Snippets From The Subconscious
So I woke up last night from dreaming and actually remembered a few things:
1. Wilt Chamberlain hates Michael Jordan. Yes, it's true, "The Stilt" (who I see died in 1999) is actually still alive and signing autographs. Perhaps for the government! I'm standing in line to get one, and there he is, sitting behind a wall of pretty random photos, not particularly imposing. The odd thing is that there seem to be as many pictures of Jordan on that wall as him, and as I reach the front of the line he sees me noticing this. "I suppose you want me to sign one of those, huh?" he says, pretty belligerantly. Now dream sense tells me that this is a complicated situation: Wilt has been signing pictures of MJ for people as a joke and (somehow) an insult to Jordan, but it's a private joke, apparently, because he doesn't like when people ask him to sign one. So I say, "Aw no, Mr. Chamberlain, you pick what to sign. I was just thinking it might be funny, but no offense intended." So he smiles and grabs something, writes on it, and hands it to me folded in a square.
I'm on my way home and I open it up. The picture is from a newspaper, maybe magazine, and had been torn, rather than cut, out. It is of a random woman in a bikini, a C-list model, nothing particularly sexy. Wilt, whose handwriting is blocky and totally sucks, has written, "Despite all the women I've slept with, I still think they have funny bodies. Wilt Chamberlain."
When I get home--which is not my home--there's a big bulletin board inside, completely bare. I pushpin the picture/autograph up on the side and think maybe it's time to start a collection.
2. I'm in my home, which isn't my home. It's a very bright place, filled with knick-knacks and crap that seems a little incongruous even to my dream self (who, let's face it, is kind of clueless 95% of the time). It's a place with a basement, with a storage area blocked off with an open wooden slat wall in the back of the place. I seem pretty happy, just looking at all my fabulous and cheerful arts and crafts, and I hear a noise. I walk back to the storage area. There's nothing there. The storage area is empty, but I do notice that the swinging door to it is rocking the slightest amount. I look inside the room and see the perfectly normal 3 x 3 square hole in the floor. I get down on all fours to look into the brightly-lit basement, and see that there's a kid there, maybe 6 or 7, just kind of looking around blank-faced. I think this is a neighbor's kid that wandered into my place, and that I should grab him and take him back to his parents. I call out to him, he ignores me, he moves to an identical storage area in the basement, and I'm down there now making a grab for him and then he's gone. I look inside the storage area and there's a not-quite-as-normal 18" x 18" square hole in the floor that, apparently, the kid went down. I look in the hole and it goes down maybe 30 feet, all bright flourescent, and then angles off and, hey, I know that this isn't right at all. So I'm all suddenly, "Screw that, I've seen horror movies," and I start shoveling junk down the hole, mostly pieces of wood. I'm thinking, "I can seal this up later, maybe just pour cement down there, 'cause that ain't no neighbor's kid." Then I see that, down this industrial rabbit hole, a thin arm is clearing away the junk as fast as I can shovel it in. Then the kid appears at the bottom of the hole, his face now mottled with gray patches and totally expressionless, like a snake, and he's effortlessly and quickly climbing, eyes wide and staring at me...
That's what woke me up. Questions:
1) Would you like to have drinks with (not dead) Wilt Chamberlain?
2) Do you think that I need more hobbies, possibly involving felt?
3) Should I bury any neighborhood children in cement as a preventative measure? (And should I seek parental permission first?)
4) Should I bury my subconscious in cement as a preventative measure? Conversely, would you like to have drinks with it?
1. Wilt Chamberlain hates Michael Jordan. Yes, it's true, "The Stilt" (who I see died in 1999) is actually still alive and signing autographs. Perhaps for the government! I'm standing in line to get one, and there he is, sitting behind a wall of pretty random photos, not particularly imposing. The odd thing is that there seem to be as many pictures of Jordan on that wall as him, and as I reach the front of the line he sees me noticing this. "I suppose you want me to sign one of those, huh?" he says, pretty belligerantly. Now dream sense tells me that this is a complicated situation: Wilt has been signing pictures of MJ for people as a joke and (somehow) an insult to Jordan, but it's a private joke, apparently, because he doesn't like when people ask him to sign one. So I say, "Aw no, Mr. Chamberlain, you pick what to sign. I was just thinking it might be funny, but no offense intended." So he smiles and grabs something, writes on it, and hands it to me folded in a square.
I'm on my way home and I open it up. The picture is from a newspaper, maybe magazine, and had been torn, rather than cut, out. It is of a random woman in a bikini, a C-list model, nothing particularly sexy. Wilt, whose handwriting is blocky and totally sucks, has written, "Despite all the women I've slept with, I still think they have funny bodies. Wilt Chamberlain."
When I get home--which is not my home--there's a big bulletin board inside, completely bare. I pushpin the picture/autograph up on the side and think maybe it's time to start a collection.
2. I'm in my home, which isn't my home. It's a very bright place, filled with knick-knacks and crap that seems a little incongruous even to my dream self (who, let's face it, is kind of clueless 95% of the time). It's a place with a basement, with a storage area blocked off with an open wooden slat wall in the back of the place. I seem pretty happy, just looking at all my fabulous and cheerful arts and crafts, and I hear a noise. I walk back to the storage area. There's nothing there. The storage area is empty, but I do notice that the swinging door to it is rocking the slightest amount. I look inside the room and see the perfectly normal 3 x 3 square hole in the floor. I get down on all fours to look into the brightly-lit basement, and see that there's a kid there, maybe 6 or 7, just kind of looking around blank-faced. I think this is a neighbor's kid that wandered into my place, and that I should grab him and take him back to his parents. I call out to him, he ignores me, he moves to an identical storage area in the basement, and I'm down there now making a grab for him and then he's gone. I look inside the storage area and there's a not-quite-as-normal 18" x 18" square hole in the floor that, apparently, the kid went down. I look in the hole and it goes down maybe 30 feet, all bright flourescent, and then angles off and, hey, I know that this isn't right at all. So I'm all suddenly, "Screw that, I've seen horror movies," and I start shoveling junk down the hole, mostly pieces of wood. I'm thinking, "I can seal this up later, maybe just pour cement down there, 'cause that ain't no neighbor's kid." Then I see that, down this industrial rabbit hole, a thin arm is clearing away the junk as fast as I can shovel it in. Then the kid appears at the bottom of the hole, his face now mottled with gray patches and totally expressionless, like a snake, and he's effortlessly and quickly climbing, eyes wide and staring at me...
That's what woke me up. Questions:
1) Would you like to have drinks with (not dead) Wilt Chamberlain?
2) Do you think that I need more hobbies, possibly involving felt?
3) Should I bury any neighborhood children in cement as a preventative measure? (And should I seek parental permission first?)
4) Should I bury my subconscious in cement as a preventative measure? Conversely, would you like to have drinks with it?
posted by Greg at 6:14 AM
3 Comments:
The reason I posted this is that I usually never remember my dreams (and, actually, there was a bunch more last night that I'm forgetting). When I do remember my dreams, they are inevitably boring and obvious.
My dreams last night were at least interesting, if still pretty transparent in jumbled meaning, and I like to encourage my subconscious to fuck with me whenever possible. So here's your 5 seconds of fame, you usually worthless thing, show me something else that doesn't suck--something sexy, something scary, something weird.
Hmmm. OK, so dreams. Last night, the little bit I was able to sleep, I had a horrible dream where my husband turned in to a fundimentalist christian of some kind, and shunned me.
Seriously, bad dream juju this weekend.
Great site loved it alot, will come back and visit again.
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