| Thinker : Dreams : Jail | |||||
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[As I recounted this dream in my head laying in bed, I sometimes slipped back into la-la land. I heard my self say: "my face was obliterated. I had nothing." I had a picture of a caricature of my face drawn on a car window and then wiped away. But I can't remember dream. I suppose that my psyche was recounting a dream that my mind could not remember.]
I was in jail, but out on leave, riding my motorcycle. I passed a cop on the wrong side as I made the last turn into the underground garage. I ground the gears and then went slowly, hoping the cop would let it slide. The garage door was locked. I had to wait for the warden to let me in. She said the cop I had passed, named Mrs. Miranda(?), on the street would be by to get me later. This was bad—like solitary confinement—and worse punishment than I was already under. Upstairs, I sat at my desk near the front door. A woman came in wearing a furry trench coat open to reveal her bush. She beckoned in some more women dressed in latex or leather. A fight began and crowds of prisoners were crushing towards us. I ran for an open corner. Outside, the veranda was laid with old worn limestone. There was a fire. A man I loved was sitting meditatively inside an open arch shaped oven. Burning logs all around him propped up on the sides of the oven. He was being burned but so far, he was untouched. There was another open fire to my left. Sitting on the stone stairs leading down the valley, I wept bitterly. Above, the sky held two spots from which radiated dark waves, like the drawings of sound waves, which created a moiré pattern with each other. Inside, seedy men offered me beers and I feared for my virgin ass. One man was weeping from being raped. I walked back to my desk where the fighting had started and saw ritualized knife fighting, as in the book "Dune". I considered trying to enter the competition, but realized that, though I felt I might have a chance in hand to hand, I didn't know how to fight with knives. I went to the back of the hall to listen to the preacher sermoning. I didn't trust what he said anymore than I trusted my jailer to keep me safe while in jail.
Michaela and I were walking a trail in the woods. We came across people fighting and selling fruit smoothies. We ate and went on. We came to a sort of tree house belonging to friends of her parents. I tried to climb up to the bed, but the supports—plastic storage boxes—crumbled. She got up and I followed. She was nervous about being naked. She took her shirt off, and I massaged her back. She began crying that the vibration in her knee was too much. She couldn't take it any more. I put my hand on it and felt the vibration too. I hoped that my touch would help get her through. |
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First written Mon, Dec 8, 1997 Last published Wed, Jun 2, 1999 |
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