I dreamed I was giving a massage to Special Counsel Robert Mueller. There was nothing salacious about this. Bodywork is my skill, my calling, my career. I fix stressed, injured people. Probably it was easy for my dreaming mind to imagine that Mr. Mueller could use some destressing. The odd thing was that I was using the dining room table that lived in the house(s) I grew up in, one that was made for the family by a Maine artisan related to a family friend, out of solid oak, not a nail or screw in it, all wooden pegged with a longitudinal strut that I used to sneakily rest my feet on. No clothing was off. I kept getting interrupted between this extremity and that, so that when people started arriving expecting to be served some sort of repast on that table I hadn’t done Mr. Mueller’s feet yet. I held out. Feet are important.
One of the chattering, irritating, girly arrivals had come with a supply of “Bath Bombs,” I’ve read of the things, blobs of bath salts or bubble stuff with usually obnoxious aromas. These, though differently colored and composed, were all pecan-scented.
My Southern relatives, whom I repudiate to the extent that I would carve their DNA out of myself with a blunt knife if it were possible and survivable, owned many pecan orchards. They would probably vote for Roy “Lolitaphile” Moore if they were still living. Don’t know about subsequent generations. I cut them off.
There’s just something wrong about dreaming politics. I’m glad the next segment of the dream involved an old client of mine coming into possession of a hot pink convertible.
Another dream, but I’m sleeping a lot. It has become my main way of coping.
Maybe it was the night of the new moon, or something, but just before first light I found myself in the audience of the new musical that was apparently Lin-Manuel Miranda’s next effort after “Hamilton.”
The house was packed because it was, well, the guy who brought you “Hamilton,” and because the subject of the new show was actually the new administration itself. I can’t remember a damn thing about Act I, because the dream started during the interval, when we were all trying to get in and out of the ladies’ room, and the show resumed before I could get to the head of the line, but as a courtesy the theater was piping the sound into the loos. The opening scene involved Vice President Pence going into the Oval Office for a chat with President Cheeto, only the Cheeto was chasing some female staffer, and presently Pence appeared to say oh well, what the hell, and put the blocks on another woman likewise — a smooth, Don Giovanni-like effort given that we were supposed to understand it was his first shot at depravity . Set to excellent music, which I can’t remember. And I could only listen to it while finally reaching the solace of an open stall.
Highly subjunctive, as they say. But it’s the first good laugh I’ve gotten out of this.
When he was living in his accursed group house, the Engineer suffered the presence of his house-mate’s beau, a local Republican talk-show host who came over to watch their cable TV (he was too cheap to pay for it at his own place), nosh the Engineer’s baking, and basically sit on the sofa and scratch his balls. I cherish the memory of the chump only because of the spit-take he did when the Engineer executed his hail-Mary pass ten and more years ago, during a homeowner upgrade. For reasons too bizarre to go into, I had asked him for any spare lumber that was left over.
“Oh, Sled? I have wood for you. …I mean, if you would like a stud.”
We had to pound the poor motherfucker on the back to sort out the coffee he inhaled.
The other night I dreamed we were attending the premiere of a movie that was being made about the sorry chump’s life, really more like the first rushes. People were coming from all over to sit in an amphitheater kind of place, with popcorn.
And then Ted Cruz bustled out of the kitchen in a red and white gingham apron, with a pot roast that he had more or less assassinated, unfit for consumption by any but the desperate and by a vegetarian, well, it goes without saying.
And the primaries are only starting. It’s going to be a long, long fucking year.
I dreamed that, while seeing two clients in succession out the door, I felt moved to recite to each of them one of the metrical English translations* of the Catullus verse that starts Ameana puella defututa. The version I was declaiming goes
Ameana, big-nosed twat,
Duns me for an awful lot…
But I kept blanking out on the third line. I could recall the concluding couplets but could not for the life of me remember what came in the middle, even though I thought it was very important for each of these people to hear the poem.
I hate it when that happens.
*I like the conclusion of the version I remembered better than the one I linked here.
Find out what the hell has shocked her,
Call her relatives, her doctor,
Give the kid a looking-glass
To show her face looks like her ass.
Christian, the ADD electrician, said he was finished, except for finishing (that is, stuff that can only be done once the carpentry has been restored), somewhere between Sunday and Wednesday. (I thought he had to come back about something, but my contractor said no.) Meaning that the county’s electrical code inspector can come and look at what he did, and if it’s okay then the carpenters can put my baseboards back and graft the gaps in the construction board closed, and this long nightmare will be over. I gather inspection is scheduled for Monday.
I had a dream that the inspector appeared at the door at seven-thirty AM, and he was a queer-looking individual with a tiny head and narrow sloping shoulders and a big pear-shaped ass in Spandex bicycle togs, riding a bicycle in fact, and presenting a business card with an effigy of his pear-shaped self in a few strokes of artistic ink, indited with text about his zeal for bicycling. And that the Great God Pan, my contractor, came pelting to meet him at that ungodly hour, unshaven and neglecting to attire himself normally but dressed in pajamas with a sort of Hawaiian shirt pattern, a bluish background featuring large red hibiscus blossoms.
Does anyone have some Valium?
Standing at the kitchen counter, I suddenly recalled only one fleeting fragment of last night’s dream: a high school girl, very Buffy-the-Vampire-Slayer, dodging into the restroom while everyone else was in class to apply hemorrhoid cream.
Can anyone parse this for me?
I spent most of the day out of sorts, on account of the artificial rat.
It seems to be the season for disturbing and vivid dreams. Perhaps the Spring and its attendant barometric chaos. What it was, was I dreamed that I was somehow involved in a matter of corporate skulduggery, in that I knew that an artist/inventor, who owned a patent on a lifelike, artificial rat, capable of a convincing and quite terrifying snarl, was on the hit list of corporate profiteers who schemed to bump him off so that they could keep all the proceeds from the sale of the rat(s) to themselves. His name was Nick something-Italian-in-M, and he was basically dead meat from the get-go; all I could do was all I could do, trying to warn him before it was too late, while feigning to believe the arguments of some libertarian theorist explaining that anything done in pursuit of profits is A-OK in the sight of God.
The rat was a pretty impressive, fearsome effigy. I still have a vivid sense of its teeth-baring rictus, held as it was in the grasping lunch-hooks of some balding CEO in a three piece suit.
I awoke feeling as if a couple of filing cabinets or a small commuter vehicle were pressing me into the mattress, and the feeling persisted throughout the day. I can’t explain this. I’ll cheerfully entertain any speculations.