I Believe You Can Get Me Through the Night
I've polled a lot of my buddies and we've all had the same dream: landing a pillow soft punch. It's extremely disconcerting, throwing all your weight into a swing at someones chest and have it brushed off. At first I thought it was only me, because back in 8th grade there was this big fat, freckled football player kid named Nate Clark who was bugging the shit out of me and making life miserable so I finally punched him as hard as I could and it did nothing. I could feel the pressure of his soft, fat shoulder on my knuckles, He laughed and walked away, called me a faggot or something. That was ten years ago and still vivid in my mind. I thought that was why I have this dream but apparently it's common among men, although I don't know any women who've had it. I wonder if there are other prevalent dreams of this sort, where you suffer some kind of asexual impotence. I wonder if hunters and cops have nightmares where their guns don't fire, and if sax players have dreams where as hard as they blow, they can't get any sound from their instrument.
I had a dream the other night that I was sitting at the top of the stairs in some slum building with green walls and brave mice. I was playing my toy accordion and I could do no wrong. Every note came out beautiful. I was playing old Jewish songs that borrowed the melodies from older Hebrew prayers. There was a loud crack downstairs and the shuffling of footsteps on the steps. I kept playing as two cops, a blonde and a brunette ascended the stairs. The brunette was beautiful, if a little bit chubby, and the blonde looked like she was beautiful at some time but had weathered a bit with age. I played louder, proud of my newfound skill. They were uninterested and pushed me aside.
I was not myself again for the rest of my dream. The cops knocked on a door, cocked their guns and knocked louder. It was unlocked. There was an older guy with a mullet and moustache, drunk and tired. The lids of his eyes looked like puffy, wrinkle slabs of salami, or the skin of a walrus. He was skinny with droopy skin on his arms and a bit of a beer gut. As bad as he looked, he sounded even worse. His words came out in scratchy croaks. To hear them was to feel pain in your own throat. They needed him to catch someone, someone that looked a lot like me.
He was helpful, but a hindrance at every step. He never stopped being drunk or pathetic. They called him Tom Waits behind his back but his real name was Joey. And then it happened, the least sexy, sex scene I've ever beheld. Joey and Marija, the brunette cop. It was fumbling, awkward and messy, full of failed power plays and thinly-veiled pity. They had trouble with a condom and ended up not using one. The sheets on the bed were green and dirty. I don't remember if Joe came or Marija did,I think both. It came out as an orgasm of self-hate and atred for the world. When it was over, how they clamped up on themselves, ashamed and completely unable to look at each other.
I rarely have sex in my dreams. I wish I did, because my dreams are often pretty boring. It's even more rare that I'm someone else in my dream but here I played both parts. Sometimes I was Joe, half aware of how awful a man I'd become and trying to impress this woman. Sometimes I was Marija, full of self loathing and insecurity lying underneath this monster of a man. I remember how, when I was Joey, when I was done, I would touch her just to touch something, and how she was soft but how the touch didn't connect me to her like I wanted. There was no human response on her end. She would touch me but not seem to register what she was touching, if it was a leg or a knee, my belly or my balls. Her hands would travel, looking for some place to rest and not care where they touched.
The ordeal was wholly depressing and I was kind of glad to wake up and be me, when it was over. Still, I wonder what it means.
I had a dream the other night that I was sitting at the top of the stairs in some slum building with green walls and brave mice. I was playing my toy accordion and I could do no wrong. Every note came out beautiful. I was playing old Jewish songs that borrowed the melodies from older Hebrew prayers. There was a loud crack downstairs and the shuffling of footsteps on the steps. I kept playing as two cops, a blonde and a brunette ascended the stairs. The brunette was beautiful, if a little bit chubby, and the blonde looked like she was beautiful at some time but had weathered a bit with age. I played louder, proud of my newfound skill. They were uninterested and pushed me aside.
I was not myself again for the rest of my dream. The cops knocked on a door, cocked their guns and knocked louder. It was unlocked. There was an older guy with a mullet and moustache, drunk and tired. The lids of his eyes looked like puffy, wrinkle slabs of salami, or the skin of a walrus. He was skinny with droopy skin on his arms and a bit of a beer gut. As bad as he looked, he sounded even worse. His words came out in scratchy croaks. To hear them was to feel pain in your own throat. They needed him to catch someone, someone that looked a lot like me.
He was helpful, but a hindrance at every step. He never stopped being drunk or pathetic. They called him Tom Waits behind his back but his real name was Joey. And then it happened, the least sexy, sex scene I've ever beheld. Joey and Marija, the brunette cop. It was fumbling, awkward and messy, full of failed power plays and thinly-veiled pity. They had trouble with a condom and ended up not using one. The sheets on the bed were green and dirty. I don't remember if Joe came or Marija did,I think both. It came out as an orgasm of self-hate and atred for the world. When it was over, how they clamped up on themselves, ashamed and completely unable to look at each other.
I rarely have sex in my dreams. I wish I did, because my dreams are often pretty boring. It's even more rare that I'm someone else in my dream but here I played both parts. Sometimes I was Joe, half aware of how awful a man I'd become and trying to impress this woman. Sometimes I was Marija, full of self loathing and insecurity lying underneath this monster of a man. I remember how, when I was Joey, when I was done, I would touch her just to touch something, and how she was soft but how the touch didn't connect me to her like I wanted. There was no human response on her end. She would touch me but not seem to register what she was touching, if it was a leg or a knee, my belly or my balls. Her hands would travel, looking for some place to rest and not care where they touched.
The ordeal was wholly depressing and I was kind of glad to wake up and be me, when it was over. Still, I wonder what it means.
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