One of those nights.

Too hot, too crowded, too many demons in my head. One of those nights when you feel like you're awake all night, until you wake up, realizing you've dreamt being awake! Or something like that. One little piece of dreaming I managed to catch before it drifted to the planet of forgotten memories: Legs stuck. Can't move. I'm paralysed from the hip down. Wake up. Turns out the cat has been sleeping on my legs. Cute little boy.


And there they were just wriggling away, so small and so helpless

As I carefully shaved away layers from the core of a non-descript fruit I spoke to my friends whose faces were blank. The fruit bore a remarkable resembalance to a pear perhaps even a chinese pear if it were a tad more juicer.

I can't remember the nature of the converstion only it's purpose; to keep my company as I continued my futile task. As I reached the very wet and slippery core someone suggested that I cut the fruit's core in half.

I did as I was told.

From the centre of the fruit I perceived what appeared to be small caterpillars, when I say small they were perhaps no longer than three quarters of a centimetre. The caterpillars had orange translucent bodies with large bulbous brown heads.....

fragment 1

. . .The house is not so new, or so elegant. It is in north Toronto--the old city of Toronto before it was created a supercity, where I dream all my city dreams. I am being shown around by two women. The floor has splash stains all over the wood. I am going to have a room in the basement.

The phone number for this house is some complicated function I don't understand. As if this is how the women remember, or generate the number without a second thought--but it's way beyond me. . .

fragment 2

. . . I am in the livingroom of the same house--there are the same splash stains on the wood floor.

There is a crowd. We are talking about going out to work. The woman at the front again presents a phone number. This time it is just a phone number, but I still can't remember it. . .

fragment 3

. . . I am on a bus. I am going to work. There are buildings on both side of the street. I am concerned, somehow, about the way I am dressed. I think I am in shorts, but I should be more formal.

Suddenly, one of the two women in the seat behind me gives me the Globe and Mail that she was reading as they leave. We exchange a look. I think I know her. . .

I was circling at an altitude of ninety feet over an endless cornfield, at a distance of a quarter of a mile from an enormous castle of meerschaum. Pigs danced on the battlements.

I circled for four hundred and eleven years. On the second afternoon I ran out of cigarettes, and from there on in it was hell. On the morning of the first day of the four hundred and twelfth year, I stopped dead and hovered. A terrifying voice from the air informed me that I was on sale at a deep discount, and there was a rebate as well. No exact figures were mentioned.

I remained there for another thousand years, hovering. The castle was torn down and replaced with an Arby's with a broken Coke machine. The cornfield remains unchanged.

I enter the dream on Broadway. Somehow, the little theater group I used to be in as a teen has made it to the Great White Way. My mom, my brother and I are sitting in this huge theater, watching some sort of variety show that isn't very good. I'm sitting with a bunch of gossip journalists it seems, and after every act, these cute little old ladies with steno pads get to ask each theater troupe questions, I guess to help them with their voting for some kind of award. I thrill in all the vicious gossip the ladies are giving each other at first, but tire after awhile, remembering that stuff like this is one of the reasons why I got out of the business in the first place. New York is no different than California in that respect.

I decide to ask a question of a group of dancers, and all the journalists are impressed with my poise and politeness. They all tell me that I'm an up and comer, and to send them some of my clippings and they'll make sure to read them. One of the journalists tries to sell me a sex manual she's written, but I tell her I'm not really into gals, I like guys. I'm immediately frozen out of the group. I guess I'm no longer that promising.

So, I move to a different section of the theater, and everyone's looking at me, trying to figure out what I'm doing sitting so near Liza Minelli. "Hollywood, he has to be Hollywood, look at the way he's dressed," I keep hearing people mutter amongst themselves. A young woman walks up to me, and whispers in my ear, "Just tell me what you need, I'll make sure you get it," while tickling my love handles. This is enough for me, I'm disgusted by the entire entertainment industry on both coasts, so I exit the theater.

And I'm in New York City, in full daylight, and the city is beautiful. The stink of the city is intoxicating and I walk up and down the streets, people watching and feeling extremely joyous.

Next thing I know, I'm in Central Park and it begins to rain. I notice millions of mentally ill people, all dressed in black, most in trenchcoats, all coming toward me. I'm a little apprehensive at first, but since I'm surrounded, I resolve to make the best of the situation. I have a kind word for everyone, as it seems I know them all somehow. Some of them stink, others are insane, and they all hug me, soiling my clothes; but I don't care, the hugs I'm receiving are like no other hugs I've ever received. Nothing's being held back. It's a little overwhelming. I see someone, in red, that I think I recognize as a co-worker I once had.

"Peter!", I yell, thinking that bushy, glorious head of jet black hair belongs to my friend. He turns around, and it's not Peter it's another crazy guy. He asks me, "Why are you being so nice to us? We're insane, we're homeless and filthy, and you're thousands of miles from home yourself. Why?"

"I don't know," I reply, "I think it's because I'm a little jealous of all of you."

"Why is that?"

"Because you don't have to wear any masks. Any emotion you want to feel, no matter what it is, you can feel it fully. Society doesn't expect anything more from you."

Everyone vanishes, except for "Peter", who kisses me.

Then I wake up, tears streaming down my face.

The dream I had a few days ago was quite strange. There are some points that I remember about them. I remember being on a large ship, because occassionally i would look up and see the sea and the shoreline getting closer very slowly. I was walking along the side of the boat when i noticed a small vent with a little flame coming out of the top right of the vent. There were also a few people panicking trying to blow the fire out. I grabbed a piece of paper and put it in the flame which transferred to the paper, i then jumped on the paper to put out the flame. Then the flame in the vent started up again, so i got annoyed, found a fire extinguisher and put out the flame.

The next segement of this dream was at the back of the ship on the top deck. I remember walking through some outrageously secure security door which consisted of about 5 or 6 different doors. This entered into a control room with blinking lights everywhere and a main console in the middle of the room. At the back of the room there was another door which has a small viewing port through which you could see a massive fire going on. Someone pressed a button and the fire went out, then the door which was blocking the fire opened. I followed other people in through a tiny 2 metre long corridor with a ladder at the end, which we climbed down into the main chamber. The main chamber was a rectangular shape about 8 metres long by 3 metres wide. The people around me were fiddling around with some things, i didn't see what.

Next, I remember climbing up the ladder, through the first door into the security room and then out the main security door onto to the main deck.

I turn around as i see the main security door closing behind me, Inside i see one of my female english teachers i know from the real world. Behind her, i see two 12 year old children walk back into the fire room. I think "no no no no no" as i see the door to the fire room closing behind the two children. The teacher presses a few buttons then I see the fire start up in the fire room again, obviously killing the two children. I walk back about 20 paces and suddenly the entire building that i was in explodes. The only thing i remember after that was someone jumping off the ship, and looking down into the hole left by the big explosion.

I don't usually dream. Please excuse my poor skill of telling a story.

I hold my breath, but I need to breathe, but I'm hiding in the ocean. By whatever dreamlogic I decide to risk filling my lungs with water, and suddenly it's a non-issue because water breathes the same as air.

Sunlight traces down through the water, showing up sparkles on every dustmote. The fishes are fascinating, gold glass skin delicately etched with scales and washed in watercolors. Some have jaws of protruding needle teeth; I shoo them off when they get too close for comfort; porpoises disable sharks by ramming them, and I assume a swift blow to any fish should paralyze it. Ghostly jellyfish drift aimlessly, innards streaked with ribbons of rust-colored tissue. I have seen how they are like a mushroom ringed inside with stingers; I blow a jet of water when one gets too close.

All this cool soundless dancing with jellyfish distracts me from the other danger. A grouper with impossible rows of fangs latches onto my hand... you know how carnivorous fish can smell blood for miles... I am paralyzed like an abused tuna, and wake with a start.

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