I’ve been having the weirdest nightmares lately. This series of anguished and traumatic dreams. Of course it makes me wonder if it’s a symptom of some underlying turmoil in my soul (for lack of a better word).
Last night’s dream started out OK. Hate Man had just self-published his memoir. And the book turned out surprisingly good (Hate Man wasn’t particularly noted for his writing skills). And all of his friends were hanging out celebrating the book release, and we’re all signing his personal copy.
Hate Man is living in this garage, and at one point he’s hanging out in this upstairs vestibule surrounded by his wife and daughter and all the other people in his life that he was close to. I knew this was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to get a classic photo. So I asked everyone to hold that pose while I took a bunch of photos on my cell phone.
But later (this is when everything started going south) I realized the photos hadn’t turned out. So I asked everybody to go back upstairs to the vestibule so I could take more photos. But I start having all sorts of technical problems. And people keep pestering me and harassing me while I’m trying to take the photos. Finally I manage to take a series of photos, and I have them printed out on paper to make sure I got them.
But then I can’t find the prints. They got mixed up with hundreds and hundreds of other pieces of paper from other artistic projects that I’ve done that I’ve been carrying around with me. So now I’m sorting through these endless stacks of papers trying to find them, and everything keeps getting more and more disorganized (This is a recurring theme of my nightmares: I keep trying to accomplish some goal, but the harder I try, the farther I get from the goal).
So I put all the papers in this big cardboard box and carry them to this community swimming pool in the middle of the city where you can get in for free. And I set up in this little cubicle near the pool and start searching through all the papers for the prints. But the papers are starting to get soggy from the water from the pool. So I put them back in this cardboard box and start to leave. But the bottom of the box is soggy and collapses and all of the papers fall on floor (things keep getting messier and messier).
I stuff all the papers into a garbage bag and go to this office space. There are a bunch of long desks — all empty — so I set up all my stuff on a desk and resume my search for the prints. Until this businessman comes in and sets up all his stuff right in the way of my stuff. I have an angry confrontation with him. “There are all these other empty desks!! Why are you crowding me??!”
A friend of mine shows up. I appeal to him for help. Tell him I might crack up at any moment if I can’t find the prints. But instead of helping me and being sympathetic he laughs at me in this smirking way. I lose it and whack him on the side of the head. Now I’m really freaking out. Not just that I might have hurt my friend, but that I might be on the verge of completely snapping, having a nervous breakdown or go berzerk in a violent rage. I apologized profusely to my friend. And he reassures me that I had barely touched him. . . . . .
I wake up. There’s a dead mouse right by my blankets. Mini Scaredy trots over to me with a big smile on her face like she’s thinking: “DID YOU SEE WHAT I BRUNG YOU!! DID YOU SEE WHAT I BRUNG YOU!!” She’s very proud of herself and her gift. While I appreciate the thought, after the dream I just had I really wasn’t in the mood to be waking up to a dead mouse.