two-part dream journal: black magic and white guilt
The re-tellings of the events that took place in my dreams are painfully inaccurate. I find myself incapable of recreating the feelings that pulled me along through the nonsense. This probably goes without saying, but I can barely remember them and that's a shame.
The streetlights still shone at nine in the morning, The sky was dark and the rain was getting thick. Every part of my tricycle squeaked and squealed. I cursed my friends for our late night revelry and for our choice of location. I locked my bike to a tree on a seedy corner last night and wished it well. Whoever tried to steal it from me failed, and opted instead to attack the tires and kick in all of the pliable pieces of metal. It was in a sorry state when I found it, still shackled to the tree, and so was I. Now I cursed Sarah, Brian, and Jesse for individually not making things any easier for me in the middle of night. I cursed my boss for not having the courtesy to show up to her own house for work in the morning, and making me ride home like this. I cursed Zeus, Yahweh and Doppler for the torrentsof water soaking through my skin.
Just before Western Ave, I realized that my wet brakes weren't working. I flung myself on to the sidewalk to avoid getting crushed in the onslaught of cars and flung the bike on top of me to keep it from getting smashed any further. When I remounted the trike I wasn't thinking about the turn I had to make so I just kept riding. A few blocks out of the way, the street was crowded with stores but none of them were open save for one, tiny little resale shop on the corner. I locked my trike up in front, wrung out my shirt, and went in.
"You can bring your bike in. I don't think anybody else will be coming in today. Ooh. Nice tricycle."
We exchanged pleasantries but I wasn't listening to what we were saying. I was entranced. I'd been here before. This was it, this was a store I'd been trying to find for years, but I couldn't remember where or why. I couldn't figure it out, it was mostly furniture and clothes that wouldn't fit me. There were no comics or records. The books looked nice on shelves but they were too old to be readable at this point.
I had been here twice before. Once two years ago and once as a child. I couldn't remember what happened at either time but there was this feeling attached to the childhood trip. It was with a daycamp and it was inexplicable. We came into the store so that someone could make a phonecall because the bus broke down or something, but there was something magical that happened that day.
I sat in a rocking chair, eyes darting around the room. The proprietor was charming. He was tall and lean, prematurely bald and had a soft voice that seemed Californian in nature. Even though nothing in the store looked at all special, he said he traveled the world to get it.
"You've been here a long time, haven't you?"
"That's true. Most people don't come down here more than once and notice. Have you been here before?"
I thought he might have remembered, but apparently not.
"C'mon, why don't you join me in the kitchen."
I stood at the stove while he hovered around the fridge, "You like quesadillas?"
I nodded. "Catch."
He threw a bag of tortillas at me, and then a bag of shredded cheese, "Open these up for me, willya?"
After I opened them, he took over the cooking and preparing duties. He told jokes but none of them stuck. I wanted to ask him if he was hiring, I wanted to ask about the feeling I'd gotten so many years ago. Something told me to go to the window. It wasn't as dark in his yard as it had been elsewhere. The rain had let up, and there they were. Two of them, about twice the size of a dog, playing in a mud puddle, with skin like cracked, unfinished clay and proud horns laid out on their foreheads.
"You have dinosaurs!"
"There's no such thing as dinosaurs."
"But you do. Those are triceratops."
"Adjust your eyes son."
As I looked on, the crouched beasts stood up and they weren't triceratops and they weren't twice the size of a dog. They were covered in long fur that looked like hay, and they were at least ten feet tall. They stood upright, and held themselves like bears.
"What are they?"
"Those are German Spiked Psychopaths. They live in the woods in a couple parts of Western Europe and most people have never seen them."
We watched them as we ate our quesadillas. I guess this was his real trade. Animals. A friend of his sat outside, soaking wet, with a horse that looked tiny and fragile next to the Psychopaths. We laughed as his friend loaded two horses into a car, where they would have to crane their necks and fold their legs on the long ride back to Indiana. It seemed more playful than cruel, at the time at least.
When we were done eating I decided I was ready to go and thanked him. On my way to the door I noticed my tricycle, the back was folded, so it was the width of a two weeler, with the basket folded over either side. I was impressed. I didn't know the trike could do that. It looked as if he'd tamed it. Outside, it was still dark but the only rain was coming off buildings and branches.
I woke up, paced around. My boss called. I really didn't have to work today. I felt sick and unproductive. If I wasn't going to make any money today, I wasn't going to spend it either. I tried to type up my dream while it was still fresh in my head but Kate's laptop erased it. Too many keys, too close together. I went into Sarah's room and turn out the lights, and forgot that it was morning outside.
The museum was right by the train. I followed the tracks on my trike. It was a zine show at the Chicago MoMa, all writers I've seen or booked a million times. All the second-tier writers who don't get invited out to these kinds of events, that think they can evolve out of their caste by being around enough. Am I one of those? Best not to think about it. When this was over, everyone would drink, shower, primp, and go to the Paper Rad show in Chinatown. I didn't feel white enough for this shit. Did anybody ever? Best not to think about it. Best not to judge. Best to assume that I'm being honest, that I legitimately want to see everything that I'm going to see today and so do all my peers.
So why am I walking away from the museum?
It's a sunny day on a block I've never been on before. Across the street there are brand new townhouses, one and a half stories tall and red as firetrucks. On this side, however, all of the houses are made of wood, and crumbling. Only one of them feels alive. Towards the end of the block, there's a house with easily a dozen people sitting out, talking, laughing, drinking lemonade and passing a blunt. One of them is fat, and white, with a thin mustache. The rest are thin and black and range in age from zero to a hundred. Most of them sit on the steps. Next to the steps a homemade ramp zigzags right and left away from the house before meeting the porch. A man in a POW MIA hat, with a long beard sits in a wheelchair in front of the steps smoking a cigar.
"So Reggie," the white man addresses him, "I've got a friend comin in to town on vacation. He's only one leg, he's from the military and I gotta get him around, what do you think is the best..."
An old man lays down on the sidewalk in front of me.
"Excuse me, Sir."
"Oh pardon me, Sir."
I bumped him with the toe of my boot, "Ooh, it looks like I got you with my foot a little there."
"Oh, that's okay."
"You have a good day, Sir."
"You too, Sir."
"Excuse me?"
It came from a woman in a station wagon parked on the next driveway.
"Yes?"
"What the fuck is your problem steppin over old people? And what did you call him? Psh, and Jerry, you had the nerve to call him 'Sir'."
"We called each other 'Sir', Ma'am. Just a sign of respect."
"And what do you respect, and why should he respect you?"
There was a dog sitting on her arm, one of those weird, fancy Lady and the Tramp dogs that didn't have much hair, except around the crown, whiskers and tail. Five puppies sat on the ground beneath her pawing and nursing. When they were done, they scattered, revealing another dog behind them. A gray ball of fur with four little balls of fur for legs that seemed to short to support its body, feet and a face. It almost looked like a sheep, except that it was so dark, and had straight fur. I couldn't look at it without wanting to laugh.
"I don't know, I was just showing the common courtesy I was taught to treat my elders with as a child."
"And you were taught to kick your elders?"
"No Ma'am, it was an accident and I apologized."
"Lemme ask you one thing. You're going to a show at that new museum, right?"
"Yeah."
"And then you're gonna go back North or South or wherever you kids come from and forget about us, right?"
I didn't know. Probably. They were just people I was walking past on the street.
One of the puppies had found its way over to me, and was wrestling with my arm as we talked. A pair of old legs stretched out from underneath the station wagon. They were wrinkled and gnarled, as if tree trunks rupturing from the inside.
"Hey Maybeth, why don't you shut up and let the kid go."
We looked at each other for a minute. We were done. I tried to pull my arm from under a sleeping puppy, which in turn wrapped its paws around my wrist. I caught the woman watching me struggle with her dog. She smiled. She didn't hate me. She plucked the pup off me and patted my hand.
I could see through one of the windows a group of kids in black. They were kids I used to know through places I don't go to anymore. One of them was playing a show tonight at the Elbo Room, sponsored by a tequila company. They were all drunk. In the middle of them was one of the writers from the show, running late. He was easily recognized in the group. He was short and well dressed with mutton chops and Buddy Holly glasses. I didn't want to leave yet. I didn't want to get caught up in that group. I didn't want to claim them. I waited til they turned the corner and left.
I glided from this dream into another one, and ended up back in my high school. All of my coworkers from Columbia were student teachers here now. I was there because I wanted to see some old professors. I was here because of a girl that I used to teach. I was here because Brendan had died, and this is where we were meeting up for our own personal memorial. I was worried about seeing the girl. I was worried that she wanted to have sex with me. I was worried that I wanted to have sex with her. I was worried that someone would catch the vibes coming off one of us and I'd be carted off as a pedophile. I was worried that Skylar and Obie and the Marks could all see my fear. This dream was too complex to have a good hold on me anymore. It was the type of dream, where every time I opened a door I was in a different building, where hallways turned to forests. The last door I opened lead to a moonlit lake, possibly inside the gymnasium, and a matchstick boat made by my friend Viktor. We set it on fire and pushed it off towards the horizon. I woke up confused, hot, and unprepared for the outside.
[currently watching episodes of "The Ren & Stimpy Show" and "The Adventures of Pete & Pete"]
The streetlights still shone at nine in the morning, The sky was dark and the rain was getting thick. Every part of my tricycle squeaked and squealed. I cursed my friends for our late night revelry and for our choice of location. I locked my bike to a tree on a seedy corner last night and wished it well. Whoever tried to steal it from me failed, and opted instead to attack the tires and kick in all of the pliable pieces of metal. It was in a sorry state when I found it, still shackled to the tree, and so was I. Now I cursed Sarah, Brian, and Jesse for individually not making things any easier for me in the middle of night. I cursed my boss for not having the courtesy to show up to her own house for work in the morning, and making me ride home like this. I cursed Zeus, Yahweh and Doppler for the torrentsof water soaking through my skin.
Just before Western Ave, I realized that my wet brakes weren't working. I flung myself on to the sidewalk to avoid getting crushed in the onslaught of cars and flung the bike on top of me to keep it from getting smashed any further. When I remounted the trike I wasn't thinking about the turn I had to make so I just kept riding. A few blocks out of the way, the street was crowded with stores but none of them were open save for one, tiny little resale shop on the corner. I locked my trike up in front, wrung out my shirt, and went in.
"You can bring your bike in. I don't think anybody else will be coming in today. Ooh. Nice tricycle."
We exchanged pleasantries but I wasn't listening to what we were saying. I was entranced. I'd been here before. This was it, this was a store I'd been trying to find for years, but I couldn't remember where or why. I couldn't figure it out, it was mostly furniture and clothes that wouldn't fit me. There were no comics or records. The books looked nice on shelves but they were too old to be readable at this point.
I had been here twice before. Once two years ago and once as a child. I couldn't remember what happened at either time but there was this feeling attached to the childhood trip. It was with a daycamp and it was inexplicable. We came into the store so that someone could make a phonecall because the bus broke down or something, but there was something magical that happened that day.
I sat in a rocking chair, eyes darting around the room. The proprietor was charming. He was tall and lean, prematurely bald and had a soft voice that seemed Californian in nature. Even though nothing in the store looked at all special, he said he traveled the world to get it.
"You've been here a long time, haven't you?"
"That's true. Most people don't come down here more than once and notice. Have you been here before?"
I thought he might have remembered, but apparently not.
"C'mon, why don't you join me in the kitchen."
I stood at the stove while he hovered around the fridge, "You like quesadillas?"
I nodded. "Catch."
He threw a bag of tortillas at me, and then a bag of shredded cheese, "Open these up for me, willya?"
After I opened them, he took over the cooking and preparing duties. He told jokes but none of them stuck. I wanted to ask him if he was hiring, I wanted to ask about the feeling I'd gotten so many years ago. Something told me to go to the window. It wasn't as dark in his yard as it had been elsewhere. The rain had let up, and there they were. Two of them, about twice the size of a dog, playing in a mud puddle, with skin like cracked, unfinished clay and proud horns laid out on their foreheads.
"You have dinosaurs!"
"There's no such thing as dinosaurs."
"But you do. Those are triceratops."
"Adjust your eyes son."
As I looked on, the crouched beasts stood up and they weren't triceratops and they weren't twice the size of a dog. They were covered in long fur that looked like hay, and they were at least ten feet tall. They stood upright, and held themselves like bears.
"What are they?"
"Those are German Spiked Psychopaths. They live in the woods in a couple parts of Western Europe and most people have never seen them."
We watched them as we ate our quesadillas. I guess this was his real trade. Animals. A friend of his sat outside, soaking wet, with a horse that looked tiny and fragile next to the Psychopaths. We laughed as his friend loaded two horses into a car, where they would have to crane their necks and fold their legs on the long ride back to Indiana. It seemed more playful than cruel, at the time at least.
When we were done eating I decided I was ready to go and thanked him. On my way to the door I noticed my tricycle, the back was folded, so it was the width of a two weeler, with the basket folded over either side. I was impressed. I didn't know the trike could do that. It looked as if he'd tamed it. Outside, it was still dark but the only rain was coming off buildings and branches.
I woke up, paced around. My boss called. I really didn't have to work today. I felt sick and unproductive. If I wasn't going to make any money today, I wasn't going to spend it either. I tried to type up my dream while it was still fresh in my head but Kate's laptop erased it. Too many keys, too close together. I went into Sarah's room and turn out the lights, and forgot that it was morning outside.
The museum was right by the train. I followed the tracks on my trike. It was a zine show at the Chicago MoMa, all writers I've seen or booked a million times. All the second-tier writers who don't get invited out to these kinds of events, that think they can evolve out of their caste by being around enough. Am I one of those? Best not to think about it. When this was over, everyone would drink, shower, primp, and go to the Paper Rad show in Chinatown. I didn't feel white enough for this shit. Did anybody ever? Best not to think about it. Best not to judge. Best to assume that I'm being honest, that I legitimately want to see everything that I'm going to see today and so do all my peers.
So why am I walking away from the museum?
It's a sunny day on a block I've never been on before. Across the street there are brand new townhouses, one and a half stories tall and red as firetrucks. On this side, however, all of the houses are made of wood, and crumbling. Only one of them feels alive. Towards the end of the block, there's a house with easily a dozen people sitting out, talking, laughing, drinking lemonade and passing a blunt. One of them is fat, and white, with a thin mustache. The rest are thin and black and range in age from zero to a hundred. Most of them sit on the steps. Next to the steps a homemade ramp zigzags right and left away from the house before meeting the porch. A man in a POW MIA hat, with a long beard sits in a wheelchair in front of the steps smoking a cigar.
"So Reggie," the white man addresses him, "I've got a friend comin in to town on vacation. He's only one leg, he's from the military and I gotta get him around, what do you think is the best..."
An old man lays down on the sidewalk in front of me.
"Excuse me, Sir."
"Oh pardon me, Sir."
I bumped him with the toe of my boot, "Ooh, it looks like I got you with my foot a little there."
"Oh, that's okay."
"You have a good day, Sir."
"You too, Sir."
"Excuse me?"
It came from a woman in a station wagon parked on the next driveway.
"Yes?"
"What the fuck is your problem steppin over old people? And what did you call him? Psh, and Jerry, you had the nerve to call him 'Sir'."
"We called each other 'Sir', Ma'am. Just a sign of respect."
"And what do you respect, and why should he respect you?"
There was a dog sitting on her arm, one of those weird, fancy Lady and the Tramp dogs that didn't have much hair, except around the crown, whiskers and tail. Five puppies sat on the ground beneath her pawing and nursing. When they were done, they scattered, revealing another dog behind them. A gray ball of fur with four little balls of fur for legs that seemed to short to support its body, feet and a face. It almost looked like a sheep, except that it was so dark, and had straight fur. I couldn't look at it without wanting to laugh.
"I don't know, I was just showing the common courtesy I was taught to treat my elders with as a child."
"And you were taught to kick your elders?"
"No Ma'am, it was an accident and I apologized."
"Lemme ask you one thing. You're going to a show at that new museum, right?"
"Yeah."
"And then you're gonna go back North or South or wherever you kids come from and forget about us, right?"
I didn't know. Probably. They were just people I was walking past on the street.
One of the puppies had found its way over to me, and was wrestling with my arm as we talked. A pair of old legs stretched out from underneath the station wagon. They were wrinkled and gnarled, as if tree trunks rupturing from the inside.
"Hey Maybeth, why don't you shut up and let the kid go."
We looked at each other for a minute. We were done. I tried to pull my arm from under a sleeping puppy, which in turn wrapped its paws around my wrist. I caught the woman watching me struggle with her dog. She smiled. She didn't hate me. She plucked the pup off me and patted my hand.
I could see through one of the windows a group of kids in black. They were kids I used to know through places I don't go to anymore. One of them was playing a show tonight at the Elbo Room, sponsored by a tequila company. They were all drunk. In the middle of them was one of the writers from the show, running late. He was easily recognized in the group. He was short and well dressed with mutton chops and Buddy Holly glasses. I didn't want to leave yet. I didn't want to get caught up in that group. I didn't want to claim them. I waited til they turned the corner and left.
I glided from this dream into another one, and ended up back in my high school. All of my coworkers from Columbia were student teachers here now. I was there because I wanted to see some old professors. I was here because of a girl that I used to teach. I was here because Brendan had died, and this is where we were meeting up for our own personal memorial. I was worried about seeing the girl. I was worried that she wanted to have sex with me. I was worried that I wanted to have sex with her. I was worried that someone would catch the vibes coming off one of us and I'd be carted off as a pedophile. I was worried that Skylar and Obie and the Marks could all see my fear. This dream was too complex to have a good hold on me anymore. It was the type of dream, where every time I opened a door I was in a different building, where hallways turned to forests. The last door I opened lead to a moonlit lake, possibly inside the gymnasium, and a matchstick boat made by my friend Viktor. We set it on fire and pushed it off towards the horizon. I woke up confused, hot, and unprepared for the outside.
[currently watching episodes of "The Ren & Stimpy Show" and "The Adventures of Pete & Pete"]
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