Friday, May 07, 2010

Corpse Linguistics

This most recent of mornings* I had a dream, and in it was a girl -or maiden, if you prefer- that I'd been acquainted with throughout high school; someone I should have known better and understood less, I suppose, though it's unnecessary to extrapolate much anything beyond said rumination because, really, if you're actually reading this post then it's readily apparent you don't give a damn about its meaning. I for one applaud your acute disinterest.

But this time the woman was blonde -as she bore in the other, albeit few, dreams in which she's made an appearance, yet it always feels such the novelty that I welcome the disingenuous innovation with open arms- and wore green, or something like emerald green, much in the same way that one of my eyes is currently, discernibly a shade of creamy jade. Her eyes, on the other hand, were blue; not azure as mine had been at birth (in and of themselves by no means exquisite specimens), but a cheap blue you'd find encased within ballpoint pens or sprayed upon a Buick Century circa 1988; in other words, annoyingly innocuous, which only underscores the obvious, surrealistically disappointing fact that the dream reveled in its own mediocrity.

Like many a nocturnal remission, this dream had no discernible narrative structure and I won't bother trying to connect all the dots, suffice it to say that some of these points were utterly absurd. The important thing is that this lass and I were driving down an otherwise deserted street of my hometown in a maroon, 1995 Chevy Beretta at dusk (because as we all know, no one in Iowa drives at the close of day due to a crippling fear of deer run amok). I haven't the foggiest recollection of how I arrived at said juncture nor do I care; what can be said is that there came a time during our joy ride in which I, slapped to my senses by a moment of lucidity, pulled over to the side of the road, only to inquire about just what she had been doing there -as in my dream, period, though not in a snarky manner- to which she responded with a surprisingly straightforward yet nevertheless apathetic I don't know as she gazed out the passenger-side window. The stars descended and the car soon disappeared. After that, I vaguely remember dumping pillowcases full of Halloween candy into a wheelbarrow alongside a friend of mine, only to push it up a steep hill as the Smashing Pumpkins1979 permeated the crisp air. Whatever. It's a fucking dream.

At the risk of navel-gazing, I'm entirely content with the persona's nonchalant response since it mirrors my own lack of enthusiasm concerning her company. Indifference is, in the right situations, a man's second best friend (behind video games), after all. Besides, I'd much rather cruise down the street with someone else, but there's plenty of time for that anyway.

Be that as it may, I feel more than a bit like Tom Skerritt as he crawled through the air ducts in Alien right about now because, well, just because, and because if I divulge nothing else, you, Diarrhea Reader, may get the wrong impression of me; and if I do choose to disclose additional information you may formulate any entirely different impression, one potentially less favorable. What a predicament!

Or not. I stated earlier that the blonde girl has appeared in other dreams, though to be candid I couldn't for the life of me recount any of them save one. This other dream occurred roughly fifteen years ago and it's one of the few that never disperses with age. In said dream I walked the halls of a high school devoid of students, each classroom as still as a graveyard at midnight, until I came upon the cafeteria at which stage I encountered our favorite blonde lying upon one of the tables, savagely mating with a werewolf of the Howling variety, pointy ears and all. I could have intervened, perhaps, but please keep in mind that A) it was a dream B) it was a full-blown motherfuckin' werewolf and it's not as if I had any silver in my pockets and C) let me tell you, like a Great White song says, she was giving what she got! at least until, during orgasm, the werewolf began to remove her face with his teeth. Then it wasn't so mutual but hey, it was in that precise moment I came to realize that I had the hots for her.

Like bookends, these dreams.

* 'Cause that's when the sandman creeps into my pants bed pants, suckas.
** Released in 1979. It's fate, I say!

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