Joel

A man named Joel with a big white moustache is known to many as a Marxist. I sit at a cafeteria with long wooden benches crowded with people and I am explaining to a group of people how wonderful Joel is. Then Joel begins making homosexual advances toward me, suggesting that he will follow me home that night. I say no and he stands and leaves abruptly.

Test of Love 2

This is the test of love, a tall man says to me. He is white, with a thin moustache, but one of his arms is red, as though he just dipped it in paint. He pulls out a pencil and starts tapping it on the desk. After a while, the sound gets annoying. 1-2-3. 1-2-3. I hope he’ll get tired, but he doesn’t. His red arm seems to be made of metal. – And then what happens? I finally say. The moment I do, he hits me on crown of the head with the pencil, then goes back to hitting the desk, then hits me again. I realize he’s following a pattern. He’s hitting me on the head every third time. It doesn’t feel nice, and after about five times, I try to move my head out of the way. Not only do I fail, but this prompts him to hit me twice on the crown of the head, then back to the table, then back to my head twice more. There are other people in the room supposedly doing the same test. But I can’t see what they have discovered about this test. The nagging, incessant feeling of a pencil eraser knocking on the crown of my head is making any other thought impossible. – That’s it! I shout. Give me that fucking thing. I grab for it, and fail; I lunge at the man, but he moves with almost supernatural swiftness, his legs humming under him, and now the pencil is knocking on the crown of my head three times in a row, meaning incessantly: 1-2-3, 1-2-3.

George

I’m still trying to write Part 3 of George.

SILVERADO!

Monkeys are on cows running as fast as horses, shouting, “Hey, ho, Silverado,” and then, “Hey, ho, I’m going to your mother’s house and I’m going to get some pie and sausage pizza and if I don’t like the way the pie tastes or the sausage pizza I’m going to smash her teeth in,” and then, “Hey, ho, Silverado!”

WTF 2 @ suck my balls the unconscious dot com

I see a procession of beautiful cars: Porsche, Lexus, Mitsubishi, Honda (a nice Honda), Fiat, Mercedes, Lamborghini. They are shiny and new. There is no one but me. I am in a parking garage. The lights are low. I hear the sound of a child crying. I hear the cracking of crystal. I don’t understand this. It is vague and now I am flying over Turkey, and the ruins are spectacular, and my penis is a small, red lizard.

Gay Vacation

An old friend from high school is visiting me. My basement room to my house goes on and on. It turns corners, opens into new rooms, some with water damage, others just cluttered messes with the floor covered with clothes, Barbie dolls, strips of cardboard, insulation, broken bits of pottery. He and I are running through the house, carrying a mattress. We set it down on the floor next to a pile of rags with a smell like oven cleaner. I pull off his pants. – We’ve got to be quiet, I laugh. I stroke his penis. – Blow me, I say. – You’re a maniac, he laughs. – Yes, I say, pushing his face down and feeling a warm, cool, a warm, cool, something like bliss. I’m on a gay vacation: this is normal; this is normal. I’m fucking his face and the fumes are rising that will burn our lungs.

Roger's Dream (???)

Roger joined Alcoholics Anonymous. I ask him why, since he doesn’t drink. He tells me that he’s met a nice girl there, she’s a bit older and they have “juicy sex,” a formulation which makes me uncomfortable. (A hard thing to feel: ill in a dream.) – Do you ever dream? Roger then asks me. – What has that go to do with anything? – I dream, I dream, he says wistfully. I dreamed the other day that it would be nice to be a woman during an act of copulation. He is cut short by the arrival of a woman. She’s 55, with silvery hair, and smells faintly of oven cleaner. (A rare thing in a dream: to smell something.) – Get out! Get out! Roger shouts. I jump out of his Silverado truck. She smiles, then bows at me like we have just battled to the death and she has won, then gets into the front seat and the car drives away.

Mr. Wu's Taps

I am in Chinatown. I ask Mr. Wu for a coffee with my roll and he tells me that he has no more paper cups, but that I can use his plastic one. I pour some coffee into the cup but the coffee looks strange, almost dirty. I dump the coffee and fill the cup with hot water from the tap to wash it out. But even after that the cup is filled with scum and three dead bugs with little red balls for a body and antennae and clear little wings. I dump that, wash it out again, and pour another cup of coffee. This coffee tastes fine. But when I take the cup to Mr. Wu to ask him about the scum there is a large spider crawling out of the cup. “You know what I do?” he said, then reaches his hand around as though it is my hand and flicks the spider off the rim of my cup. “Ha ha ha,” laughs Mr. Wu. I dump the coffee, and fill it again with hot water. Aphids and shiny worms come out of the tap. I tell Mr. Wu that there is something wrong here, that his tap must be hooked up to an unfiltered water supply. He looks incredulous so I dump the aphids and worms down the drain and pull the hot water tap again. This time, a little red and green frog falls into my cup. “Oh no!” shouts Mr. Wu, taking the cup from me and dumping the frog into the sink. The little frog jumps around, too tiny to get out of the sink, but too big to fit through the drain. We both watch it sadly.

About to be fucked by a man from Russia playing Hamlet

There is a man from Russia who is apparently the greatest actor who has ever played Hamlet. His Hamlet is playing at a very famous theater in the city. Today he is at our school to talk about the craft and discipline of acting. He is very intrigued by me because he heard that I am interested in acting. He invites me up on stage and we begin to read a scene together. I am Horatio and he is Hamlet. It is mostly him: a passionate speech about how I am in his “my heart of heart” and how much of a good friend I am to him. Halfway through the speech, the Russian starts taking off his clothes. He strips down to his boxer shorts, and when he gets to the end of his speech, as if it were attached to a string, his erection pops up. – You would make a very good actor, he says. I am very embarrassed for him, and I turn out shyly, only to realize that we are alone in the auditorium, and I am also not wearing any pants.

Not Troy

Troy is burning. My mother is there, of course. She is shouting something about aliens landing and I am trying to tell her that this is Troy, it is too far back in history for there to be aliens. Then a huge concrete Godzilla starts walking around smashing stuff up. And I decide that we can’t hear that sound because the first step of the monster has destroyed all our eardrums that we will never hear again. But then I see aliens. My mother was right. They are thin and tall and fall down onto the earth. I run into an alley convinced that the aliens will attack only if they think that I am brave, and wise, and intelligent. I have to appear pathetic and useless. I lie on the ground by a garbage bin. A Giacometti-skinny hedgehog of an alien with a camera for an eye stops and moves down the alley. It’s coming right at me. It prods my arm with a hook, draws blood. My mother’s prediction echoes in my ears, as a hook comes out this time right for my eye.

Return of the Living Dead

I dreamed that it would be awesome to watch Return of the Living Dead again.

The dog

The dog is playing cards. The dog is bobbing for ice cubes in his ice bowl. The dog is humping the chair. The dog is sleeping in the car. The dog is playing old jazz records. The dog is giving bad advice. The dog is reading The Big Blue Book of French Verbs. The dog falls off its stool at the bar. The dog finds a way into the fridge. The dog is eating deer shit in the front yard. The dog is lonely. The dog slept all day. The dog is barking at me on the rowing machine. The dog is slurping vodka. The dog is full of bad advice. The dog growls at the baby. The dog is in bed with her before you are.

Wrong Book

I am working everyday, all day, on rewriting my autobiography, I Will Kill You, when I realize that everyone hates that book, it is infantile and there is no plot, it is full of pornography and me talking about my dialectical progression, and that I am supposed to be working on a new book, called George, which I have not even started.

What the angel of love said to me

In my heart is every disease known to man.

Clive Cussler

I ask Clive Cussler why, in Corsair, and many other of his masterpieces, there is so much violence but no sex, not even a kiss. He blames it on his publishers. He tells me that his books are considered “family friendly” and that he isn't permitted to write about sex. I tell him that he is a slave, and a waste of a life, and that his books are actually pulp garbage and that he should go die like Madoff. He reaches into his pants and tells me that he is going to sodomize me and come on my face, and I tell him go ahead, but out of his pants he pulls out a Colt pistol and points it at me and tells me to take back my words.

Dark

Come into the dark. Through a pathway between those two trees.

Exreme Measures

I am talking to Vince Flynn about Extreme Measures. I tell him that the book gets interesting only at the end. I tell him that his writing is becoming as jingoistic as the late Michael Chrichton, that there are even hints of misogyny, especially the two female characters who both admit that Nash’s form of ultraviolence is the best way. Vince gets angry, and he starts tapping a large stick he is holding on the pavement in front of him, dramatically, as though he is blind.

Advice from a Sexist Angel

There is a man behind that door. The man will say he is a woman, but you must not trust him. He will want to kiss you, but you must not kiss him. Attached to his tongue is a sharp pair of scissors, and he’ll turn you into a woman.

Vince Flynn

Vince Flynn is beating the living hell out of me. But it doesn't hurt, becuase Vince Flynn is just a writer.

Love

I am running after a woman who has insulted me. She turns around, insults me. I tell her not to insult me. She asks me why I am following her. I tell her that I can’t live without her. She insults me. Each time she does I feel a kind of pain in my chest: a horrible dull throbbing, as if my heart could have migraines.

You complete me

- George, says Candace, you complete me. When I think of you, my legs turn to mush. I think this is an odd metaphor, but I assume Candace meant to say that her heart turns to mush. Immediately, she loses her balance and I run and embrace her. – What is wrong? I ask. – My legs, she murmurs. I lift up her dress to see her two giant legs, swollen and almost blue in places. – Relieve them, she says. Oh please God relieve them. She hands me a thin knife. – Just a simple incision, she says, up the inner thigh. Reluctantly, I take the knife and place it on her thigh. I push the blade against her skin. Instantly, the leg splits open, and inside is nothing but a noxious green and brown mush.

Missing

I am sodomizing a tall woman. A tall albino man completes the sandwich with me. I tell him to leave, that I love this woman. Then I have her alone. I am kissing her. – How I love you, I tell her. – And yet you are still sodomizing me, she says. I turn her over, kiss her mouth, her shoulders. But her breasts are missing! Was the albino the woman? Whom do I love?

Real Cake

It is a busy day. My mother is having a party. People show up at the door, even panhandlers and people selling the Book of Mormon. I look through the letters by the front door. There is a carbon copy of a letter I once sent to my friend about my dad. So he knows I have betrayed him! My dad is throwing a fit because someone has brought out a dessert which is only fruit. My mother tells him that this dessert was very expensive. I tell them that I hate it when they are angry. – I’m not angry, my dad says. I just wanted a real cake.

The House of Pain

Welcome to the House of Pain, says a funny looking man. He is holding a vegetable peeler and shaving off bits of the skin around his knuckles. He sweats profusely in agony. Another woman smiles at me, and her mouth is filled with blood. She holds a coffee cup filled with what I thought was ice but I realize is glass. A black man is wearing a steel contraption on his face. He sits down in a chair manned by a man in a pink shirt. He attaches a hook to the pink shirt and pulls on a lever. The black man smiles at me, and, in one terrifying instant, his face is completely torn off. – What pain are you suffering? The man in the pink shirt asks me. – I have no pain, I say, I’m just passing through. – What do you think this is, Dante? The man asks, pulling a small hook out of his wrist and walking toward me.

Bananas

The yellow blanket is on the bed. There is a banana on the blanket. There are two bananas on the blanket. I take a banana off the blanket, another banana appears. There are more bananas than I want on this blanket. The bed is covered with a mound of bananas and it is growing. The mound fills the room. The bed collapses. The room crashes down onto the main floor. The house expands, then explodes. Bananas fill up the yard and down the street. They fill the whole city. The pile is so high that at the top the bananas are exploding because of the air pressure. But the pile keeps growing, new bananas replace the exploded bananas and explode themselves. Then the refuse builds up, and the bananas are burning up in the atmosphere. They explode into dust. The pile grows vertically, and starts to suffocate the world. And just before it does you think, There is a yellow blanket under this impossible pile that was the origin of all.

Slides

Let’s look at slides, my mother says. Everyone at the party murmurs their consent, half-enthused. Chairs are set up. The slide projector is warmed up. The screen is unrolled. The lights are dimmed. The first picture is my mother naked, her legs spread open. – Oh. This is where George was born, she says. The second is of me, two weeks old. – This is George, she says. What a cutie! The third is of her, naked, her legs open. – George’s father took that, she says, laughing. The forth is of me, six months old, eating mashed-up pears. – That’s George, she says. Yummy! The fifth is just a close up shot of her spread vagina. – I don’t know who took this, she says. Many have gotten up, and are pouring more drinks, or feeling their way through the dark, bumping into one another, and laughing, thinking they would like to go into the garden and smoke cigars. – I have about six reels, she laughs. Could someone please pour me a gin and tonic?

Towels

He is shouting at her, she is crying, he is crying, she is threatening to leave him, she is stealing towels, he is making threats, there are people waiting outside, he is stealing towels, she is crying, he wants to disappear, she takes hold of his ear, he hits her face, she is screaming, there are people waiting outside, I’ve got enough towels, he shouts, We can’t steal all the towels.

Refugee

A very short Asian woman wearing black clothes arrives at my door carrying a hard black suitcase. She tells me she will be my lover if she can live with me, for she is a refugee. I do not find her particularly attractive, as she was VERY short, but I agree, for I don’t want to be racist. – But you must let me stay here, she says, No matter what. I nod. She follows me inside. All my friends are there. I must be having a party. The woman takes off her pants and is wearing only her panties. Now she doesn’t speak a word of English, and stands in the center of the guests, flabbergasted. My guests have been rearranging my house. They have thrown down carpets, a low table covered with board games and cards, and two double bunk beds in my office. – It’s hardly my house anymore! I say, and some guests laugh. I go into my bedroom and start to reassemble my bed, because someone has replaced it with a crib. I don’t want a baby, I think, wishing that my guests would all leave. I just want to sleep with my refugee guest.

Juggy Dad

I was awoken by a disturbing dream this morning that I was in prison and my father was the guard and he was trying to foot fuck me while beating me with a nightstick. Except his voice sounded like Juggy’s, and so I told him that I had not stolen any money from him and he said, “It’s got nothing to do with that, it’s that you didn’t like my screenplay about the professional poker players, and for that I will follow you to the ends of the earth, no matter where you go, and destroy your life.”

"Forbidden Fruit Makes a Man Accursed"

It is from an old French poem. I have spent five days trying to clean my little dungeon and make it look elegant. I live in a basement storage area. My friend was kind enough to let me move my things in amid his boxes and exercise equipment, providing that I do not use the living room upstairs or talk to his children or his wife and make my meals only at odd hours so that no one is bothered by my presence. Tonight, however, a woman will visit me. She has been in love for almost five years with another man, but she recently began to respond to my calls, and promised tonight to have a drink with me. Most important to me was getting the bed set up for her. It’s an old bed. As I screwed it together, I realized how ridiculously small it was for this tiny space. I jammed boxes under it, and got it to fit only by a miracle. When she comes, we’ll have a glass of wine at my desk, which faces an air duct and is crammed against the basement toilet, which I have scrubbed clean, and then we’ll go straight to bed, because there simply isn’t room for anything else.

Johnnie Walker

I am trapped in a tiny apartment under a citizen’s arrest. There are people below vowing to kill me day and night, citing all the hurtful and wrong things I have done in my life. Behind a volume of Don Quixote, I discover to my delight a half-full bottle of Red Label. The bottle is soft, and I notice it has two breasts in the front of it. – Touch my breasts, the bottle says, from a little mouth that I cannot found. – I would much rather drink from them, I say. The bottle begins to change in my hand: the breasts become testicles, the neck elongates into a penis. I lift the bottle up and begin to drink.

Leaving Tomorrow

No dreams at all.

Moby George

Captain Ahab is beating a woman mercilessly. Then Captain Ahab pulls off his mask and he is a woman. All the sailors that were appalled at first feel just fine. And I think this is a kind of cheap trick but when I speak out my mouth is full of pebbles. And Captain Ahab shouts, “Aha!” And two sailors wrestle me to the ground and pry open my mouth. They are looking for clams. Among the pebbles in my mouth are the fattest clams that have ever been found in New Bedford. Captain Ahab has got a golden hook and he drops it in my mouth, just for show, and pulls out a clam, tearing my cheek apart with it.

White Sleep

It is early tomorrow morning. You can’t sleep. You’re still up. There is nothing to sleep for. No: you can’t sleep. You close your eyes and see a white line. The white line will prevent you from ever falling asleep. No: you just can’t sleep. The harder your press your eyes together, the brighter the white line glows. You open your eyes; the birds are singing. Tu-weet! Tu-weet! No, no. No. You will never sleep again. No: you can’t sleep.

Death

My name is Death. I am also known as Love. You may know me as Anything You Have Ever Thought Important In This World Except For The World Of Your Selfish Career. I have come to kill you. Look down at your hand. You are dead. This is not a dream.

The Burnt Man

A burnt man reaches his hand toward me. His arm near the bicep splits open and pink muscle shows through. He contorts his face, which then tears in places. He wants my help. – What is your name? I ask him. His esophagus is burnt away. – What is your name and where do you come from? I ask, knowing it is an absurd question, the wrong question, but a question that just comes to mind.

Camp

Help me, Jesus. I am here and I can’t sleep. I can't breathe. I want to go home.

Take it

You have ten seconds to kill this woman from Palestine with a fishing knife. Here is the fishing knife. Take it!

MOVE ON

MOVE ON a woman says to me. MOVE ON. It’s time to get going. I don’t know where I am. - MOVE ON, she says. You’ve been doing the same thing for days and days and nights and nights. I want to move on, I really do. Is this a dream? I see only some vague orange shapes and then feel cold. - MOVE ON. There’s that voice, too. But I don’t where she is, who she is, where I am, except that it is Monday, going on Tuesday, and every day has become the same.

The Final Test

This will be your final test, a voice says to me. (I had been dreaming about tests too much.) This test is very simple. I am given a set of three couch cushions each of different colors: pink, orange, and purple. The couch is white. – Put the cushions in the prettiest pattern, the voice says. After some calculations, I realize I have six options for color variations from left to right: pink orange purple, pink purple orange, orange pink purple, orange purple pink, purple orange pink, and purple pink orange. The couch also has three positions in which cushions can be placed in ten combinations: three at the left, three at the center, three at the right, two at the left and one in the center, two at the left and one at the right, two in the center and one at the left, two in the center and one on the right, two at the right and one at the left, two at the right and one at the center, and finally, one at each position. Since I have six different color schemes, I have sixty options to find the prettiest combination. So I have a one in sixty chance of passing the final test.

The Test of Fire

This is the test of fire, a man in a long black cloak says to me. Remain sitting at this desk for as long as you possibly can. After twenty seconds I feel the chair heating up. This is horrible, I think. What kind of test is this? After another thirty seconds, the heat becomes unbearable. I jump up from the seat, checking my back and my legs for burns. But there are no marks, and the pain has disappeared. – The chair was not hot at all, I say to him. The man nods, and embraces me. We burst into white flames. I can smell my clothes burning and my skin melting but there is no pain at all.

The Test of Love

This is the test of love, a pretty woman says to me. She leads me into a room with a couch and a television set. She flips on the television set and hands me a cable-remote with seven buttons. She tells me I can watch anything I like, and then leaves the room. On each channel is a pornographic video. As I study the channels, I discover that each video loops back after about eight minutes. On one channel, for example, a woman is being fucked by two men, but just at the point of climax the screen flips back to the moment when she is giving them both head. On another channel, a Mexican woman is bouncing on top of her boyfriend by a pool. He cries out something in Spanish, and she gets off him, preparing for the money shot, when she is suddenly bouncing on top of him again. After about thirty minutes, I discover the allegory, and know I am going to pass this test. Love is this brief moment, I think, this sudden rupture in the tape when the clip loops back on itself. I pull at the door handle, but the room is locked. I study each channel again, making sure I have identified all seven moments when the pornographic video clip loops back. Now I’m kicking and banging on the door. I have passed the test! I shout. Let me out of here! But something tells me that no one is coming for me for a long time.

Telephone Test

Your test, a woman in a white dress says to me, is very simple. Simply dial your grandmother on the telephone. She hands me a telephone. I begin to dial, 2-2-4-9-0-8-7 saying the numbers aloud in my head, but I mess them up, 2-2-4-9-8-0-7, or loop the numbers, 2-2-4-9-2-2-4, and each time I forget where I am and have to begin again. My fingers are dancing over the keys. My eyes are getting tired. The number 8 looks a lot like the number 9. – What will happen if I fail this test? I finally ask her, exasperated. – That depends, she says, on when you realize that your grandmother is dead.

Photography

I wake up because I am thirsty. I get up to get a glass of water. I see a flash of light from the window. In the garret across the courtyard from me, a woman is photographing someone. It is unclear what is going on. The thought occurs to me that I must put on my jacket, my slippers, run down the stairs, and ring their doorbell. I put on my jacket, then my slippers, and walk to the front door, glancing across the courtyard again. The woman is staring right at me. 

The Files

There are ten blank file folders on the table. On a slip of paper is written, “Please put these files in order.” I open the first file folder and inside it are ten more file folders. On another slip of paper is written, “Please put these files in order.” I am too scared to open the first file folder again, so I open the seventh file folder (in the first file folder). Inside are seven blank file folders, with a slip of paper which reads, “WRONG ORDER. PUT THESE SEVEN FILES IN ORDER AND THEN RETURN TO THE FIRST FILE FOLDER.”

The Lady Ape

An ape enters a room with a long beard that reaches the floor and he punches me in the ribs. He stands in the room and begins masturbating. I start to shout at him that I am being mistreated. I call him an ape. Then another ape comes in the room wearing a pink dress, which looks disturbing. She points to my shoes and starts to scream. I remember an anecdote a friend of mine told me that apes like to attack pregnant women, and that the ape’s way of attacking is to mutilate the face and genitals. I roll up in a ball, hoping that she will not realize I am pregnant.

The Russian

A short black man with a beard enters the room and punches me in the kidneys. I collapse onto the ground. He leaves the room. A Chinese woman comes in and lifts up her skirt and urinates on me. The urine is bright orange. She leaves immediately. A Russian man comes in. – Take off your boots! He shouts. I do. He begins to leave. – Is that all you’re going to do? I ask. He doesn’t respond. Then I look down at my feet and they are covered in feces.

Urine Bus Illustration

The Aluminum Vagina

I am sitting in a beautiful apartment on the thirtieth floor with Kelley, the prettiest redhead from Cornell Irving High, with whom I never spoke a word. She tells me that she always thought about me back in school and that she always wished I would talk to her. This fills me with surprise. I tell her that I am talking to her now, and she smiles and we begin kissing passionately. Her mouth tastes like peaches. She moans. I kiss her shoulders, her breasts, her stomach, and work my way down between her legs when my mouth hits something hard. I slide off her thong, and discover that she has an aluminum vagina. First I think it is a kind of erotic piercing, but after inspecting it I realize that her entire vaginal canal is solid aluminum, running deep inside of her body. I look up at her, and she is talking on her cell phone to her manager. – Kelley, I say. She glances down at me, then covers the receiver. – What’s the matter, she asks. Isn’t it clean?

The Pink Rose

I am in a dining hall of a private school. I have a pink rose. A beautiful nurse is sitting at the head table. I get up slowly, my hands shaking. I walk down the center aisle. The children stop eating and look at me. There are sneering. Some are giggling. As I approach her she smiles at me. She is all in white. I place the rose in front of her. I turn around, and walk slowly back to my seat, triumphant. I am Christ, I say to myself. I mean it partly as a joke but in this dream there is no irony. Her scream pierces through the air. It is terrible. It is a scream of horror. I know that if I turn my head I will see something no one should ever see. My legs feel weak under me. I am swirling into the vortex. The nurse’s face in my mind is a pink rose. She is being swallowed by the shark of the pink rose. I cannot turn my head. I will never turn my head.

Urine Bus

I cross the street to use a telephone. A bus passes by. My only thought is, “autobus.” I wake up and find that I am beginning to urinate in the bed, and stop abruptly.

Waterslides

I am in a magical city that I know by name only in my dream. The city is covered by a huge dome. There are indoor waterslides and I know they are the greatest waterslides in the world. Haseed and I have to wait for almost twenty dream time minutes for access, then we begin a slow climb up the long staircase to the top of the slide. As we climb, we talk about how this effort and this seemingly endless staircase will be worth it because the waterslides are the greatest and most exciting in the world. When it seems that we are nearing the top, Haseed stops abruptly and says that this is a waste of time. I felt hurt and ask him if he is disappointed that he came. He smiles and says that he is not. He is happy now that he has given up hope. He wants to leave. I point up the staircase as though in protest, and then realize we are still at the bottom. We leave, arm in arm.

Hotel Baby

I am staying in a beautiful fifty-story hotel. I get in late after a night drinking single malt scotch and playing a board game in the lobby with old friends. When I return I remember that I left the baby in my apartment. I feel horrible and guilty. I look in the bedroom and find it lying on the floor, still alive. The baby is as small as a coffee mug. Instead of a face it has a folded mass of skin with two bright black eyes. It doesn’t speak. It seems to grow in size. I pick it up carefully and immediately it starts to poop all over me. I get into the shower with it and wash it off. Later I am cooking and it crawls between the fridge and the stove. I pull the fridge away. It is covered in grease, scratching against the wall. Frantically, I pick it up, check for burns, then take it to the shower again. It is clawing at me with its little thin hands, pooping itself, and growing in size.

A Friend

There is a man at the door. He is wearing an orange raincoat that is torn near the sleeve. I open the door and he smiles and comes in and takes the raincoat off and hangs it in the hall cupboard. I ask him what he wants and who he is. He laughs. I ask him again what he wants. – What are you up to? He responds. I realize that he must be an old friend that I have known for a very long time. He follows me up to my room. I start working on my computer. He looks through through my comic book collection, then starts playing with my Slinky. – You have a lot of cool stuff, he says. Then he lies down on my bed, and asks me to play some music. – I’m looking for a job, he says. But I've had no luck. Play some music. I put on a Leonard Cohen album. - I hate this old stuff, he says. I realize that this man is incredibly boring and we have almost nothing in common. He is so boring to me that I don’t even remember being friends with him.

The Return of the Terrible Child

Last night I dreamed about the terrible child again. But in my dream I was “remembering” an aspect of the original Terrible Child dream that I had forgotten. The father and the terrible child were older now and the father still had the bungee hook stuck in his brain. But his hair had grown around it and he looked just fine. The terrible child was standing on a molehill with a crowbar, about to do something terrible to a little girl, when suddenly the crowbar dropped from his hands. His father asked him why he had dropped the crowbar. The terrible child became shy, and blushed, and whispered to his dad that he was getting older and that he was tired of being terrible and that he wanted to take the girl out instead to the movies.

The Terrible Child

I am reading the book about a terrible child. His father is driving a red car and has to stop by the side of the road to try and calm the child down. The child gets out of the car and begins smashing the headlights with his bare fists. A woman walks by and the child trips her, then kicks her with supernatural force in front of an oncoming semi-trailer. She is crushed, her right arm tears off and sprays the man with blood. The child then runs into a nearby house. A woman screams, china shatters, and flames light up the upstairs windows. SUDDENLY, I AM THAT MAN. I am standing there beside my red car soaked in blood and everyone is staring at me in shocked horror. I get into my car and start to drive away. Then I see in my rear-view mirror that the child is holding one end of a bungee cord. The other end is attached to the frame of my driver's side window. As I accelerate the car slows down, tilting right. The tires squeal. The child flashes a smile as wide as the SPIDER KITTY'S and ten lets go of the cord. I hear it zooming toward me. I hear it thunk in my brain. I wake up drenched in sweat. It’s 11 a.m. Candace has already gone to work.

Castration Epic (Part 5)

- George, don’t leave me. I have something to tell you, my mother moans. She lies on the bed, naked. Her legs are swollen and almost bulbous, and thick dark hair grows on them. I am frantically looking for my Air Jordans. My fingers are broken and I can’t pull on my shoes. I run downstairs and finally find the bathroom but when I look in the mirror I see my mother’s face. Her smile extends beyond the bounds of her face like the SPIDER KITTY's smile. That is it, I think. I am going to get a knife and murder everyone. I’ve got to remove the faces and the fingerprints of everyone in this house (à la Gorky Park) and then I'll take my grandfather’s car to Mexico. I go into the kitchen and find three Cuban men wearing wife-beaters. They look like they are having a conversation, but they are all just moaning like they are having orgasms. My grandmother and grandfather are watching them, almost cheering them on. – George, what are you looking for? My grandmother asks. – I need a knife, I tell her, bursting into tears. I have lost my hair and my teeth and my fingers are broken and my mother has taken my sex from me. – What you need is a peanut butter square, she says. I collapse by her feet and tell her I love her and the black man because they didn’t castrate me and ask her to please bury my body by the crabapple tree outside. – What you need is a peanut butter square, she says.

Castration Epic (Part 4)

I am completely bald. I have lost my teeth. My dad lies drunk, perhaps dead, on his bed. The black man has disappeared. Someone has dimmed the lights. – George, my mother whispers. Do you want to see the renovations upstairs? She leads me with a cold hand up a long stone staircase to a floor I never knew existed. It’s a massive room, with a raised platform and a king-sized Victorian bed on a pedestal. Red velvet, silver studs, and a giant down cover. My mother, now wearing a negligee, walks through a pair of arches to another room. The walls are painted deep yellow and red. Along the wall are low tables heaped with cakes and coffees. I follow her into another room where the walls are covered with holes. The sun leaks in. There are tapestries and hanging plants, racks of old musical instruments collecting dust. – The room is very unsteady, my mother said, but I hope you appreciate it. An old man entered and said he was the caretaker, but my mother introduced him as a geologist. He looked at me like I was a criminal. I was enthralled with the instruments and the colors. My mother walked back to the bed and sat on it. – Mother, can I bring my friends up here to show them around? I asked, thinking how much Haseed and Roger would love these rooms. – No you may not, my mother said. It is time for bed. Come here. My mother’s eyes seemed unusually puffy. She peeled away the top or her negligee and I looked away, panicked. – Give me your foot, she snapped. I backed away but she had my foot in her cold hand. She placed it on her warm, naked throat and she began to moan. It felt good. Her mouth opened, she spat hot fluid at me which covered my face and legs.

The Spider Kitty

Castration Epic (Part 3)

Bald, ashamed, smelling like urine, the fingers on my right hand broken, trapped in the back seat, I stare out as we drive through a wealthy neighborhood of Los Angeles. My grandfather is pointing to different condominium properties he owns, as well as the buying price and their worth today. My mother and Shelley listen in silent awe, and Shelley has taken off her bikini top. We arrive at my grandmother’s house. I rush into the living room, where a television is blaring, then into the back porch, the kitchen, looking for the bathroom. Instead I end up in the back bedroom with blue wallpaper where my father is sitting in just a pair of stained white briefs. His head is in his hands, and a six pack of beer is beside him. He has gained over a hundred pounds. He looks up at me, tears in his eyes, a kind of crustacean forming around his mouth. – George, I’m so happy you brought the dog, he says. – What dog? I say. Immediately, Alex, my dog as a child, comes running into the room, filled with joy, barking. Charlotte, my favorite cat, slowly follows him and watches as he rolls around with my dad. Alex tries to sniff Charlotte and she viciously smacks his face. He yelps. She stands up on her back legs and runs beside a coat rack and pretends to be the coat rack, her arms out in a “Y” pattern. [She was posing as the SPIDER KITTY, a terrifying castrating demon who haunted me as a child.] Then she leaps forward and grabs Alex. – You’re being a baby! she shouts. - You must stand on your back legs and stop acting like a dog. She pulls him up and tries to teach him to play paddy-cake. My mother and the black man now enter the bedroom [yes, he returns again, as if just to remind me that my dream has no part for him] and my mother begins talking about how dogs and cats are much smarter than we give them credit for. Charlotte is now smacking Alex’s face repeatedly with her paw, repeating the paddycake rhyme. Alex is losing consciousness. Human teeth are falling out of his mouth. He is looking at me sadly, as though mourning that he is human. My dad sits back on the bed, gloomily, and drinks the last of the beers. – Alex, I’m sorry, I say, but my voice is only a murmur. I run my tongue along my gums and realize I have lost all of my teeth.

Castration Epic (Part 2)

I’ve got to get out of here, I think. I leave the table and run up to my room. I begin pacing, looking out at the forest from my window. I find a Winston cigarette from an old leather pouch. The cigarette is yellow and smells like urine. I run downstairs, three stairs at a time, speaking to no one, burst out the front doors and head straight into the woods. I go deep, where no one can find me. The woods are filled will blueberries and trees with yellow flowers. I reach a chasm of luscious vegetation with a little path leading down. – It’s beautiful! I shout, as though to waken the stones. Immediately, I am in the back seat of my mother’s car on the highway, staring at the same landscape zooming by. – What did you say, George? She says. My grandfather is in the front seat and Shelley is on his lap. She is wearing a pink bikini top. – The landscape is beautiful, I say. – You smell like urine, my grandfather says. Jenny laughs. My grandfather returns to his story about being on the corvette ship in the second world war. His wrinkled hand caresses Shelley's skin. – You've got nice breasts, he says to her. I try to open the door but I hear my mother flick the child lock from the front seat. – You just sit tight, George, she says. I lean back and look up at the sky from the rear window. My long hair is blowing all over the place. I touch my head and my hair is coming off in clumps. I am going bald almost instantly.

Castration Epic (Part 1)

I am sitting at a dining room table at a fishing lodge with my grandfather, Shelley, a pretty girl I grew up with, and a black man I had never seen before. [Someone complained to me a few days ago that my dreams were filled with white people, which is probably why he was “added” to my dream last night.] We are eating roast beef. My grandfather is going on about the Middle East, and Shelley is politely trying to tell him that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, since she is a Middle East scholar, and he is just an old man. Suddenly my mother erupts into a long digression about how I was an effeminate child, and that I made strange sound effects wherever she took me. She says that it was difficult to take be anywhere between the ages of 12-16 because I used to embarrass her. Shelley looks down, embarrassed. My grandfather stares at the wall in front of him, thinking about this. I am furious and want to tell everyone that my mother is a drug addict and that she traumatized me as a child. But I know my grandfather will think I am spoiled, since he had already enlisted in the army when he was 16. And now there is no way Shelley will want to come up to my room make out with me on my bed. I begin cracking my knuckles, until I realize I have broken two of my fingers.

Bridge

I am walking to the castle along a dirt road. At a wooden bridge an old man stops me. – I am your grandfather, he says. – You are not my grandfather, I say. My grandfather was killed in the war. – Nevertheless, you must unlock my head, which is the real castle, he says. I laugh. He turns around three times and then throws himself over the railing of the bridge. I continue walking across the bridge when it stops. I look down and there is nothing but mist and clouds. I look up to the castle. But there is nothing, only mist and clouds.

Hockey Coach (Part 2)

The game begins. A tall man dressed entirely in orange is hammering slapshots at everyone: at a goalie with his mask up having a drink, at a girl that has fallen on the ice, at two people in the crowd, at the coaches in the boxes, even at the Zamboni driver as he is closing the gates to the ice. I hear two men laughing and discover that they are sitting on chairs on the cement floor. Their skates grate against the cement floor. – You two had better show me what’s in those bags, I say to them. – Screw off, faggot, they say. I look at my clipboard to write a complaint, but the form has become one of Van Gogh’s paintings covered with little numbers and lines. My assistant is wrestling with one of the men for a cassette tape. I hear a moaning, and look back to see Fat Matthew, the fattest boy from my high school, wearing nothing but a jock strap. He’s grown man now, his body nothing but dark hair, blubber, and welts from where the pucks have hit him. He’s crying, being hauled off to the penalty box by a coach who has him by the hair. An explosion at one end of the rink made shards of ice fly in every direction. The man in orange comes flying around the net, using his hockey stick to keep a football up in the air. I decide to head to the dressing room in order to decipher the Van Gogh. But the man in orange is coming right at me. He spins around backwards and smashes the football right at me.

Hockey Coach (Part 1)

I’ve been assigned to coach a hockey team. Someone has given me a clipboard. It’s twice the size of a regular clipboard. And there’s a giant calendar on the front of it. My first task is to inspect the hockey bags piled up along the wall by the rink. Orange, red, orange, blue, green, blue, orange. I write each color down and have to circle either 7 or 8 for its score. I have an assistant, about four feet tall. I tell him to unzip the first bag. He looks at me and then slowly unzips it. There’s a pair of old roller skates, styrafoam containers, coffee grounds and old banana peels. Maggots are crawling all over the garbage. I give it a 7. – Unzip the next, I say. – I don’t want to, he whimpers. – No one wants to do it! I shout. He does, and there’s a pile of green mush. I peer into it and a fish jumps right out. My assistant squeals. – Zip it up! I shout. He’s crying, his hands shaking. I like being in control. I give the bag an 8. Something about the next bag worries me. I decide to pass on it, giving it a 7. My assistant opens the fourth bag, the blue one. I cover my face, expecting a wolf to jump out. Instead, there’s a sickly looking woman, almost folded up, wearing a black dress with a strap coming off her shoulder. – Are you playing? I ask her. – Everyone has to play, she says, and steps out of the bag, teetering on her white skates which are not done up well. Just then I hear the crack of a slapshot. My assistant screams, as though he had been hit. The girl turns her head and looks back at us, sadly, a puck in her mouth, teeth and blood falling onto her white skates.

Drop of Doom

We are drinking Black Russians. They taste like martinis, but that is OK. They are black, and we are smoking long, white cigarettes. We are both wearing black T-shirts, with white padding down the front. It is the latest style. I don’t know who I am with. Together we decide to ride the Drop of Doom, the most terrifying ride at the amusement park. As we walk toward it, drinks in hand, matching shirts, long cigarettes, everyone is looking at us. Everyone wants to know us. But the crowd thins out as we get to the ride, and finally it is cold and dark and muddy and there is a couple arguing. The woman is crying like she has been betrayed. I tell the man that we want to ride the Drop of Doom, and he says that it is broken, and that there is only one ride left that is working, and it’s called The Table. He points to a table in front of him. It’s just a table. Suddenly, my companion collapses in tears on the table, finally coming into view. It is Candace, only she is about forty pounds lighter. – It’s lost, she cries. – What is lost? I ask her, stroking her soft hair. Some of it sticks to her red cheeks. – Everything is lost, she cries.

Headless in Summer

I was walking through a refugee camp with tents. There was a rabble of campers and socialists playing guitar. In the middle, though I could not see her face, was a stunningly beautiful woman in purple lace underwear. I walked up to her boldy and lifted her to her feet. She didn't have a head. led her down to another area where a whole bunch of people were fucking on the grass. Her body was wet. I squeezed it and fetid breath came out of the stump in her neck. I wanted her, but I worried that because she didn’t have a head I would need to wear a condom. She said (from a pair of lips in her neck) that it was not worth looking. I asked her how many sexual partners she had had, and she began telling me a long smelly story of all the socialist campers she had been with – men “who never leave the sun” as she put it. Together we walked to a small town lined with ash trees. People honked at us. I was walking down the highway hand in hand with a beautiful headless woman in purple underwear. We got to a town called Stratford and found an exotic store that sold all sorts of safe-sex things, like powders and plastic tubes filled with spermacide, but there were no condoms. I found something hard that was a piece of plastic piping, and thought it would do. Outside, she said she wanted to go to the sea. By now I was frustrated and I told her a cab would be too expensive. Have it your way, she said, and I suddenly woke up.

The Giant Boat

I am walking in some God-forsaken place, say Budapest. I am near the river at night. The boats are lit up. But there is one boat that is far too large. It barely fits on the narrow river. Inside, the boat is as bright as daytime. Children are sitting at long wooden tables, while old ladies spoon slop into the children's chipped bowls. This disgusts me, reminding me of my old schooldays, and I turn and began walking in the opposite direction of the boat. I am looking down at my feet, proud of myself for walking away, and soon I find myself in the boat. I sit down at one of the tables and a beautiful woman who looks like Candace is there with a man. She tells me that she does not love me. I don’t know her but I feel devastated, even though I know she is not Candace, and the man is just grinning at me, and then I want to kill them both. I begin to scream at them but my mouth is full of slop, but it's dry slop, my mouth is full of cornstarch, or yellow flour, and my imprecations come out as a puff of yellow.

Dan Brown

I left my mother in a restaurant to run an errand at the South Coast Plaza. I passed by a bookstore to see if Dan Brown’s book was available. (And yet this is absurd, we all know Dan Brown’s next opus will not be released until September 15.) Instead, there was a book cover of a Dan Brown book, one I didn’t recognize. I reached out to touch it and it was made of gelatin.

A Perfect Garden

I walked through a beautiful garden. There were statues of dead Romance princes and celebrities. All the statues were blue. There were fish in the air. Green and purple fish who could swim through air. They breathed like we did. But they could swim. There were bright pools on the ground, iridescent orange. And I bent down to taste the water, and it clear water, only orange in color. I touched the statues. They were soft, like they were made of rubber. Were it not for the strange colors and textures and the fish and the celebrities I would have thought that this was the most perfect garden.

Preservation Fluid

I see a TV show about a killer who pours decomposition fluid on his corpses. Then I am running through my house, pouring decomposition fluid on my corpses. They are stapled to the floor. Some are still alive. – What are you doing? one screams. A bald man. – It’s preservation fluid, I say, almost crying. I step over him, drenching his face. Then I see my old calico cat. She is staring at me, judging me. I flick some fluid at her. I feel terrible, grab her and begin to wash her off frantically in an old spaghetti pot. Suddenly I am outside, and a judge in an orange toga who is called Hercules asks me what I have done. I tell him I am sorry, that I thought it was preservation fluid. He laughs, and then tells me to release my imagination. I feel really good and suddenly everyone around me is inspired. – Wait a second, a man shouts. If George is innocent how did I get all these scars? But no one can hear him; we are all runng around flapping our arms like birds.

A Dark Haired Woman reads Le Dépeupleur

In my dream, I saw a dark-haired woman reading Le Dépeupleur by Samuel Beckett, then sleeping with Le Dépeupleur open on her chest. I stared at her for what seemed like hours, then woke up and did these drawings.

WTF

There is yet another party in my house and I was not informed. I come upstairs, annoyed. A bunch of people are rehearsing a play. In the play, the actors are pretending to hold a séance. But someone has also driven a raised car into the living room. I try to make fun of them all, but suddenly feel embarrassed. A man named Dean comes into the room. He tries to take out a glass bathtub from inside the car's back seat. He is having a lot of trouble. I realize I am holding a candle and have been spilling wax on the carpet. Then I walk outside and my mother is talking to a woman from New Caledonia who won't shut up about money. They are both stealing food from the neighbor’s buffet table. But the food is either pre-chewed, or it is bits of garbage and bone.

Coventry: an analysis

(A friend of mine told me I should offer some analyses of my dreams. I think they are all obvious, but I here offer a basic reading. The original is below, post of May 23rd.)
Nero – He used to dress up as a bear and sodomize children tied to a stake, he also watched Rome burn playing the violin
Coventry – My father told me he went there on an archeological dig once and that they were a bunch of pig fuckers, hence the connection to Nero. (Nero also had built a Roman fort there.)
Theater Director – I took a theater directing class at UC Santa Barbara and dropped it in 1997.
Australian – Kangaroos. In other words, this man from my (theatrical) past was trying to replay an instance in the life of Nero by becoming “kangaroo” and sodomizing me. (He got it wrong, I would be the kangaroo.)
Two people rush up to me – these are my balls, no doubt, because when I was young my father told me that the balls are two little heads, and we know from Desmond Morris's The Naked Ape that seimal fluid and brain fluid communicate and coalesce via a spinal conduit
I am completely naked – Typical dream topos. The saying makes it so. My balls speak to me, I look down, and I am naked, ready to be sodomized/castrated by the Aussie. Mental castration, insofar as I know nothing about Nero. Actual castration, by forcing me into a catamite's role.
Running around – Needs no comment. I am always naked in dreams. It is a way to keep active, keep the paranoid dream libido healthy. I also like running around naked in reality. But we are taking about dreams.
Suitcase – I would say this is the forbidden anus of homosexual penetration a la Freud or the incestuous schizophrenic vagina which conceals a vagina a la Deleuze but actually I added this part because I changed the dream. In the real dream, I was actually running around naked trying to kill people, tear off their clothes, and that segwayed into a nice long disembodied sequence where I was sodomizing an albino trannie.
Car – OK, there was no car. In the real dream, a film director from Canada was forcing me to perform as a Roman soldier in Cape Cod, Virginia and I was trying to get dressed in a tent and two people came in and told me I had missed my cue and then shouted that I was completely naked. But I felt this didn’t capture the essence of the dream so I changed the whole setting via the rules of first revision (See Interpretation of Dreams) to me showing the theater director around a Roman fort in Coventry.
Hadrian – Roman emperor a few after Nero. His legacy was in fact a giant wall but I just learned that, I confused him with Trajan who built a giant column (picture above). It is very nice but you need to know another language to read it, even the pictures.
A man with a moustache – was actually a man with a THINNING moustache, i.e., vagina osa, a.k.a. the rotten mouth, which one sees a lot of traveling abroad. Thinning hair, rotten teeth, of course, are castration, i.e. me missing my cue in reality or knowing nothing about Nero in the first revision.
What do you mean, etc. – Well, there is no dialogue really in dreams. I just added this. It is all just what one is feeling. No one spoke. I am just running around, naked, trying to sodomize, being sodomized, forgetting my lines, in Virginia, a Canadian film director yelling at me.

SUMMARY: the dream says that my regret of the past (my failure as a theatre director, my failed books and screenplays, my mother’s absence, my father in prison) is as stupid as an Canadian dressing me up as a kangaroo in the hopes of sodomizing me, itself derivative of the story of Nero and the bear, Nero derivative of the earlier Cesars, and Ancient Rome derivative of Ancient Greece. The bear symbolizes America (our current stock market) in whose shadow lives Canada (where I live now). So I must continue to work on my fourth autobiographical novel, Genius Insane Blaster Tron 4, The Duty of Genius, and the adaptation of my third autobiographical novel, George, into a screenplay, for between all these binaries of reality/dream, dream/revision, theater/film, bear/kangaroo, Canadian/Aussie, Roman/Greece (I am Greek), Coventry/Cape Cod, Freud/Deleuze, stands ME, immortal Trajan, he who came after Nero, he who is now, the unknown navel of the dream, the phallus of Trajan's column thrusting up from the dead earth of burning Rome (hence the naked me between the two men who ran up to me) defiant of Christians and gentiles, George the Jew, George’s column, George the phallus, carved with living veins in the wisdom of my toil and pleasure. (And finally, the increasing size of the column of this post, for in my dream I must have anticipated that my friend would tell me to write an analysis, c.f. Freud on condensation.)

Coventry

I am at one of the emperor Nero’s Roman forts near Coventry, England with a very famous theatre director from Australia. I want to show him that I know a lot about Roman forts, because I suspect he thinks that all Americans are ignorant. As we are walking through the archeological ruins, two people rush up to me and tell me that I am not wearing any clothes. – What do you mean, I shout, at the same time realizing that I am completely naked. I run around looking frantically for clothes, eventually running back to the car where my suitcase is. I rush back to the theater director, who seems to have stood completely still right in the place where I left him. I tell him that both Nero and Hadrian had strong interests in Brittany, when a man with a moustache rushes up to me, alarmed, and tells me that I am not wearing any clothes. – What do you mean, I shout, and realize at the same time that I am completely naked.

The Mummy

I am dining on the back terrace of a white mansion in New England. We are chatting about golf and getting ready for a nice meal. We are overlooking a wide lawn. Then a thought comes to me, stirring a nice glass of tomato juice: the mummy is coming. I look out at the lawn, and, in the far distance, a white figure is running towards me. It is a mummy. It's old bindings are unraveling. – What is that, a woman says. – Call the sheriff, a man says. But the sheriff is already there. He tilts his head back and spits, unimpressed. – Holy cow can it run, he says suddenly. I hear the sound of cymbals crashing. The mummy reaches the back parking lot. It smashes the window of a Porsche, and pulls a young woman out the driver’s side window. She is screaming. The sheriff fires. The bullet pierces her heart. A schoolmaster is charging the mummy with a shovel. The sheriff fires again, and he hits the schoolmaster right in the temple. The sheriff is a bad shot. – Do something, the man beside me says. – What can we do, the woman screams. The mummy picks up the dead schoolmaster and flings it away like a dead rat. Now it is running up the terrace steps.

Enemies to Society

On TV there is a Fox show called Enemies to Society. I see a picture of my house. – This is a family of known sexual criminals, the narrator says. Then the screen cuts to an actor portraying my father, drinking from a bottle, while his wife and daughter and son cower out of fear. – That’s not my house, I say. That’s a bunch of actors. I pull down my pants, as though to indicate my disgust. I turn around on the couch, and spread my ass apart. – Come on and fuck me, daddy, I say. At that moment a woman comes in my room, holding a glass of punch. She is startled and turns back again. I run after her. – You are the daughter and I am the son, I say, grabbing her arm. One day we will kill our father. We are already working very hard to destroy him in our minds. But until then you must never tell anyone what you saw. – Let go, she says. I don’t know you. I am at the wrong party. - Yes, I say. And my father is dead. That is why my name is George Death the Second. Becuase I killed my father, George Death.

The George Bernard Shaw Dream

There is a party at my house. No one told me about it. Downstairs, a woman is playing a song from Cats on a harp. I am taking care of two small boys. They turn into wood-ticks. I run shouting for help. I call out to my sister. (?) The wood-ticks are trying to escape. I use a playing card to stop them in their path. But I keep catching their legs under the card, and soon I have only a little pile of wriggling legs and cut torsos. Someone comes into my office and tells me that he has made a website for a philosophy course he will be teaching. He is sitting in my chair and is fiddling with my computer. I pretend to be interested. Then he gets up and I realize he has been sitting on a cat. It is a beautiful sea green colored cat. I have never seen it before. My sister comes in the room (since I have no sister she is just a kind of white blur with long dark hair) and picks up the flattened cat. I realize te cat is one of the two little boys. It has no legs and only one arm. – It’s George Bernard Shaw! my sister shouts, triumphantly. I must write this dream down, I think. And someone hands me a book where The George Bernard Shaw Dream is written out beautifully, with everything explained.

Uncollected Dream Fragments

1. Charles Bronson looks at me quite intently. - George, I’m going to marry your wife, he says. We laugh together. (Charles famously said this to David McCallum, and then married his wife.) I hear my mother cry my name upstairs. I run to help her, open the door, and Charles Bronson is sodomizing her.
2. An Arab man points at an orange triangle. – This triangle is impossible to look at, he says. He is right: I see only a blur, then a teddy bear.
3. (Redacted at the request of my mother.)
4. A town in Croatia is made entirely of chocolate, the tour guide tells me. But everything tastes like matzo.
5. A piece of blue cheese has got a little mouth. It spits out chicken blood.
6. Dolph Lundgren and I are looking at houses. I get frustrated because we can’t decide on anything. Dolph tells me that he has had enough, and goes and waits in the car.
7. I am trying to deliver a letter and get confused about which mailbox to put it into. Suddenly I am bent over and chained to table by a hungry rat. (C.f. The Rat Man)
8. Candace is on a diet and she will eat only blue flowers. – Find me a lot of blue flowers or I will divorce you, she says. (C.f. Novalis)
9. I see a plane on fire hurtling towards me. It smashes down onto my front lawn. What luck, I think, watching it burn. Then a propeller gets loose, goes spinning towards me and slices off the top of my head.
10. I am trying to do my (turbo)taxes and all the numbers turn into little smurfs.
11. Robert Ludlum rings the doorbell. He is wearing aviator glasses and carries a long cane. He opens up my first autobiographical novel and reads aloud, tapping out the rhythm of my prose with his cane. He is unimpressed.
(Above drawing entitled, "Thought.")

Exam

I am taking an exam. It is in a white booklet. On the first page, I have to fill out my personal information: my name, the date, my race, my marital status, and my annual income. The second page has more questions: they want to know my blood type, my allergies, if I have any STDs, and whether there is a history of mental illness in my family. On the third page, I am asked if I am autistic. I check no. Immediately, a woman comes in the room and hands me a little booklet of five arithmetical questions. The first four are easy, the last is impossible. She says I have ten minutes, and watches as I answer them. Then she leaves with the booklet. On the fourth page, I am asked if I have leukemia. I check no. A black man enters immediately and takes my blood. The fifth page is blank. Where is the exam? A woman enters the room and puts a paper with a Greek word on it in front of me. It looks like LEAOUKON. I don’t remember all my Greek letters. –Write whatever comes to mind, she says. I write down, “Farm Landscape.” - Anything else? she asks. - No, I say. She leaves with the paper. Another woman comes in with a long, flat candle and a little knife. She tells me to write something about farms on it. - On the candle? I ask. - Yes, she says. I try to carve a little buffalo but it ends in a mess. – Where is my exam? I ask, handing her the candle. But the woman is gone. Suddenly, three children burst into the room, with a moose hide. The hide has been bleached white and is very soft. They stretch the skin out over my desk and hand me a pen dipped in black ink. – Try this, one of them says. -If you have never thought, think now.

(Attached is my drawing entitled "Inspired by Robert Ludlum.")

Lily Lady

It is a sunny and murky day. The clounds hang low but there is sun from the east. I am on the dock at my father's old cabin drinking a tall glass of vodka and lemonade. I hear the sound of a toad [wnaack] and I see a naked brunette on a lily pad beside me. – Well well, I say. – Come and fuck me, she says. It’s as simple as that. I swim out to the lily pad and we start fucking. Then I wake up and Candace is there, watching me. – I saw your body convulsing with pleasure, she says. – Yes, I said. It was a beautiful dream. I fucked a brunette on a lily pad. – Well I am leaving you in the morning, she says. Then I wake up again, only this time Candace is sound asleep. I got up and wrote this list about the cabin: mint ice cream, sailing boards, gasoline, loud motorboats, sweet tarts, dragonflies, the orange spoon, ninja throwing stars.

Ride

They have opened up a new ride in the mall. I have never been to this mall. It is a roller coaster that goes into a pair of red doors. The cost is fifty dollars. I pay it but I complain about the cost. – Shock me if you dare, I say to the Indian man. – If you fail I will return and collect my money with interest. No sooner am I strapped in, the car blasts through the doors, and it sounds like a sheet of ice hitting concrete. The car goes up, it goes down, there’s not much to this, except the decor is very well done. Mountains surround me. It's even cold. The air is fresh. There are birds. The car stops in the middle of a giant ice pan. There’s a man there who unbuckles me. He looks bored with his job. And he leads me to the edge of the pan. – Jump, you weak fucker, he says. Jump. I can’t see the bottom. Only fog. Children run past me, screaming, and they jump, and disapear in the fog. – Jump, you fucker. – Is this part of the ride, I say. – Jump, he says. – The ride is over, I say. I won’t jump. I can’t jump. The man grabs me like he would grab a tiny dog, and hurls me into the abyss.

Angel of Death

I am on a mission. I have a fishing knife. I am in a factory. – Who are you, a tall man says. He has come up to me so close he could kiss me. I push the knife in his ribs. His eyes go wide. I pull the knife out, ducking around him as he falls forward. There’s a boy. He can’t be more than 14. No matter: 14 year olds have to die too. I twist the knife, hearing the bones crack. The boy moans. I run up a metal staircase. There is an office at the top of the stairs. Aha, I think. The file. The secret dish. Two old woman are speaking French sitting in front of a desk. One wears a canary yellow dress and has a matching purse. The other is in mourning. – Who are you? The yellow woman asks, alarmed. – My name is George, I say. I am the angel of death. – You have a alot of nerve, says the the woman in mourning. Confess! Two little doors open behind the desk. And two tall men crouch out. One is bald, the other has got greasy black hair. I lunge toward the bald man, punching the knife into his chest. Blood squirts from his torso. I whip around and slash the blade across the neck of the other. Blood globs out like a tongue. They're on the ground, their eyes wide open. – Now I will confess, I say, turning the two men over so that they cannot see me. But the women are dead too, their eyes wide open, staring as though out a window. I am looking for the secret file, getting worried.

Seal-Fish

I was swimming in the old lake I used to swim in when I was a child. I swam out further than I ever had before. What does it matter, I thought, I am not young anymore. I can swim out across the lake. Then I saw a giant old fish, a fish as big as a seal, and I immediately thought, That’s a seal-fish. There was a thick piece of old rope around its neck. I followed the fish as it swam ahead of me. I could see underwater and barely needed to come up for air. When I got close to the rope I grabbed it. The rope was slack, so I pulled on it. I pulled and pulled, it turned into a chain, and led me up the shore and towards an old cottage. No one was home, the door was open, and there was coffee and brandy and even a warm fire inside. This is an ancient cabin, I thought, no one has been here for years, and I am the first discoverer. And just as I had prepared my coffee and brandy, I saw an albino man in the window. His hair was bright white and he was shirtless. – Hello, I said. – Hello. – Is this your cottage? – No, he said, sadly. I’m just passing by. I was reading the bible. (This made sense to me at the time.) He came inside and I saw the thick piece of rope around his neck. – You’re the seal-fish, I said. I was following you. He nodded, then handed me a saw. – Will you saw me in half? he asked. – Why, I asked. I’ll saw the rope off around your neck, and you’ll be free. – Fine, he said sadly. He had a nice voice. He took off his wet pants and lay his cold white body across my legs. – You’re a very delicate white thing, I said. – Yes, he said. My skin is as soft as cooked asparagus. I had the saw in the my hand and I was sawing away, sawing him in half. His guts were pouring out of him.

Tic Tac

I am sitting on my driveway on a hot day in Anaheim. My old archrival Canyon Carlyle is there, and we are drinking red (?) lemonade. – You didn’t always used to be so arrogant, he says. – What do you know? I say. – In the old days we used to skateboard up and down this street. – I was a master at the tic tac, I say. – Bull, says Canyon. I get up and show him I can tic tac. Tic Tac is when you move back and forth on a skateboard without touching the ground, propelling yourself forward. I am racing down the street, tic, tac, tic, tac, and this is too easy; it was never this easy.

Advice in the Hallway

I have been told a very important piece of advice. It will help me in so many ways down the line. I can become a better person. But the problem is that the girls who told me the advice are on the volleyball team. They are one year older than me. They are lined up against the hallway, waiting for the hour to be up. I am in the ninth grade, and they are in the tenth grade. They are big and round with giant thighs and sweaty shirts. They wear short shorts and have good teeth and wear their hair in ponytails. I want to crawl under their legs and cover my eyes. But I have to be at geography class. How can I think about what they told me? What was it? I want to crawl under their legs. I want them to kick me and laugh. I want them to step on me with their dirty shoes and stuff their sweaty feet in my mouth. They have fifteen minutes to kill. Kill me, I whimper. One of them stops kicking me and she says she will kiss me. – Yes, kiss me, I say. And she kisses me, she licks my cheek, she laughs. I grab her ankle. It is a nice ankle. – That’s not your ankle, another one says. She knows a lot more than the others, she is more plump and sweatier and laughs louder and her thighs are thicker and she returns every volleyball and gets good grades. Now she opens a little knife with a wooden handle and press it up into my throat, right through my puckered lips. The blade goes up into my head. I have forgotten everything you have said, but you told me something important. I am George, tell me what you said, because I love you, and I don’t think I heard what you said.

The Lozenge

I was picking my mother up from her pottery class in Anaheim. And she got in the car and immediately said that I should have left ten minutes earlier, because I was ten minutes late. I told her she was wrong, but her face was blurry and then it changed into a man’s face, then into a Chinese man’s face, then into an Indian woman’s face. I thought it was ugly for a person to be changing faces but I said nothing. – You’ve been drinking, she said to me. – Drinking has nothing to do with it! I shouted. –You’ve got a drinker’s personality, she said. – That doesn’t matter, I shouted, I’m not going to change, why should I? I’m my own man on my own life mission. You be nice to me or you can get out of the car. We drove home in silence. I went downstairs and began to wash my hands. She came into the bathroom, now as the Chinese man. She placed a lozenge as big as two thumbs on the sink. – Swallow this so that the police don’t smell the alcohol on your breath, she said. I swallowed the lozenge, which make me choke. – No more battles, mother, I said. – Oh George, she said, in a way that made my heart ache. I’ll destroy you if I have to.

Indian Run

I was on an empty train going through the snow. I jumped off, and then realized that I was in the middle of nowhere. I ran after the train and I came to a small town filled with Indians, and they were all running to catch the train with me. But the train didn’t stop in the town. One of them was running beside me. He had feathers of blue and red in his hair but was wearing ordinary clothes. – I’m George, I said. – I’m a Crow, he said. – Why is the train not stopping? I asked. – Because you jumped off, he said. Now we were running along paths in the woods, there were green pines everywhere. The train was not in sight but I thought we were still running after it. And now I was leaving the town, and the Indians became trees. The Indians were standing like trees in the wind. Their bodies hunched. I ran faster and faster passed the frozen Indians and disappeared in my running.

Tune In Tokyo

I had a nice apartment, and then A. showed up, that girl who was always getting beaten up and felt up in grade 9. T. used to play Tune In Tokyo with her. I always wondered why she let him. Anyway, she wanted my credit card to call her fiancé. I told her to leave, and then ran her out of the house. Then she said she had left a garment inside. I went inside to get it. Then she must have broken in because she was running amok screaming and smashing things. I woke up with the thought, Why didn’t I lend her my credit card? I would tell her she was a naughty girl for breaking things and then she would let me play Tune In Tokyo with her and we would fall in love or at least have lots of good sex.

Daryl Hanna

I was with Daryl Hannah by her swimming pool on a tropic (synthetic) LA night. Daryl was a horse-faced exotic bird with long relaxing hair, her body under the limey light glowed and suggested caresses. She was compelling in a plastic and pleasant way. I felt naughty and frightened. We were jumping from topic to topic with a false omniscient air, derogatory. I was touching her face and hands and arms and I looked at my arms in the greeney, moony light. There was a festival in the distance. Was she going to make love to me? All the guests had left. Then a small child, like the one in Blue Hawaii, came up pretending to be a fawn (fawner?) and plopped a handful of marine paint on Daryl’s bare chest. Then Daryl’s daughter (?) (the children were all mulatto and bare-chested, oiled up) threw a handful of Homeric green paint at her. Then a black woman threw bright red at Daryl. Daryl was laughing, and she was suddenly wearing my bathing suit, and she had forgotten about me. Finally the fawn came at me and I threatened him. His mother saw this and she was disturbed. She goaded her child on. I wondered – should I drench the little terror with the real open can of house paint I have on the table? [their paint was play paint, mine was real paint] And then I am suddenly globbed. I want to strike the boy, and then beat and smack his mother, and rape her, but I think this is going too far, what am I thinking, I have been reading too much Ovid. I woke up furious thinking that just because they threw paint at Daryl they thought they could throw paint at me. But I was an afterthought. I felt guilty, like a criminal, for wanting to rape the woman, and a terrible feeling of having missed an opportunity to get to know Daryl.

DECEMBER 25, 1998

Combat in a structural amalgamation of the Monument and the St. Denis School [in Montreal], as well as the dream version of SJR [private boy’s school in LA] with the silent emptiness and the metal tower. We were fighting with high impact pellet revolvers which killed people. I met a guy I didn't like; I took him into the big theatre (which was more like the Centaur's main space [in Montreal]) and then ducked out dramatically into the deserted spiral fire escape on the right so that he would follow me. I wanted only to rid him from the world. Careening down, faster than I could go, then stopped and ducked and heard him, saw his head, fired my gun, [pig fucker!] missed, he stunned, came further to look down and I planted three in his chest, what a feeling, left his body at the bottom, exited at the bottom door.
Lo and behold the secret classrooms, which I think I've dreamt of before, ones looking like the ones at NTS [National Theater School] but a whole new configuration, probably used by French, I surmised. Walking through, and suddenly hordes of Commerce (?) students filled the halls, I noticed they were lined with books and it was also a library. There was a large looking cot-bed which I sat on and it unfortunately took up much room. So that I could get to the bottom to look at a soft cover book on [Ezra] Pound. People were slightly inconvenienced. After, I got up and a woman took my cot and folded it over to make a chair. She said to me "There isn't that better?" and then someone else said relatively the same thing to me. I laughed.

October 3, 1984

The Origin of All Dreams Was Not a Dream.

I was six years old. The succubus entered my bedroom from an open window, ripped away my blue Star Wars sheets, and tried to feast on my undeveloped genitals. She wanted to castrate me and hence stop the passage of semen up my spinal cord into my brain, which is an integral developmental process of the insane genius. I might have perished, had not a Fraggle warned me of her coming in a dream the previous night. I had prepared a straw filled with pepper, and I blew it into her horrible sticky green face. She recoiled, and screamed. The next night she returned, and spat acid menses at me, which burned my tender neck. She said, in a frighteningly tinny voice, “From henceforth, you will desire me, child. For I am succubus. I am the Force of Complete Horror and Total Annihilation of Genius also known as FCHTAG [fuk-tag]. I will impede your rise to power. I will castrate and destroy you. I will leave you to die in the garden like a turd. And you will never know what it means to love – except your mother. For I, succubus, structure your desire.