Dreams can be a bitch, dear worst-reader. Especially those dreams that confuse beyond trying to figure them out. I mean, don’t you know, I’m not into figuring them ALL out. Some of them I just let go. Others linger with me for days–even as I try to let go. That means, I suppose, I have to give them a thought or three. Like this one, which I’ll try to worst-write while being soothed by Karajan’s 1963 Beethoven Symphonies.
First, most of the dreams I retain seem to be early morning dreams. That is–in what I like to refer to as my second night’s sleep–where I fall into a deep sleep after waking in the wee hours, usually around 4am–a dream ensues that takes me to deeper places than those hypnotic places Dr. Shit4Brains prescribed oh so long ago which get me to fall asleep in the first place, where a first dream happens but I usually repress. Nomatter.
This particular dream/place was a large cavernous valley with a few shinny houses in the middle of its nadir. The sky and atmosphere are lit with fluorescent, crayon coloured dim light but I can also see a sun just above one of the surrounding cliffs. Hues and shades abound from flowers and trees and perfectly manicured gardens. The vibrant reds and blues in the sky don’t match the sun or the cliffs that surround me, though. Stymied with awe, I feel something touch my left hand. I quickly turn to my left but then realise that a person is passing me on my right. As she passes me, she gallantly turns around and continues to pass but doing so while walking backwards, where I can clearly make out her face.
The first thing I see is Crouzon syndrome. The second thing I see is that the girl is a version of an old girlfriend of mine–who did not have Crouzon syndrome. She’s the same age as when I remembered banging her desperately and thereby hoping she remembered her birth control. What a gal she was, eh! But why Crouzon now? Nomatter.
She waves me along and eventually takes my right hand then leads me to one of the houses in the middle of the valley. She pulls me into the house and gives me a dry peck on the cheek and asks, whispering in my ear, if I’m missing her yet. She then reveals one breast and I yearn to fondle the puffy nipple but she moves off, stage left.
The inside of the house is a large loft, the back of which being nothing more than a large window overseeing the cliffs beyond. In the middle of the house is stage with a lone drum set with… the KIϟϟ emblem on the bass drum. After a long pause filled with contemplation about why I would dream of an ex who has Crouzon syndrome, Gene Simmons enters from a stage right (without makeup) and sits on the stool behind the drum set. He and I get into some heated discussion, he speaking yiddish and I the highest form of German I was never able to learn, until he finally stands atop the bass drum, whips out his Wiener, which, by-the-buy, is as big as his infamous tongue, and pees all over me.
I wake up to a down pour that is sneaking in through the terrace door I left open all night due the #Eurowasteland summer heat wave. I worry for a second or three about the wood floor that is now soaked, thereby feeling a few hard and heavy rain drops splatter on my morning face. I then shut the door. I go to the bathroom and have a morning piss, taking careful aim, of course, so as to not have so much to clean when cleaning is due at the end of the week. I then wash my hands and face and head downstairs to make my first espresso of the day. And so a worst-writer day begins and a dream ends, eh, dear worst-reader.
After a few days I finally figured out what Gene Simmons and I were arguing about and why he pissed on me. The conversation started with me praising him and his business acumen, thereby turning a half-witted rock band into an international sensation–that I loved when I was a kid. But then I started quoting some of the bands lyrics and probably said something about how their music relates so endearingly to the rest of #Americant and THE LAND OF FREE TO BE STUPID and that there are consequences to turning the greatest, most powerful, ingenious nation-state experiment into a cesspool of greed, demagoguery, religious bat$hittery and, of course, guns. I then added something about how I was able to grow up and out of the three-grade entertainment that not only KIϟϟ panders and squawks but that which lead to the likes of #Trump who is the true face of not just republicans but #Americant greed-mongering, political conservatism and guns-galore–as a means of problem enhancement that only benefits the rich thereby keeping the riff-raff and lumpenproletariat in-check.
Indeed. And to think there is anyone surprised or shocked how the third-grade can become the nadir of the valley of death where guns give the blind and stupid the same feeling of success as a half-witted rock-band making a gazillion bucks or more–just so many others and others and others and money and money and money….
Keep failing upwards, baby.
Good luck suckers.
Rant on.
-T
Links that motivated this post (if only I could post a link to the dream, eh, baby):
– Don’t worry, in a land where Money = God, there is nothing to be done about it | Crooks&Liars
– Guess who won’t talk about it | DailyKos
– Too late do something about it | NPR
– Crouzon syndrome | Wiki
worstwriter 