Dream Land
Recently my non-chemically induced dreams have produced desirable results. I am pleased. Bill Burroughs used a lot of his dreams for writing, and many of them were homo-erotic and/or just really nonsensical, like most dreams I guess – gay and/or weird. Personally I haven’t had any gay dreams, but I did have a dream about some sort of mountain standoff. Let me explain:
Transported to the land of Pyramid Hill, I reached the shallow peak in less than five minutes and crouched behind the 3-foot wall. Rocks were available everywhere and were the preferred mode of defense. I reminded my comrades that rocks would run out, but they assured me that the whole mountain was indeed composed of rocks. I fired a few at the approaching men with their mean, ugly elephants. Few of the rocks dealt harmful blows. Others glanced of the thick skin. Your basic siege scene now, the premise was about to quickly transform itself. Soon our position was overtaken and I was forced to rush down the narrow trail that would hopefully be my escape. Not so. Three disgruntled, mutilated, and mentally diseased teens appeared. One with a bloody nub for a limb, the other with a overly tiny head, and finally, the leader, an autistic one. All carried long barreled weaponry and sprinted with evil intent. They meant to use the butt of the guns to work my head over. No words were spoken, but the unyielding gun butts told the whole story on my skull. With the luck of seven gambling addicts I found my own gun (albeit a crappy pump-action pellet gun) buried in some sand. The mindless running attack was taken advantage of by simply ducking and letting the momentum lead to abrasive tumbling, followed by a smashing of my own. The bloody nub and the tiny head proved a minor challenge, but the autistic kid had a story of his own, as I found out after a solid stalemate battle in which I removed his glasses and broke them. End of fight. Transfer immediately to video screening of a brief explanation. A black man in an interrogation room. Grainy, poor quality video. An irregular adjustment from the man to a young boy, a captain of sorts, and the autism case. His story followed the questions he was asked. I recognized him from before, and I knew of his ability, or disability. He was dangerous alright, and belonged back in the interrogation chamber where his acute condition could be further studied. Anyone that can somehow alter their mindset, chemical balance, or genetic scheme should be confined to small dark rooms and interrogated endlessly.
Transported to the land of Pyramid Hill, I reached the shallow peak in less than five minutes and crouched behind the 3-foot wall. Rocks were available everywhere and were the preferred mode of defense. I reminded my comrades that rocks would run out, but they assured me that the whole mountain was indeed composed of rocks. I fired a few at the approaching men with their mean, ugly elephants. Few of the rocks dealt harmful blows. Others glanced of the thick skin. Your basic siege scene now, the premise was about to quickly transform itself. Soon our position was overtaken and I was forced to rush down the narrow trail that would hopefully be my escape. Not so. Three disgruntled, mutilated, and mentally diseased teens appeared. One with a bloody nub for a limb, the other with a overly tiny head, and finally, the leader, an autistic one. All carried long barreled weaponry and sprinted with evil intent. They meant to use the butt of the guns to work my head over. No words were spoken, but the unyielding gun butts told the whole story on my skull. With the luck of seven gambling addicts I found my own gun (albeit a crappy pump-action pellet gun) buried in some sand. The mindless running attack was taken advantage of by simply ducking and letting the momentum lead to abrasive tumbling, followed by a smashing of my own. The bloody nub and the tiny head proved a minor challenge, but the autistic kid had a story of his own, as I found out after a solid stalemate battle in which I removed his glasses and broke them. End of fight. Transfer immediately to video screening of a brief explanation. A black man in an interrogation room. Grainy, poor quality video. An irregular adjustment from the man to a young boy, a captain of sorts, and the autism case. His story followed the questions he was asked. I recognized him from before, and I knew of his ability, or disability. He was dangerous alright, and belonged back in the interrogation chamber where his acute condition could be further studied. Anyone that can somehow alter their mindset, chemical balance, or genetic scheme should be confined to small dark rooms and interrogated endlessly.
posted by fiestawizard at 12:54 PM
1 Comments:
you think that dream's NOT homoerotic? "the rocks dealt harmful blows" and "long barreled weaponry" and "overly tiny head" and "pump-action pellet gun" and, of course, mentally ill teens.
actually, it WAS a burroughs-esque dream you had there... with the guns, boys, mystery interrogation, senseless violence... remarkable vision and evoctive of so much from our collective unconscious. i will enjoy my own dreams soon.
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