I was in this big hotel room with no doors, with a big comfy lazy boy chair right in the middle. Damn me if I was in the bloody Matrix, and I was Neo! There was no Morpheus there, though, it was this goofy golfer guy from dannye's home node! I thought I was stoned or something, but it is a dream, so what the hey.

He took this pill out of his gooky liking golf pants. Straight out of the movie, I tell ya. There was the blue pill, shaped like a donkey. "If you take the blue pill, you will live your dull, liberal life out, ignorant but happy." Then he took out this red pill, shaped like an elephant. "If you take the red pill, you will become an Illuminatus, and learn the ugly truth. Oh what the hell, might as well follow the movie plot, so I took the elephant and ate it.

POOF! I was standing in Cornell University again. There was all these ominous looking people in black suits all running toward me. Holy shit, agents! So I ran down Libe Slope toward my dorm room, but there were more agents! There were chanting these wierd slogans. Then the biggest agent turned around, and it was Bill Clinton! "I am Agent Bill."

What could I do? I ran like a whipped dog down the side of the dorm, and I'll be damned if it was Hot Truck Bob and Will. All of a sudden a huge Triple Suicide popped out of nowhere. Bob started ranting about illumination and sandwiches, and how all the other assistants sucked. Will handed me the bigass sandwich, and I ate it the whole thing real fast-like.

I felt power running through my blood! Like Popeye or some shit. I ran out and kicked all the agents asses. Sweet shit. Bob gave me a WTF sandwich, which was even bigger than the Triple Suicide. I walked over to my friend's frat and had some sex with the sorority girls. Then I woke up.

Must be the company cafeteria food. I've been getting wacky dreams in the office in the last two days.

P / H

In the mirror world on the other side of the factory, the houses are arranged much the same, but there are two little brick renter's cottages where the back lawn should be. This is not my side of the mirror (so to speak), and IRL I always go to the laundromat because there is no dryer in the cellar. Dream rules are in effect, though, so I start dragging clothes down to the basement. By the time I get the other people's clothes clear of the chute, I realize I only have maybe a quarter load of blacks: a pair of pants, a couple of T-shirts and underwear.

An air raid drill was called. It's getting to be dusk, and the laundry is irrelevant now, so I hop on my motorcycle and blaze off to the base. My friends, fellow pilots, meet me en route and we reach the underground base where our Top Gun fighter jets live. We dismount our bikes (Cyclones, in retrospect) and board the Moonraker-surplus electric buggies to complete our journey through the base.

As we scramble, though, my good friend takes me aside, and we step into his home. The air raid, our call to arms, is forgotten as we sprawl on one of the twin beds, drinking home-brewed beer and watching Robotech cartoons. Something about trilithium crystals, and we smooch and pet. His wife discovers us en dishabille, pouts and chastizes him. I am so truly sorry; we had, the three (four?) of us, once discussed a bit of fooling around, and I just assumed she knew, was just lurking around waiting for a good moment to join in. My words soften her mood, I give back her silk pajamas which somehow found their way into my backpack a couple of weeks ago, and he slips away as we console and tease, massage and cuddle. I help her dis her habille as well.

Oddly, somewhere in there I verbally express my concern that I am dreaming, and I wish I could remember the detailed explanation to my friends. The same sort of rare scene played out in a dream a few days ago; I feel like I'm stopping just short of lucid dreaming.
I fell asleep with all my clothes on and the cats crawling over me, the neighbors on the roof opposite my window, the curtain open, my music (Idaho) playing loud. It was early.

I almost thought it was a dream when Dan appeared, kneeling at the foot of my bed, saying hello. I don't know what time it was. It might have been a few minutes or several hours until he asked me if i wanted to go get coffee or tea or something. I don't know if i answered right away. i don't know if i opened my eyes. The time was like taffy. I wanted to dive into sleep, and i could hear the rain outside, and i didn't want coffee or tea or something. Then i asked him if he was still going to go, and he said he'd already gone. I noticed his hair under my sleeping hand was wet. Oh, i said. And slept.

The dream was long and complicated, and this is what i remember:

I lived in a dusty corner of an empty remote house which was not owned by me. A squatter. I hung nothing on the walls, and only had what i needed, or less. Things were grey and the wallpaper peeled and i was happy and quiet. Then people moved into the front rooms of the house, and i had to leave.

I moved to a house nearby surrounded by woods, with a friend, who was either male or female, and easy to be with, and lived lightly also. This house was also empty, but this one was haunted, but the ghosts stayed in the front rooms, mostly, and we stayed in the back rooms, and the windows were covered with paper and let in a yellow light. There was a ghost who lived in the middle rooms who we became friends with, she was soft and middle-aged, with grey hair and a warm smile. I think maybe she was secretly sad, but that never came into it. We trusted each other.

I think we cooked things over wood fires, i remember the smell. We watched the leaves fall, and tried to hear them land. And then the boy came, he was 8 or 9 and strawheaded and stubborn. The ghost liked him very much, and we took him in.

I don't remember why he was alone in the world. But he was different: sometimes he would grow very large and trample houses and office buildings and malls. He would crush the buildings like ant hills, so angry and gleeful. And we were happy with this. I remember my friend explaining that he was crushing the wealth of the oppressor, and disrupting the flow of power. S/he explained that as long as the boy did not tear up the fields with a pitchfork the way the English did to the Scots1, destroying all crops and all livelihood for the proletariat, we were on his side. His revolutionary consciousness was what we were working towards.

But you don't say those things in front of kids. The next day he had a gigantic pitchfork, and gorged huge wounds in the surrounding farmlands, destroying the crop, causing the farmers to cry. We could hear it, and saw him striding, like a cute tow-headed Godzilla, across the fields, scarring them with four parallel lines at each pass.

And of course, there's nothing like raising revolutionary consciousness and raising a giant destructive kid to attract the cops. We knew that there was nothing for it but that we had to leave that house, too. We could hear them getting closer. So, i had to go back to the first house to get my boots (for the walking) and the rice which i had left behind, to eat on our journey into the woods, where we could keep moving.

So i came to the back entrance of the house, and found it fully inhabited: not only that, but there was a party going on! Not only that, but a feast. There were tables set up in the room i'd lived in before, full of people, so i could not get to my corner. I tried to blend in.. the only buffet table i could reach had only large bowls full of marshmallows, and people, laughing, chattering, stacking them on their plates. I retreated to the library which now occupied the back room of the house, trying to reconsider my plan. I grabbed a small volume of Rilke from the shelf, determined not to return empty-handed. People strayed through the stacks, with a well-fed joviality, and i spotted a thin, poetic boy, and tried to figure out whether to invite him into the woods with us. I decided he would be a burden, no matter how attractive he looked. I strayed out the back door onto the lawn.

In each window, someone lounged on the sill, reading a book and munching uncooked marshmallows. I wandered among the clots of conversation arrayed like sculpture on the grass, and headed back to our house; there was nothing i could scavenge. The police were already searching the front rooms, so i headed to the back door.

Inside, my friend, the boy, and the ghost were discussing strategy or plans. We wanted to be sure we had everything we would need before we left. I realized that although they'd remembered to pack the harmonica, they hadn't brought any food, so i searched a shelf for the box of couscous i knew was there. While my back was turned, a huge threatening man came in the door. I could hear the police getting closer, and when i turned around, the grotesque man had no pants on and was moving towards us (in a wheelchair?) with his splotchy, sausage-colored phallus waving menacingly towards us. No one seemed threatened but me, but our exit was blocked, unless we wanted to dodge the cops and go out the front door.

I woke and realized that Dan was sleeping in my bed. That had not been my plan, but i'd been too tired to think or say anything otherwise. I couldn't blame him. One cat slept on one side of my legs and the other on the other.

I dreamt i'd woken up at 11:30 and gotten a voicemail from Carrie, telling me to check my email. I checked my email, and it said "We were supposed to meet at 8!"

I was late again. I'd screwed up.

  1. As far as i know, this is based on no historical truth.. it's just dream-logic, and it was a stirring speech at the time.

punk rock girl.

Because I was distraught to discover the lyrics and tablature to this song lying on the ground after a return from a BBQ dinner with my dad (meaning that they'd played it at the 3-day-jam in my absence) I acquired a copy of it through Napster after my bashfulness was brought to note and fell asleep listening to it (and, granted, sundry Radio Free Vestibule and covers of Misirlou).

Clearly this had a hand in setting the stage of my subconsciousness for the evening, which was spent in the company of the punk rock girl from my very own personal history (Lisa, for those in the home audience keeping score.) I don't know whether to categorize this as a dream or a fantasy, since it consisted of the idealized interaction between us in the plain but profound conversation which I'd longed for in high school, boring through the back of her bemohawked head with the intensity of my laser eye stare. She had spent the intervening years since secondary school further educating herself (as opposed to my merely attending class) in all the important matters - deeply schooled in Emma Goldman, Kropotkin, Proudhon, Situationalism, Direct Action - and I agreed with her in everything, not because she was who she was, or even because she was a she, but intellectually; she was espousing my favorite ideologies, but had the chops to back them up with solid and critical interpretation.

And still with the safety pins and the fishnet stockings.

And me with the waking up wishing I'd called the number written in my yearbook three years ago. Next time someone refers to you in writing as the one fond memory of an institution, don't sow that seed as a plant of regret.

in our last episode... | p_i-logs | and then, all of a sudden...

(Yes, this really is for August 12, 2000; I wrote it down while on vacation.)

I'm the new guy at a governmental agency that investigates all the stuff that's too secret - or too damn weird - for anyone else to touch.

Somehow, Ah-nold has begun tagging along. Maybe he's playing himself, an actor in a movie about this agency, come for a few "ride-alongs" to get a feel for what it's like.

I'm against it. He didn't earn his clearance, he got it because he was Ah-nold. Plus he's really annoying, like wossname - Joe Pesci? - in Beverly Hills Cop. Always asking questions, which we tend to think of as a grave character flaw.

The rest of us have just passed through the security airlock, and Ah-nold has just entered it. The airlock is a brushed stainless steel sphere, and its doors are round like those on a front-loading washing machine. I look to my supervisor, pleading with my eyes: do I HAVE to let him inside? Couldn't we just let the security system do its lethal magic by "accident"?

"Let him in," my supervisor sighs reluctantly. "Do you know how much paperwork you'd have to fill out if you killed him? Besides, he's probably going to get himself killed on the next assignment."

I open the hatch and haul him through. He doesn't say thanks; instead he asks me, "So how do you get really high clearance?"

"Experience," I say.

"It all depends," my supervisor adds, "on how gruesome a death you're willing to risk. Cut up by knives? Drowned in a vat of organophosphate pesticide? Bleeding from your eyes, shitting yourself, feeling every cell in your body burst open as your body becomes an undifferentiated and leaky bag of fluids?"

Ah-nold looks shocked. I don't look too pleased myself.

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