking a joint or other substance, in the dream my mind tries to recreate the sensation but it’s like watching someone do it on TV.  Thankfully I’ve flushed those out for the most part.  Last night I dreamt I saw my friend naked but she was nude also in front of another woman and a blond haired man and it seemed normal;

As for this day, all I can say is that there are times when you work through something, when you sustains it because it sustains you in a way or there’s something there worth keeping; and then there are times when it’s beyond rationality, beyond hanging healing stones around my neck, meditating it to a manageable nub, or going to the gym four times a day so your breasts are so overdeveloped from anger weight lifting men can’t look you in the eye and you know how it feels to be a woman; well, after today, I am beyond all of it with this particular issue.  It does nothing but produce hatred thought swirls and make my middle finger sore.  I’ll stay cryptic until it’s out of my life then I’ll get full on specific, if need be.  Let’s say I’m a magnet at times for the secretly sullen; it just happens;  I feel for the person but it’s like urinating in my blood stream;  that’s part of the reason I’m grinding my teeth into brownie mix.

I look forward to sleeping and seeing what the great Henry Winkler wants to do next with my spirit guides, hopefully not let them appear in an Adam Sandler movie.


When you dream of your ex, time to get a colonic

I’ve not had a colonic even though I’m getting more thorough with my health but now might be a good time.  I had a dream with my ex last night and she was upset with me and when I woke up I carried that Upper Reality dribble down we’ll call it, carried it throughout the day like some dreams do; they make it seem more real than floating around the city trying not to feel something for a few moments.  My ex was there in Upper Reality and it makes me wonder if it’s myself I’m angry at or some part of her is letting me have it. Freud would call it an obsession with my mother; of course, this diagnosis would come while he was taking a bathroom break with some coke and a mirror and his mother floating in the room screaming at him to tell all of his patients their mothers were out to get them and have sex with them. I have Jung’s dream book by my bed as well as Castenada’s collection of dream essays.  I’ve had more than one dream of flying, with my body, over very large cities or cities with exaggerated features like mammoth bridges, and wake up and feel I’m still there and I feel my contents have shifted.  The little nubber lasts for weeks sometimes. Either way, I should get a colonic as when one of these reels I sent in hopefully lands on the desk of someone maybe at NBC and they realize that being dead last in the ratings and dropping a ton of money on big stars, as is their strategy from what I’ve read, may not be the best thing.   I love NBC; I’m partial to them; I rooted for them during Battle of the Network Stars growing up because they had the best looking women and that’s important.  Cosby Show, Family Ties, Cheers, Night Court, best lineup on TV in the 80’s. Now they’re in the toilet bowl that toilets use to poop in. It breaks my heart a bit. My advice, other than to hire me, is to admit where you are, take a Zen approach and go, we’re in last, that’s ok; it’s liberating! there’s nothing to lose; then go, we can take some chances here and stop trying to do what everyone else is doing with this reality TV fungus that’s overtaken us like body snatchers; Some shows are ok but when I see wife swapping, you get what you karmically deserve; even on Planet Glukon, where they eat their young as ritual, do they look at Wife Swapping and go, what the hell is wrong with these people?  Ditch that reality fad and drift away from Law and Order thing; CSI runs that genre now.  Do something new;  I don’t know what that us, I have an idea or two which I’ll probably reserve for my company Internet TV channel which I envision launching in three years or so. Or if NBC gets me an audition I can give it for a quarter and some smoked almonds.    Dumping Conan is also karma I believe. I believe in negative energy swirls encompassing an entire company, or building or family or planet; I’ve seen it, casting shadows longer than a lifespan and leaving eyes that squint from starlight.  Don’t do that NBC.  Audition me!

A couple of closing thoughts before I drift towards the mattress:
– these days, if I were in a bar in Vegas alone and a beautiful woman came up to me and starting chatting me and making moves, my first thought would be ‘are you going to at least leave me with one kidney when I regain consciousness?’  I’ve been traumatized by the movie Hostel and today’s FDA approved sociopathy sponsored by Pfizer or Merck or etc.
-when I’m about to touch my guitar I treat it like sex; I better be gentle but strong and mean every stroke or we’ll both come out of it empty and weeping.
– I don’t watch or listen to Presidential speeches anymore, dating back to Lincoln, maybe. I get what I call ‘teleprompter radiation sickness’, in which empty babble is shot in concentrated form into my mitochondria and I suddenly I have the urge to ask my doctor about Romagloxipin.

I always intend these to be a couple of lines, these blogs. This is why tweeting is squeezing my body inside a grapefruit.




I dreamt of Elizabeth Taylor driving a speedboat…

on the boat alone and she was doing a voiceover while I was watching like a film as the camera slowly zoomed in on her face and you could see the age on her face but it continued to swoop into her eyes until she disappeared. That’s all I remember.  What the hell it means, maybe my libido is saying “I’m on my way to China, there’s no action around here” or maybe it means I had a crush on my neighbor’s grandmother when I was four and all she did was spit walnuts at a picture of Richard Burton.  Those nasty bagged walnuts that probably had been through two to three incarnations as another nut before being hosed down and tossed on a shelf.  I get freaked out by what I ate when I was young.  Hallowe’en makes my teeth hurt; my teeth remember the gallons of candy I used to rack up in Indiana. When I was young I wore those awful plastic body bibs with the plastic mask spray painted with asbestos and crushed dolphin babies with two slits half the diameter of an M&M for your nose to breathe through so it gave you an idea of what it really felt like to be Darth Vader; I remember keeping the mask on not for joy of imagination but to fight for the fucking candy!  Give me the candy!  I’ll keep this CIA designed torture device on my face and breathe my death to get the candy.  At that point I started designing costumes using boxes. Ample body room and no involuntary facials.  One year I was a robot. The next an airplane with about a three foot wing span.  Since then, I’ve celebrated All Hallow’s Eve with some of the greatest costumes ever set to human body,a ll homemade: Beetlejuice, Blackula, three eared killer rabbit, undead Colonel Sanders, Emperor Palpantine (pre Robot Chicken), Nancy Kerrigan, and other costumes for other parties include Mary Lou Retton and Harry Carry, cubs broadcaster; in recent years it’s lost is fervor in me. Ah well, I do have two ideas for the next parade or party, be it this Saturday or Arbor Day.

I did have that dream with Elizabeth Taylor. If I wake up feeling it, I know it lives inside me somewhere. I’m down with the natives here, or my angry native spirit guide whom I’ll refer to as Chief Double Down, as we’ve reduced them to blackjack tables in legalized gambling pockets all over this impending spiritual geyser dubbed America.  Dreams are the smoke rings of the native American’s sex with nature. It is all a wonderland of our being and I value dreams; I go through phases where I record like mad and sometimes I forget.   I used to have this dream dictionary I got for $10 by this German sounding dude named Werloff Vempkt or something like this. $10 to pay for my psyche, really.  Pick any object you dream of, like a pair of tweezers and I’d get this kind of meaning:
tweezers: to dream of using tweezers means you will be eaten by a leprechaun.  If you are swimming with tweezers toward a waterfall you hate your mother and you will kill your mother. If the tweezers are attacking you bad luck will befall you and your nursemaid. Hail Hitler!

That might be the same dude that wrote my sex ed book for the Catholic Church in 7th grade I talked about earlier. Maybe they were lovers or wanted to be. How the hell I got that book was in a discount bin at Barnes and Noble.

Some dreams tack themselves inside the wall of your being and melt under your skin and stick for years. I’ve had a couple of those. Some follow me around for a couple of days. I’ll get a feeling that I’ve actually been to wherever I dreamt because I can feel it walking around more than walking by the bodega.   The barnacles of life ares sometimes rolled up in quiet little frenzies whirling through our dreams , letting us know that somewhere we have another pulse.