If they weren't already scary enough...
...you need to know that with these guys
you just have to strangle 'em before they kill you.
I've advocated the keeping of dream diaries and journals to creative people in various fields for the past twenty-odd years because you never know... Most of the stuff that the unconscious throws at you in the wee small hours is utter tosh, and generally useless - a mish-mash of unresolved issues/concerns of the previous day, along with snatched imagery from the short and long-term memory "holding cells" of the brain. Occasionally you'll get recurring patterns, or semi-rational narrative strands and, on really good nights, actual dialogue which may not only stand up to close scrutiny the following morning, but actually outshine your output from the waking hours.
And then you just get the really weird shit:
I was sitting in a nightclub which just happened to be situated in an airport lounge, surrounded by five or six guys from my youth, and who had all either fallen upon hard times, or become low-ranking members of the criminal fraternity. We were seated around a very low, almond-shaped table, and watching blue-lit girls dancing in front of two large video-screens some way off. To a soundtrack of bass-heavy New Order re-mixes, we were having a stifled, and somewhat awkward conversation about what had alternately gone wrong and right in their lives, although I was understandably distracted by the fact that we had all removed our footwear, and I needed to be at the other end of the airport in order to board my aeroplane. Having been caught looking at my watch for the umpteenth time, I made my apologies to the chaps, refused yet another offer of a beer, and started looking under the table for my boots.
This is where the anxiety kicked-in. I couldn't find 'em. Picking up, examining, and then discarding numerous pairs of trainers, cowboy boots, and black brogues, I began to explain - in calm, rational tones - that there was no way I was going to leave there without my brown leather hikers. Cue the dark looks of suspicion and distrust from my comrades...
Eventually I found my own footwear, but it seemed at least two sizes too small, and was a bitch of a struggle to pull on. I said cheerio to the fellas, who seemed more than displeased that I was leaving, and slung my bag over my shoulder - heading out towards the moving walkway. However, once again I was distracted, because I noticed a small kitchenette-type room off to one side, and decided I'd like nothing more at that point than an orange and pineapple smoothie. (What are the odds? No idea, but I seemed convinced that I'd find one in a refrigerator there.)
And that's when the George W. Bush doll turned up, swaggering along the kitchen's work surface towards me as I was rummaging in the 'fridge for that elusive, fruity smoothie... Maybe it was just instinct, because he really didn't seem particularly well-disposed towards me, or a desire not to have the twelve-inch plastic President engage me in anything approaching conversation, but I slammed the 'fridge door shut and began to methodically strangle Dubya. As this was happening, I could vaguely hear airport announcements over the speaker system in the background, and thought, "I really don't have time for this now..." With the doll now incapacitated, I quickly went back to the 'fridge, but was aware of sounds of struggling, and turned to see about a dozen identical George Bush dolls scrabbling to get out of their respective boxes in another part of the kitchen...
At this point, thankfully, I woke up.
Over to you, Doctor Freud... ;o)
you just have to strangle 'em before they kill you.
I've advocated the keeping of dream diaries and journals to creative people in various fields for the past twenty-odd years because you never know... Most of the stuff that the unconscious throws at you in the wee small hours is utter tosh, and generally useless - a mish-mash of unresolved issues/concerns of the previous day, along with snatched imagery from the short and long-term memory "holding cells" of the brain. Occasionally you'll get recurring patterns, or semi-rational narrative strands and, on really good nights, actual dialogue which may not only stand up to close scrutiny the following morning, but actually outshine your output from the waking hours.
And then you just get the really weird shit:
I was sitting in a nightclub which just happened to be situated in an airport lounge, surrounded by five or six guys from my youth, and who had all either fallen upon hard times, or become low-ranking members of the criminal fraternity. We were seated around a very low, almond-shaped table, and watching blue-lit girls dancing in front of two large video-screens some way off. To a soundtrack of bass-heavy New Order re-mixes, we were having a stifled, and somewhat awkward conversation about what had alternately gone wrong and right in their lives, although I was understandably distracted by the fact that we had all removed our footwear, and I needed to be at the other end of the airport in order to board my aeroplane. Having been caught looking at my watch for the umpteenth time, I made my apologies to the chaps, refused yet another offer of a beer, and started looking under the table for my boots.
This is where the anxiety kicked-in. I couldn't find 'em. Picking up, examining, and then discarding numerous pairs of trainers, cowboy boots, and black brogues, I began to explain - in calm, rational tones - that there was no way I was going to leave there without my brown leather hikers. Cue the dark looks of suspicion and distrust from my comrades...
Eventually I found my own footwear, but it seemed at least two sizes too small, and was a bitch of a struggle to pull on. I said cheerio to the fellas, who seemed more than displeased that I was leaving, and slung my bag over my shoulder - heading out towards the moving walkway. However, once again I was distracted, because I noticed a small kitchenette-type room off to one side, and decided I'd like nothing more at that point than an orange and pineapple smoothie. (What are the odds? No idea, but I seemed convinced that I'd find one in a refrigerator there.)
And that's when the George W. Bush doll turned up, swaggering along the kitchen's work surface towards me as I was rummaging in the 'fridge for that elusive, fruity smoothie... Maybe it was just instinct, because he really didn't seem particularly well-disposed towards me, or a desire not to have the twelve-inch plastic President engage me in anything approaching conversation, but I slammed the 'fridge door shut and began to methodically strangle Dubya. As this was happening, I could vaguely hear airport announcements over the speaker system in the background, and thought, "I really don't have time for this now..." With the doll now incapacitated, I quickly went back to the 'fridge, but was aware of sounds of struggling, and turned to see about a dozen identical George Bush dolls scrabbling to get out of their respective boxes in another part of the kitchen...
At this point, thankfully, I woke up.
Over to you, Doctor Freud... ;o)