All This God's Dream

No. 16 of 30 -- Psycho Squad

In my life as Psycho Squad head, maybe you know how it goes, keep your nose to the grindstone long enough -- being one of the few normal people able to do it -- and you’re Mr. Know-it-All. You’ve seen it all, done it all, you've drawn lessons that serve as patterns for dealing with future cases. Like being a doctor. The average doctor is bored, on an average day taking one of five or six courses of action — X-rays, MRI, colonoscopy, med changes, insulin, adult diapers, cough drops, etc. Anyone could be a doctor. It’s really too bad it's so regulated.

But I guess I shouldn’t say that. I have my own Psycho Squad team, incidentally without any formal training, mostly my own theories, experience, and stick-to-it-tiveness, but that doesn’t mean I want everyone else as competition, taking bread out of my mouth. Find another gig, deadbeats! We could always use another thrift store or gas station, better yet, BBQ joint. Do that and leave this grassy field to me. And just to scare you off more definitely: The other day I had a bastard bite my finger, hurt like a SOB, and it was my fingering finger...

Be that as it may, I also met a very nice guy who blessed me in a church run. You know, a church run. I had this idea that I could get some good business posting on church bulletin boards: “Having a bad God trip? Call us, etc.” You'd be surprised at how many calls I got, but generally it’s not as dangerous as other runs since they’re already in the groove, well-grounded in habits of morality; basically they’re not carrying knives and guns. When I show up at a church, I'm 99% safe.

This goes back some years. One night they called and I arrived. Their study group had a guy cornered and wouldn't let him out because he seemed to be a danger to himself and others. Naturally, they have a strong sense of what’s true and what’s false, and maintain it regularly. But this guy — Jesus something — blew their minds with the theory that all existence right down to themselves and their group is merely God dreaming.

The Psycho Squad took him in, voluntarily — sedative darts were topped off in case of trouble — and he was sitting by my desk. He explained his thinking on the point that everything is God’s dream. I thought, That’s a new one. But it stayed with me. I've thought it over, counting my thoughts on both hands. Which were soon tied in knots and I had to shake them out. But, listen, scientists say the universe has been around 15 billion years since the Big Bang. Jesus' theory was that's equivalent to a single second in God's Dream. If everything takes place in that single second, God could wake up and have breakfast a trillion years from now! Or momentarily. What happens then? Maybe nothing, maybe instant death... 

I guess it doesn't make much difference. We go on the same. Anything that happens, the good, we enjoy. Anything that’s bad, chalk it up to a bad catnap years ago. Ancient history, what’s there to worry about? So here’s the mystery: God sat in a chair, let's say, had a two minute snooze, and dreamt the vast period we’re still in. Two minutes. Then later that night, just guessing, God got a full night’s sleep. So future generations can look forward to a lot of craziness. And that's good for my bottom line. The Psycho Squad stays busy now, but then we'll go completely whack when we hit the full heart of darkness!

Bring it on. Tomorrow's always brighter than last night.

Oatmeal La La Land

You haven't seen me here a few days. I hate to say why, exactly, but I owe you something. I've just been so seriously strung out I haven't been myself. I couldn't think. I barely knew my own name. I forgot everything I care about, including this blog.

Even now it's coming and going -- I could black out at any moment -- but I'm fighting through the blank spots, and using what I have left of "my legendary discipline." That's right -- even if it seems an eternity ago -- I had legendary discipline. Now, I'm wasted. Nearly shot. Haven't even got the discipline to---- sorry, drawing a blank.

The sad truth is, I'm addicted to oatmeal. God, it feels good to admit it publicly! Of course the biggest problem with oatmeal is they came up with a way for a quick fix. Used to be it took 45 minutes or all the way up to 3 hours to cook a decent batch. I blame the microwave oven industry, because they made us impatient. In the old days, I'd cook a batch, eat it, and pass out before I could cook another. Now it's bang bang bang, three batches and one massive jag of craziness.

So I was almost out of oatmeal, OK? And I was already hopped up on two batches. It was 3 in the morning. I went out and couldn't tell, in my haze, if the grocery store was open or the lights were just in my head. I sat there hunched over the steering wheel, when ... Dammit! ... two or three guys identifying themselves as cops -- they had red lights -- pulled me out of my car.

And I lost my cool. I was all up in their face. "What gives, assholes?!" and it went downhill from there. They could tell I was out of it, but why? I told them the honest to God truth, "I'm an oatmeal addict and you got me ... looking for another fix."

"Oatmeal," the mean-looking one sneered. He and the other mean-looking one talked it over. "Obviously slang for some narcotic, but which one?" These geniuses were talking it over and I saw nothing but haze. Even their talk was haze. They radioed in, then a TV crew showed up and I stripped naked and was gang-tackled by all three mean-looking cops in the ditch. "Give me oatmeal!" I cried as they roughed me up.

Later, I woke up and saw the insides of a hospital, and these mean bastards were there to make sure I didn't snap the gurney straps. The doctor was running blood tests. He said my sorghum and honey counts were elevated out of this world, sweeteners of choice, and that, yes, I indeed had oatmeal in my system.

I couldn't control myself. I went from docile to manic to feverishly crazed in seconds -- the oatmeal high oscillated between utterly flabby weakness to concentrated super human powers. And I felt the powers kick in. Everyone backed up as I eviscerated that hospital room; thankfully, the cops didn't know if they should open fire in a hospital zone.

Going down the hall, my back flap open to the breeze, I made it most of the way to freedom, and was rounding the corner when the meanest-looking cop hit me with a poison dart, hit my butt, piercing one side then crossing over and piercing the other. A double whammy of poison! I woke up two days later, confined in a treatment center.

A Nazi psychiatrist -- this is how Hitler got his start -- swore his way up one list of deities and down another to compel me to talk. "Vhat ees dis 'ottmail' you be smoking!?" "Smoking Ottmail?" I asked, confused, the haze a constant. I passed out and dreamt a beautiful dream, of a Willie Wonka-like world, with rivers of oatmeal (beautiful), but also quicksand bogs (ugly). When Hitler himself appeared, his mustache disgustingly soaked in drippy cinnamon oatmeal-- I woke up.

I blinked a few times, very refreshed, my mind completely detoxed off oatmeal, and vowed to live a clean life. When they took me to breakfast and ignorantly served me oatmeal! Immediately hooking me again...

Using my powers, I killed everyone in my way, stole an armored car, and crashed the gate. Then at the grocery store, instead of parking, I crashed the car through the front windows, craving another box of oatmeal -- and this time -- Damn the World! --  I would eat it with whole milk!

Now I'm home and on my eighth bowl. I'm writing this -- maybe the final post ever on this blog -- with the bastards even now at the door. I fear I'll have to shed even more blood before I'm able to enjoy my oatmeal supper and retire for the night, perchance to dream.

In Spiritual Ecstasy Johnny Law Bites It

"The Law is the Law," Johnny Law said, citing my family for illegal squatting on a reserved picnic site. "You are in violation of Section So and So," he told my mother, before giving her a ticket and forcibly moving us on. We packed our basket and departed, heads hung low in shame.

This all goes way back, being, as I look back, the beginning of my radical spiritual life. Because at that time something new came to the fore, and I knew -- can you ask a five year old how? -- I'd never be the same. All because my mother was the kind of lady who wanted something different for her family, experiences of pleasant outings.

It's hard to believe, but Johnny Law really patrols the parks of the city. I think it's all underground knowledge. The average guy sitting home on his easy chair hears a siren and assumes he's off dealing with serious crime, a bank robber or burglar. When the odds are, he's merely harassing park visitors and moving them on, albeit usually with a warning. Bullies.

Mom got a warning the first couple of times. We were at the picnic site, but not having a picnic. My brother and I sat on the grass, our legs out, rolling a ball back and forth. Mom had a book. It was a pleasant day, the birds singing. The big thing I remember about nature that day was seeing those butterflies, the ones that are little chunks of ripped cloth, flying haphazardly everywhere. When here comes Johnny Law, full siren blaring, flashing the artillery.

Things like this stick with a kid. It haunts your thoughts. I bet for a week there wasn't a night that I didn't dream of it. I'd awake crying hysterically from dark nightmares. I didn't ask Mom if her idea was to help me psychologically, or what, but she kept at it, taking us to the park. Indeed, we returned! Over and over. Sometimes with food, sometimes not, once with wax fruit! And Johnny Law was never far away.

My first magical experience came when I least expected it. I felt it welling up in me, some force going beyond my personal self. I was able to see through to the other side, and yet in some unexplainable way I wasn't me, in the egoic sense. I became alive with sensations of otherness, of rising above the entire world. I discerned things right at the heart of truth. No longer did I see bowls of wax fruit, but everything was fully alive with energy, pulsing with freshness and taste. My heart was afire that day, when who shows up but Johnny Law!

There I was -- in complete prophetic fervor and fire -- when Johnny Law was reduced to crisp. A bolt of lightning flashed from the heavens, weirdly channeling itself through the top of my head and out my eyes. I had no conscious purpose, no conscious desire ever to hurt a living soul. Butterflies flew by without harm. All I know is, where Johnny Law stood was suddenly nothing but a pile of simmering ashes. And his ticket book, which my mother picked up and put in her dress. We packed up, went home, and to my knowledge she never mentioned it to anyone.

About the illustration -- Notice the trees, like the towers or gateways on Tarot cards, meaning entrance to a new future. Then there's mom and brother, almost like Mary and Joseph in the nativity set, with me in the middle. Gifts are before me as I hover between earth and heaven. Mom pours from a pitcher, suggesting new, living wisdom. Brother reaches his hands in the pose of beholding something wonderful. The true Law, the book of grace, is above my head, radiant. The superseded Law -- Johnny -- didn't stand a chance.

Run Away and Join the Circus

I seriously hope there's kids out there who still want to run away and join the circus. I bet there are. What a fantastic life that'd be! I think it'd be great. For a lot of us, though, we don't really see that many circuses anymore. So the temptation isn't quite as strong, plus I'm getting very old. But in the small towns I just know there's still have to be little circuses coming through. Allowing kids the opportunity. A little fly-by-night operation would be perfect for a kid to run away to; start small and work your way up. I'd do it in a heartbeat, given another chance.

Of course it's something I always wanted to do, but, dammit, never did. I should've gone for it. I was always so concerned about the feelings of my parents and grandparents -- who loved me so much and were so good to me, just my bad luck. Had they been like other kids' families -- scoundrels, turds, and cranks -- I would've been gone in a heartbeat. Whether the circus would've wanted me, that'd be their problem. They would've thought of something for me to do, keep the clowns happy or something.

It could be that circuses back then, when I was a kid, had so many runaway kids, they just farmed them out to all the countries circus performers seemed to come from -- Mexico, South American countries, and Romania -- where they were trained. That actually wouldn't have been so bad. You're in South America, you learn from the masters, then you're part of bigger circuses. 10 years later your parents are in the audience and there you go trotting by, standing and jumping rope on the back of a plumed horse.

One of my favorite books -- and I can't seem to find it -- was always "Toby Tyler," which, unfortunately for him, when he runs away and joins the circus, it's a terrible experience. They treat him like crap. On the other hand, that wouldn't be so bad. You prove yourself, you work your way up, you dispose of your enemies. I can't remember all the details, except, Toby, Why limit yourself to that circus? Run away again and again till you find a more kid-friendly one.

I was thinking, maybe someone could come up with a program -- put together by parents and circuses, to allow their kids to "run away" -- or just to be driven in the car -- to a circus, serving an apprenticeship, etc., to see if they like it and would excel. I get the feeling that circuses are in some danger of slipping away. So what better to revive struggling circuses with but cheap labor, with kids not even really in it for the money? Then, assuming that a bunch of them would never want to go back to their families -- it'd be tough to go back to parents who abandoned you to a circus -- they'd have all kinds of experience, and would be able to make that circus flourish and found others.

The program I have in mind I'm tentatively calling "Toby's Big Secret," because it at least recalls the secrecy of running away to join the circus. A bunch of "Tobies," then, have that experience. They're with the circus for X number of days, months, or years. It's good for everyone, a win-win for the circus, as well as the parents. If the child never comes back, at least they're earning their keep and learning life lessons. I think it would've been fun if "Toby's Big Secret" was a program when I was a kid. Instead, I got to go to camp for one stinking weekend, that's it.

"Toby's Big Secret" could also be used in conjunction with children's "Last Wish" organizations. Let's say I'm a dying child -- and let's be realistic, that's what we're talking about -- I would be the best clown in the world! Seriously. The best clowns are those that evoke pathos, the crying clown, the big sagging sad eyes and bowed head. Even to the point of carrying a dead flower in a pot. If you're a child in the death throes, no one would make a better clown. With the diminutive size, you'd have the place in tears. I'm honestly choking up, thinking of myself like that. With the audience reaching out to me, crying like babies, and somehow curing me. Now I'm cured, let's say, I milk the act forever, since they're also throwing money.

The biggest danger in joining it with "Last Wish" activities is that they might give you more dangerous things to do, knowing your time is already short. Which, I guess -- and I say this reluctantly -- if I can't be a clown and have the audience loving me, would still be a great way to go. Helping steady the elephant's feet so it doesn't step on the beauty queen. That doesn't mean it won't step on you. But what a way to go! How would you rather die? In a hospital, going bald, down to skin and bone, your healthier siblings standing there crying, the parson hat-in-hand droning trite prayers, and your parents stuck organizing pancake benefits? Or with five tons of raging elephant coming down on you, then hoisting you suddenly on its trunk and flinging you through the air, impaling you on one of those giant tent poles? Give me the circus!

My Wife the Orangutan

NOTE: THIS IS AN IMAGINARY STORY FROM SOMEWHERE DEEP IN THE IMAGINARY GRANDMA SLUMP UNIVERSE. I DON'T REALLY HAVE AN ORANGUTAN FOR A WIFE. IT'S TOUGH TO GET ORANGUTANS. BUT I HAVE A FRIEND (TRICKY THE DEMON) WHO PUT THE THOUGHT IN MY MIND: "WHAT IF A MAN HAD AN ORANGUTAN FOR A WIFE?"

It was a dream come true. So many times I'd dreamed of having that one true love. Which then always eluded me. You know how dreams are, this becomes that; it's all inexplicable, and forms don't persist, and the normally imaginable is replaced by the utterly fantastic.

That happened one morning, in the last dream of the night, that I was in love with a huge orangutan. She and I were sharing a deep moment of eye contact. I hesitate to share my thoughts at that moment, but thank goodness I woke up or we might have prematurely erased the boundaries of propriety, absent marital vows. Crossing this boundary with an orangutan would be put me in a Huff Post story, destroying my life and opening me to the threats of bullies, and then stories about that.

The thought, though, wouldn't go away. Her size, the muscles, the tenderness of her fur, the depths of the eyes, even the quirkiness of her smeared-on lipstick. It's that desire for mature relations where there's still a hint of innocence that does something to you. It's true for the saint and the sinner, the witchdoctor as well as the man of medicine. They see it everyday and they're not turned on -- nothing they'll confess to, anyway, but flutter those eyes in a motel room, and pucker those tentative, quivering lips, and Katy, bar the door! Cigarette time.

I drove by the zoo -- must've been 800 times, thinking, Is this right? Neighborhood Watch noticed me after 100. I was trailed by cops every time after 300. I ran out of gas around 500 and was beat up by boy scouts. Some time between 798 and 800 -- I guess it was 799 -- I turned in.

I hustled myself to the orangutan exhibit, where our eyes met again and again. Must've been 800 times. The zookeepers noticed me after 100. I was monitored by the other orangutans every time after 300. I was exhausted around 500 and beat up by the aviary. Some time between 798 and 800 -- I guess it was 799 -- we fell in love.

It was only a matter of her downing a case of energy drink, washed down by a single pot of whole bean coffee, and a touch of Tabasco on the tongue, before she broke loose. We fled immediately to an ordained friend, an extremely traditional hidebound guy, outspoken in his opposition to any deviation from societal norms. So strict is he there's no plumbing the depths of it. He readily married us, me in my normal clothes, she nude except for a lampshade on her head as a veil. We said, "I do," and I carefully lifted the shade and beheld my bride.

We were understandably nervous about what would come next. I hesitate to write about something so tender. But we drove by the motel, must've been 800 times. Some kids sneaking in the pool noticed us after 100. A guy looking for handouts stood up every time we went by after 300. I stopped to check a tire around 500 and was beat up by a gang. Some time between 798 and 800 -- I guess it was 799 -- we checked in.

Then it was off to our room, which we went to directly the first time. I will let it fade to black, leaving aside the close to 800 times we consummated the marriage, and the other way stations it took us to get there -- the 100, 300, 500, 798 and 799. We didn't have time for all that, working as we did through the entire King Konga Sutra. Had I known orangutans were so tireless and persistently demanding -- Downtown's an entire city itself -- I might have found someone else, a goldfish or even a woman.

But the deed was done, and the marriage was real.

The story doesn't end there. I'm writing this account on the eve of our 85th anniversary. Yes, it's now the year 2099, and, yes, the zoo still drives by occasionally, looking for her. No one told me orangutans lived so extremely long. Or me, for that matter.

[Secret Journal] Scratching an Itch (or Not)

8:00 pm. Sunday - So many itches I cannot contain! -- I will bust! It's over! No, wait, stylistically I cannot start with the climax and give up. Must bear and forbear, must be patient. My impatience points to truth of pursuit, not falsity. Simply scratch as always, I have 61 years of ingrained habit, Lord Itch rules the temple.

8:10 pm. Sunday - The last 10 minutes have been a roller coaster ride, wooden, not safety-tested, really rattled my bones. Centered in non-itch new beginning, having scratched till I'm raw in places. Took BIC pen to right ear, smaller than finger, not recommended, certainly, but no one was looking. The things I do in the dark! Clean slate, blank slate, one little itch under eyes, then they creep in and subsume consciousness. I'm lost!

8:28 pm [day unspecified] - What's it been, 20 minutes? Rome wasn't built in 20 minutes, I guess. There's no reason to keep counseling patience, I already know that. This harping on patience is making me more impatient. Counsel mercy, which, apart from a possible first mention, is only truly mercy when it's not mentioned. OK, mercy for myself, still busy scratching. What I need is one decent concentrated itch spot, of my choosing, not a million popping up everywhere. What kind of universe is this, for pity's sake?

8:29 pm Sunday - Brief entry to say, the universe, the world is mercy -- pity, if you will -- I'm not separate. You can't think continental drift, tectonic movement, doesn't itch like hell. That's why we have earthquakes, the Logos rolling over to scratch. Merciful to itself. Giving credence to my theories.

11:00 pm Sunday - Must've dozed off. Dreamed I was on the ground floor of a massive itch, turned out to be a volcano. False alarm?

5:30 am Monday - Woke up scratching, might wear oven mitts today, hands up like a surgeon, reminding myself to break the cycle. That's it, I'm just unconscious through habit (cf. above, Lord Itch, Temple.) Who is this f'n Lord Itch? How did I come to serve him? Who's his consort? Is she worse, prodding him from behind? "Exact tribute from him, you worm!" she cries, calling the Lord a worm? Who is this massive B? Called Lady, probably. Lady Scratch? I guess that's it, men always want to scratch their itch, and Lord Itch just happened to fall for Lady Scratch, etc. "I got you under my skin." Making progress, this has a whole mythic basis!

6:30 am Monday - Finished coffee, my head a lot clearer, scratch that Lady Scratch stuff, unintentional pun, I swear. Scratch that, too ... Oops, did it again. Lady Scratch has now infected my vocabulary, my thought process. More coffee, gulping it down between these pen scratchings, no!!!! Must reclaim temple, especially new deity of my own choosing.

6:43 am Monday - Every developing world/cosmic view starts as experience, then mythologizes in upward ascent, making sense and also making palpable. All I've got so far is the itch point likened to black hole or nucleus, and conjecturing that entering (through consciousness) at that point might (likely?) be a different realm of consciousness. Not realm so much, bad word, too early for mythologizing itch point as kingdom.

7:03 am Monday - Thinking about blog today. Time to throw out some red meat. Maybe crumbs. Nose suddenly itching, think I see Heaven.

Enhancing Your Dreams

My life of lucid dreams began when I started wearing glasses to bed to catch more detail. From there, it progressed. Still today, REM activity actually continues through most of the morning. If you see a guy fluttering his eyes at you, that's me!

The glasses were enough for a while, but I wanted more. I started sleeping with a chair, thinking that if I could sit during dreams I'd be able to take in more. Indeed, things were less hectic. I was suddenly less a participant than a spectator. That was fine, but dreams are meant to be participatory and not so tame. So I went "full gator," sleeping with a stuffed alligator, which made things very wild very fast. I was chased and cornered more times than I can remember. I almost ended up with my own show on Animal Planet, in my dreams, but thankfully woke up in time.

Other times, I wanted things to be more pastoral, with dark blue skies and bright stars, and fairies and satyrs roaming the countryside. I got some books at a book sale, Van Gogh, Yeats, and Greek mythology. I tore out the specific pages to create the scene and had one of the best nights of my life. All except for the satyrs. They're very randy rascals, so if anyone tries this, make sure you make provision for them to have a good partner.

A lot of my favorite enhanced dreams involved going back to my childhood and camping with my family like we used to do. Grandma and Grandpa, Mom and Dad, brothers, cousins, everyone. Naturally, this involved going to bed with a photo album, a lantern, and a chunk of tent canvas. And throw in some fishing equipment. The biggest problem wasn't the fact that I woke up with my pillows at the end of a stringer, but that I associate camping with downpours. Touch the canvas and it leaks right through. I not going to tell much about it, except to say I changed the sheets and put down plastic.

Anyway, in my dreams I've done a little of everything over the years, including running away and working for the circus, like Toby Tyler. Even though Toby's adventures were mostly misadventures, I had more success. But it's true what they say about clowns; I'd rather be chased by satyrs any night of the week!

The weirdest, most elaborate dream I ever had was the entire Apocalypse -- 360 degrees, 3D depth, the entire judgment, God, devils, and white throne. Thankfully, it had a happy ending: I awoke five years later to a blessed morning, having seen a lot of angelic nudity and lots of other cool stuff, the works!

To prepare for this, it took workmen a whole week to construct what looked like a swing set over my bed, with pulleys, chains, and various berths for figures carved by craftsmen. These were prophets, angels, devils, etc. All this apparatus was connected by a team of technicians to several bicycles, the whole works carefully choreographed by a panel of respected ministers, according to their reasonable theological consensus. Lastly, the bikes were powered by members of a trusted Boy Scout troop. I once bought popcorn from them, so I knew they were good.

Despite the noise, I dozed off. Around midnight, I heard the cranks and pulleys churning and the breathing of the Scouts at their bikes. I drifted off again, and ascended through super consciousness into the heavenly spheres, passing through the seam that separates mundane existence from the higher realms. It was fantastic! Not a satyr or clown in sight!

But as the Apocalypse involves tumult, destruction, judgment, and the eventual reconciliation and restoration of the cosmos -- and a lot of close calls with devils -- I had more on my mind than I knew what to do with. It's harder to get back than you'd think. This is where I probably went too far, and, like I said, I ended up sleeping for five years. I was out of it! I don't know if anyone paid the Scouts and the craftsmen. Everything of my normal life was gone. All I knew during that time was the inner world I inhabited.

My family, who otherwise would've been out camping, took care of me, bedridden as I was. And if I hadn't covered the bed in plastic, I can only  imagine the bedsores I might've had. Thank goodness for my wise planning.

Bolt Upright In The Night

Thank God for government snooping. It helps me get to sleep at night and get my rest. Let me explain.

At one time, I would be sleeping, then dreaming, with the noises of the night mixed in. A truck goes by and clunks its load on the bump in the road. It's a critical moment in my dream, and I bolt upright in the bed. I'm in a terrible sweat, breaking into one, I'm shaking, and even itching. (If I wear long johns in the summer, my legs tend to itch.)

After much stirring, I get back to sleep. Then I start dreaming about a mountain of bills. A mountain of bills, things you could never pay even were you to have a good job. I'm stewing away over it: I might lose my credit rating, my game toe might get better and I'll lose my disability, I might lose the house! I bolt upright in the bed, a horrendous sweat breaking out everywhere.

I try to sleep, but sleep doesn't come. The whole night's terror continues to drill into my mind. I'm even praying now, "God, be merciful to me, a poor sleeper." Again, I'm stewing over it in my mind, all that could happen: Burglars are very stealthy; there could already be one in the house; Underbrush, my dog, has virtually lost her hearing, she won't bark. Car thieves are out there, too. And someone might be stealing the copper from my air conditioner. I'm not even asleep but I bolt upright, then get up and go to the bathroom and change my sweaty clothes and sheets.

Back in bed, I'm worried over my health. There's a few new aches and pains everyday. But I manage to doze off. The health concerns have now morphed into a terrible dream. There's monks flagellating themselves and trying to get me to take up flagellating. I, who think flagellating is totally stupid! But they convince me, so there I am, beating myself to death with chains. It's making me dizzy, I'm passing out, I see the signs of death everywhere. My arteries are clogged, I've got scrofula, halitosis, catarrh, rheumatism, and dropsy. And to make it worse, I'm getting a bad doctor's report. The terror builds ... I bolt upright in bed.

Once I get back to sleep, everything has shifted. Now my dream is of people on my trail. They're all trying to corner me in some way. I have few options left. I'm telling morphing inquisitors -- morphing from kindly priests to horror film beasts -- "Yes, yes, I'm guilty and everyone knows it!" There's two figures, like the Spy vs. Spy characters, with big beaks, and they're leading me to a field of bubbling tar pits, where they raise knives to stab me and dispose of me still alive. I bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath, hot tar everywhere.

At this point, I really feel like I need to work on my prayer life. But none of it helps. Then I remember, "God damn it, I live in a country where security is Number 1, top of the line, grade A. The government is keeping track of everything and everyone, and that includes me. They've got eyes in the sky, eyes in the street, eyes in the hills. They know what I've done, who I've met with, and what we've planned -- all quite innocent. No one, and nothing, is going to get me. I don't have to worry about it. Thank goodness -- seriously, thank goodness -- for that kind of security, both personal and the security we enjoy as a nation.

I consider it like that, the facts, and as I do, a great warmth descends upon me. From my feet to my head and back again, I feel the warmth. It's pervasive, a great warmth even though I'm not sweating. It is comfort, a feeling of complete comfort, like being in my dear mother's arms, little footies on my feet. And a drop seat in the butt should I need it. I find myself going into that blessed stage just before sleep, and all is well. I drift happily, then, easily into full sleep. Safe and restful, sleep, sleep, sleep.

Comfort To The Stranger

Here I go, across the great lawn, with a tray of sweetmeats for the stranger.

"How are you?" I say, tempering my smile while keeping it genuine. "How about a cinnamon roll?" It's important to keep body and soul together, it's good for the marrow.

He looks at my arm for the Red Cross emblem, but seeing none, realizes I'm just a kind person given to instant solidarity, at least admiration from afar.

The leaders are gathered like Civil War generals around their battle plans, a couple scratching their chest-length beards pensively. One uses the nasty phrase "goddammit" a lot. I'm thinking, "Cinnamon rolls for the leaders," but I hate to interrupt their plans -- and the goddammit guy might have other plans for my head, involving a pike!

An underling sees me -- possibly I'm a spy, or an autograph hound, but my confidence says otherwise. He sees the cinnamon rolls and realizes I'm an angel of mercy, while perhaps also being an attention-seeker. He moves closer to prevent any disturbance of the generals at their work. "Goddammit!" I hear the one bluster, so I leave the rolls in the hands of the lieutenant.

I cut across the concourse. A few bandaged hands are raised. So many worthy brothers and sisters, but I'm just a man, with only two hands and no super powers. I cast down a look of mercy, seeing dry, hungry mouths everywhere. The poor souls. They have but moments to live, in some cases, and a morsel of a warm cinnamon roll would do them such good.

Must hurry on...

Partial dream interlude: At the periphery, I come across an old friend, a former classmate. She's virtually naked, maybe entirely -- I don't look -- except at the six-inch scar she's showing me on the right side of her abdomen. She's been through a lot. I must not stay. I'm out of cinnamon rolls.

I look down and I'm barely dressed either. I need to cross a gravel alley to make a call back to the kitchen van. Even in my near nudity (waist down), I'm thinking I need to go for it; these people are hungry.

Off to the left a building gives way, imploding but more or less silently, leaving an open space in which I see the family owners of the place discussing how their place will be remembered. (There's no talk of cinnamon rolls.)

In here somewhere, there's a railroad station. The track seems to narrow and is blocked. I'm with the stationmaster. He's waiting for a train that might take some time arriving. I'm asking his business. Then the train shows up from the east. It brings the generals, the very ones, to their duties.

A stern "Goddammit" pierces the air and brings me to my senses. I run for more cinnamon rolls. I think, this is a small job -- but to give comfort to those at the front lines is very much a big deal.

What Could My Dream Mean?

That was such a vivid dream I had this morning that I've been thinking about it through the day.

I have this theory, which I may have read once -- perhaps I did, it seems like it -- that dreams should not be remembered. The theory is that the dream is a way of filing things away, consolidating thoughts in the psyche. And that if you hang on to them, the filing system is incomplete and therefore you will be personally hobbled in some way.

For example, you might remember all your dreams. Then something in the filing system up there would lock up. And you'd find yourself hopelessly lost in a dream loop, to the outside world appearing only a maniac who twitches and babbles. It seems like it might be true, since the nature of waking up typically is to immediately forget your dreams. Nature doesn't want you remembering!

Then, though, you get a crystal clear, vivid dream like that, and, try as your might (I didn't try in this case), you can't forget it. It could be that nature intends me to remember this particular one, which is why my nature "forgot to remember to forget," to quote a great song lyric, which was written by Charlie Feathers, if I'm remembering right and haven't forgotten.

So what could the dream of the bombs falling mean?

I would like to put a positive spin on it, but I can think of the negative ones.

Negative -- It could mean that I'm very unhappy. And that I see myself at the center of a disaster -- my life. And that I think when something bad happens, I'm just getting my just desserts. Perhaps I even long for personal destruction, in order to escape. I'm too much of a coward simply to do myself in. So my psyche is telling me to seek out destruction, even looking to the skies for it. If I'm seeking it out, it still happens, which could be because I'm masking my seeking of it. Like I heard a psychiatric acquaintance say one time that he's suspicious whenever anyone has an "accident" on the road, because he thinks it might be simply a way for them to destroy themselves "accidentally." Like suicide by police.

Neutral -- It might not mean anything about me in particular. Just that I was talking to a guy yesterday about the various theories people have about the end of the world. The discussion included some derision about radio religious shows that pinpoint the date for the end, supposedly, then when they're wrong they choose another date and go on as though nothing happened. So my mind was busy filing away our discussion, with the bombs being simply part of the consolidation process. You'll remember what I said to the Sunday School students who were making a paper sculpture out of their lesson book: "Are you pleased with yourself?"

Positive -- I see destruction all around me, but I see myself as a true survivor. I try to maintain as positive an image of myself as I can. Sure, I have problems with it from time to time. But I put a glad face on about everything. I tell my doctor I'm healthy, and he agrees. I tell my life insurance representative I'm the healthiest person in town. I tell him I have a good mental outlook as well. Seeing the bombs makes me a witness to everyone else's foolhardy approach to life, locally and on an international scale. It must be positive, because when the bombs fell that close to me, and the yellow haze engulfed me and my companion, wouldn't that have killed us? Yet I got in my car and drove away and when it came time for me to wake up, I didn't seem to be in any mortal peril.

Whichever one it is -- and I think the "Neutral" one is most likely, if any of them are likely, which isn't likely -- it was definitely vivid and memorable. I hope I don't dream vividly tonight. Just let me sleep and be done with it.

A Couple Big Bombs Fell From The Sky

This is part of my dream this morning. I wake up through the night, look at the clock, then fall back to sleep. I looked at the clock a little after 4 a.m. and got up at 5:30, so this dream happened between then. Closer to 5:30, since I was still working on the whole aftermath when the alarm went off.

I was at a place in my town. My car was there and a companion. I looked up the street and saw big bombs, shaped like bombs are, with those things at the back that are like feathers on an arrow but are metal. The bombs were white with some red insignia on them, like decoration, nothing nefarious.

By the time I saw the bombs, they were within 100 or 50 feet of the ground. They weren't moving in real time, I'd say, since I had a little time to think through some things. But it was quick, since I can think a lot of a short amount of time.

I was thinking it's too late to make a run for it, that if I'd had some advance notice I would be in the car and away from there, but now it's too late -- it goes without saying, it goes without thinking. In an instant, they hit the ground. I couldn't see them land because the street I was looking up had the upper part of a hill and they were behind it somewhere, like maybe 100-200 yards from me.

There wasn't a terrible explosion, but what I might call a muffled explosion. The thing that impressed me was the change in the color of the air between here and there and the way the color spread toward us quickly. Like a creamier, yellowish color in the air coming this way. I was thinking that it would be bad for us.

After that we got in the car and headed west. The bombs were east.

But we never got out of town. We were still in town, still with people we know, talking it over, very worried and anxious. But I still had a sense of humor about it, although I was very worried about the after effects that it would have for me and us.

I came into a room and there were some guys sitting on the front and second rows of some chairs. They were there for Sunday School. I wondered where the guy was who normally lead them. He was off in another room. They had cut their lesson book in many places and made a paper sculpture out of it. I said to one guy, they guy holding it, "Are you pleased with yourself?" In a joking way.

That's basically what I remember about the dream. It's been close to five hours ago, so much of it is fizzling out of my memory.

About the bombing, I had some vague recollection that this was going to happen, like people knew it was going to happen. Maybe they told us a couple months ago. But I hadn't kept track, hadn't remembered, hadn't noted the time and place, or I wouldn't have been there.

Wang Dang Doodle (Today's Tweets)

As you are, I once was. As I am, you will be. (You wish!!!)

Wang dang doodle. I shall prevail.

The whole thing with the Octopus/Snake fight riled up something in my spirit, a fierce force that can't be dismissed. I've one thing to do:

And that's to listen to this record, as recorded by Joanie Sommers, "Johnny Get Angry"...

"Johnny get angry, Johnny get mad; Give me the biggest lecture I ever had; I want a brave man, I want a cave man; Show me that you care..."

Because I'm soon going to lead the Brotherhood (a rural mafia-type group), I went to buy some organic eggs. My connection to the country.

It's true, I did buy some organic eggs. First time ever.

I've Reached A Decision

I've been messing with the psychological mechanics of speeding up and slowing down time most of the morning and so I didn't get around to writing this update until now. Which means I have to rush because the slowing down function isn't working right as of this minute. Or 10 minutes ago now.

Just know that, whatever the calendar says, and it's dead on in sync with everyone else's, by the time I get done here, even if it only takes minutes, I could very well be old and gray. Let me pause a minute and kick it. There. Against all odds, I believe I heard some slowing of the wheels.

What's all this about speeding up time? I'll get more into it as necessary, just to say now that I can't be content to wait and drag this crazy situation out. I need to have it resolved as quickly as possible. If I don't, there's going to be trouble with "friends" and "followers." As I found during the hiatus, they don't like things stretched out. They're into instant gratification. And, if Garrett Al is any indicator, gratification is exactly what they're after, whether mental (not in his case) or physical, as was his perverse desire. But enough about him.

I have reached a decision about the Grange Brotherhood, thinking back to the three options of a couple days ago. I came to this decision not lightly, but it's been a struggle unlike I've ever felt in my life. Because, think about it, the antecedents of this struggle go back generations. This is conspiracy theory stuff. Grandma and Grandpa had connections to the Brotherhood back when they were dating, probably. It could be they were moved around like chess pieces with the aim of bringing them together so they would eventually have my mom, who would eventually have me, who would eventually be sitting here as I sit today, either their Savior or the Antigranger they fear.

Think about my heroic dream yesterday, terrifying stuff. The Octopus creature versus the Snake headed man. I still can't get over the vision of that terrifying cobra hood. Cobras have the weirdest heads in nature. A few more years of evolutionary history and they'll be flying squirrels. Cobra parents always feel like they should trim back some of Junior's head but then their doctors tell them that's what brings the real pleasure later in life. So they fall for it every time, the child cobra goes to snake school, the other kids are always making fun of the cobra's hood. Like, "Don't whisper around him. He can hear you!" And "The slightest puff of wind and he'll sail away!" This is also why the cobra's hearing is notoriously bad. Every sound being accentuated, their ears wear out early on. So you see it in India, the owner has to play his flute right down in their basket to rouse them. You put a flute to my head the first thing in the morning, I'm going to bite you. But my hearing is also top notch.

Anyway, about the dream. There they were, in a death struggle. The Snake, I believe, wanted to wrestle. The Octopus wanted to rassle. Because snakes are used to writhing, wrestling comes naturally to them. Octopuses have the more chaotic atmosphere of the ocean as their natural habitat, so rassling comes more naturally to them. The Snake, though, being the subtlest of creatures, and very wise, was able to adapt to the Octopuses' moves. The little snake heads popped out and bit the Octopus very badly. Then I woke up.

But today I drifted off in my chair and saw the end of the dream. The Snake wins! By some very dexterious coiling, he had all eight Octopus legs pinned to the canvas. Later, the Octopus was seen -- time having been sped up -- old and gray in a nursing home, refusing to say much about it, but still signing autographs eight pictures at a time.

I am the Snake. I will prevail.

So my decision, the decision I have reached, based on this dream, is this: That not only will I join the Grange Brotherhood, one day* I will be the Grange Master who leads the whole organization!

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*"One day" could be as soon as tomorrow, thanks to the speeding up of time. But that really would be much too soon. I need some things to write about before we get there. So please be patient.

Tweets - 08-10-2009

Introduction:

My activity at that website came in one burst of energy, as I'd had the whole day to think about my revelatory dream, written about earlier.

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There's 1000 directions this thing with the Grange Brotherhood could go, but thank God for that revelatory dream last night. It was cool.

Over there you've got Super Octopus, seething, pulsating tentacles. Over here, Snake Head Man, with snake chambers like Whack-A-Mole boxes

If they ever make my 'Grandma Slump' blog into a movie, I'll get extremely rich just off the action figures.

They're in a death grip. Octopus has tentacle suction cups all over Snake's hood. But Snake darts out a metallic tongue and moves him back!

Then it's Arms vs. Tentacles, 2 vs. 8, the odds are in Octopus' favor, until the snake boxes open and the tiny biting heads each sink in.

Snake Man has to twist and turn to allow them to take Octopus, and says, nicely, "Let me know when you're done back there!"

With dreams like that I hope I never wake up. If I could find some reliable way to Velcro this bedpan in place, I'd never have to. Dream on.

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Do you know what Skoal chewing tobacco's slogan is? "Welcome to the Brotherhood." Is that a sign?

Personal Silence And Stewing

I ended yesterday's post with these words: "What I will do ... is something for me to contemplate ... in the counsel of my own heart ... with the light and dark alternately rising and descending ... in personal silence and stewing ..."

I'm right in my element with this thing. Personal silence and stewing is exactly what I like to do if there's an opportunity, and I've got something decent to stew over. And with this whole thing involving the Grange Brotherhood, the good and bad sides, I'm full to the brim with opportunities. It's all a huge wonder.

As for "the light and dark alternately rising and descending," to further quote that very nice paragraph (I give it 5 out of 5 knuckle polishes), the way I picture that is the idea of a man sitting in one spot with the sun rising and the sun setting on him. If that could actually be done, which I don't think it could unless you had a bedpan and a refrigerator right at hand. But apart from the literal light and dark rising and falling, I could take it as the mental/spiritual content of my own agonized heart. A situation in which I go through periods of light and periods of dark as the silence and stewing is very much prolonged.

At one point this morning, I was positively radiant with the light. I had enough good things going on that I could've healed the world. Had I so deigned. But then just moments later I was in such a fit of darkness that I could've crawled around on the floor naked like a crab seeking a drain for a faster descent. A shadow fell across my face. My eyes were darkened, bereft of light and life itself. Something vast and terrible is happening, because I don't usually have my shorts in such a knot, usually being in a fairly good mood.

What is the content of all this stewing, all this perplexity? The awful quandary I'm in concerning the Grange Brotherhood, whose besetting of me along the way, then testing (tormenting) of me at the dance, brought forth numerous issues, mostly of a negative sort.

I hope you can tell I'm worked up about it. So much so, in fact, that anything could happen. The options I presented yesterday, 1) Joining the Brotherhood; 2) Ignoring the Brotherhood; 3) Attacking the Brotherhood, are all still operative. I'm casting about for signs -- flailing wildly -- and I can't help thinking one will be coming very soon. A person can't function with this kind of constant turmoil. I need it to end! But exactly how it's going to end, I do not yet know.

I probably should mention a dream I had, which could have some prophetic bearing on the important matters at hand. I witnessed a titanic struggle of two superhuman forces. One side was a gigantic octopus, with enormous outstretched tentacles, literally with brass knuckles on each one. The air holes or suction cups you always see on tentacles were seething, in constant motion, as though trying to pull in its victim by an inner pressure with its domineering will.

The opponent was a snake-headed man, a head and hood like a cobra, then from the top to the back of his head was a swarm of smaller biting snakes. It's like they lived under small trap doors, the shingles or texture of the snake's head, then popped out when called upon. As the octopus reached out the snakes popped out in defensive posture. And as the bigger snake, the snake head proper, lashed out, also with sheer indomitable will, the octopus recoiled and spun with a backwards retreat, a retreat however that kept it in position to strike at any time. (There was so much hissing I might've hissed the bed. Forgive a desperate old man his joke.)

All in all it was a pleasant enough dream, but I woke up before it resolved itself.

Tweets - 08-03-2009

I probably should have it as a footnote that there WERE horse-related deaths in barns, but typically only as a result of training miscues.

I fear I might've said too much. The last thing I want is a grange assassin showing up at my door, wanting to borrow a cup of [BANG!].

I shouldn't blab secrets, I know. But it's like Nietzsche said, "Whatever doesn't kill me must've missed."

Good thing I quit biting my nails. I have bad teeth but not biting my nails anymore is a positive result.

If anyone from the Grange Brotherhood is reading this, it's all ha-ha, joking around, not real secrets.

I also like to examine the group dynamics of kids who haven't been taught social skills and expectations. Little hellions worse than Tarzan.

What grange assassins look like in bad dreams: a black veil covering their mouths, orange beaks for noses, and piercing dark eyes.

OK, it's not all ha-ha, I admit it. But should I be cowed by the Grange Brotherhood? Or should I tell all?

I've gone from being threatened by a hiatus blob last week to the entire Grange Brotherhood this week. When do things get back to normal?

Akashic Records And Salt Pork

I wasn't getting very far in recalling details of my dream about The Ideal Woman from Redfield. My memories are very shallow. This would be a good time to remember what I said a few weeks about about the Interior Castle, but I'm not really recalling that either. I could look it up. But let me try to restate it on the fly. There's stuff up here, meaning what I can visualize, like a car, the picture of a car. Then there's stuff up there, also visualized but without entirely conscious thought. It just is. Getting there can be tricky. But the basic move is to do what Elvis advised in Speedway: "Let Yourself Go."

Yesterday afternoon I decided to try for some lucid dreams. I remember reading in a magazine once, along with invoking other spiritual experiences, that there are techniques to make lucid dreams more likely. Some are more strenuous than others. Endurance stuff, like staying awake a couple of days. Standing on your head for several hours, that kind of thing. Another way is the same as sympathetic magic techniques. Such as if I wanted to dream of the girl from Redfield, let's say, I might surround myself with red things and pictures of girls. Another way is to eat strange foods or unnatural portions of foods, anything to get your body out of its normal rut. It's a matter of purposely throwing your digestive metabolism out of whack, knowing you'll have a restless night, but also assuming you will sleep soundly for an hour or so, and in that brief time your dreams will be as lucid as can be.

[Let me pause here to give a legal disclaimer. The techniques described in this blog are "for entertainment purposes only." Do not try this at home or in any other bed outside your home. Consult your doctor before any medical or dietary changes. Like me. I phone my doctor a dozen times a day. "Hi, it's me again. I just saw an ad for Vagisil on TV. And they said to call you and see if it's right for me." No? OK, I'll talk to you after the next commercial break."]

I decided to go with this last technique -- dietary havoc -- which required a quick trip to the grocery store to get some navy beans, salt pork, and johnny cake. With some quick soaking and boiling the beans were softened up enough to eat by 9:30 p.m. A couple big bowls and it was time for bed.

Around midnight I was still awake. The discomfort of being so full was the biggest problem. But you know how it is with this kind of meal, a few hours in and you feel like a pressure cooker. The churning is bad. It's like the song "Locomotion," with the chugga chugga motion. The train's on your digestive track, speeding downhill, saying, "I knew I could, I knew I could!" This is no way to sleep; your midsection alternates between feeling constricted and about to blow. I was sweating through my clothes in agony, discomfort, pain. I felt contorted, twisted in knots. There's a kind of rotting away feeling, a gnawing that doesn't quit. It was exactly what I wanted.

Then it happened. I must have gone into an alternate realm of sleep. I was in a very cloudy place, clouds stretched out everywhere, like looking out a plane's window. There was a palace ahead. I entered the palace and was informed it was where the akashic records are stored. I knew about this place from reading Levi's "Aquarian Gospel of Jesus Christ." I mentioned this to the gatekeeper and he said he didn't remember ever seeing him. So I'm like "Hmmm, that pious old fraud!" Anyway, I checked the digital card catalog and got about 35 million hits on "dreams about women." I was just about to narrow my search to "anima" and more specifically "ideal women" and, I hoped, more narrowly yet, to "Redfield, Iowa," when I suddenly woke up with a most severe biological function in the offing.

The digestive impulse angered me in a terrible way! But with a full belly of navy beans, salt pork, and johnny cake, and the churning that always goes with it, even more than "She," this impulse is something "that must be obeyed."

The Ideal Woman

It just popped into my mind, a distant memory I have, which I can't really remember, because it was something in a dream once ... lonnnnnng ago. A distant memory of The Ideal Woman.

I shouldn't even bring it up since my memories aren't clear enough to write about it. I haven't thought of it for many years.

She lived somewhere that started with the word "Red." Like Redfield, Redbrook, something like that. I think it was Redfield ... Redfield, Iowa. I see there actually is a place called that. I knew it was in Iowa and that it started with Red, and Redfield sounds exactly right.

I can close my eyes, though, and still not actually see her. So it's all in vain. More or less in vain. I've never been to Redfield that I know of. But in my dreams, once upon a time, The Ideal Woman was from there.

UPDATE: I just looked at Redfield's official website and saw this interesting motto: "Not quite the heart of Iowa, but holds all the love..." Who comes up with a motto like that?! That says it "holds all the love." Unless, unless ... these dreams have been more common than I've known ... and that many complete strangers, men (and maybe women) have been dreaming about The Ideal Woman from Redfield all these years.

Or it could be possible -- and it's probably more rational and likely -- that the "holds all the love" part of the motto was suggested by the idea that Redfield is "not quite the heart of Iowa," meaning, I guess, that it's just off to one side of the actual heart, i.e., away from the geographical, political, economic center, Des Moines? So they'd be saying they're "not quite the heart of Iowa" in that sense, with the suggestion from the word "heart" of symbolic things, connections with hearts, the biggest being love. But the actual heart -- which they're "not quite" -- would have to hold some of the love; stands to reason. Redfield takes it one step beyond the norm, saying it "holds all the love" [my emphasis].

Holding all the love makes it a natural magnet for the dreams of the loveless. Thus explaining my beautiful anima dream all those years ago.

Couldn't Return To My Dream

I had the dream yesterday about the big carnival ride, a lifting device that went super far up into the air and dropped people off at or near our half acre. But then I woke up just before I myself was about to ride it. The lady with the 10 dollars in her mouth, who may or may not have been dead, chewed up all the time -- and time is money, in this case she was chewing 10 bucks -- so I ended up waking up before taking the ride...

I was thinking about it as I was going to bed last night. I was in that twilight zone just before you fall asleep, sort of feeling like I was still awake, thinking about it, but then when I actually did fall asleep the subject never came up. Dreams are weird. You think they're just part of your thought process, so why can't you think what you want to think? Why does it have to come involuntarily? I wish I knew. As it turned out I dreamt something totally unrelated that I didn't remember.

When I woke up, then, today before the alarm went off, I was laying there thinking maybe I could drift into that twilight area again and dream it as a conscious thing. Maybe not being actually asleep, but still in the vicinity of sleep close enough that I could at least take a ride on the thing. But that didn't work either. So it was not to be.

That would have been one great view of the whole neighborhood. I'd love to see it from way up there. Maybe I ought to go ask a guy at the airport to fly me around.

A Bird's Eye View

I almost got a bird's eye view of the whole neighborhood ... in my last dream.

At the bottom of the hill to the west there was a gigantic carnival ride type of machine. It was more gigantic than anything from real life, making it look actually scary in how high the people went. They were very small up there and it didn't look tame in any way. I kept avoiding taking a turn. Put it off too long because it looked dangerous.

They were going from the bottom of the hill to the top, so it wasn't exactly like a carnival ride. Like a ski lift more, except picking you up, then going really high, then turning, then setting you down.

Finally I decided to do it. Faced my fears. Figured once I'm on it'll be too late. Anyway, no one's falling off.

So I'm in line. But the woman strapped in the device just ahead of me had either passed out or was dead. And the person ahead of her pointed out to the ticket lady that she had 10 dollars in her mouth. The ticket lady needed to get the money out of her mouth and was surprised to see it there. She gently clunked the back of her head at the top of the neck, her mouth opened, then she pulled out the two five dollar bills that were there for some unknown reason.

Now it's my turn to get a ticket and I'm thinking she needs to wash her hands before waiting on me. Then she very nicely said, "I need to step into the kitchen and wash my hands." I said, "Good idea."

That was when I woke up.

But had I kept on in the dream, I could have seen everything in the neighborhood with a bird's eye view. That would have been great: the west, east, north, of course, and the south. Our own little plot of land, which was where they were letting people off. See it from way up there!