I'm back in school again, and I'm suprised how many more black kids are in this class than there usually are in the classes in my dreams.
I start talking to the teacher about a trial I was at yesterday. I think I was a witness. It was a sexual harassment case against another teacher at the school-- a science teacher. I'm having trouble remembering which teacher it was though... Mr. Miller or Mr. Schrieber? I'm worried that my lack of clarity on this point is making my whole recounting of the trial rather suspect. I'm not lying-- I was there, it's just hard to remember which teacher it was. The teacher who is asking about the trial seems very concerned--- maybe there's a witch hunt going on.
I sit down around all these kids who are talking up a storm. I try to talk to them but they don't think I'm that funny. I didn't do the homework that was due today and, thinking about it, I remember that I hardly ever do homework and that I should probably just drop down to honors english instead of fucking around with GT. I try to remember my rationale for staying in GT english-- I guess it's just because I want to be able to hang at the highest level in SOME subject, but only one. An english specialist.
The girl next to me starts being not unfriendly. She shows me her shirt, which is a light-up christmas shirt depicting an apartment building in the wintertime. I tell her I think it's pretty cool and she offers to show me something REALLY cool. Somehow she causes the image on the front of the shirt to zoom in, closer to the apartment building. The glowing neon lines that make up the apartment get bigger and new details emerge. You can see in the windows of the building, and there are animated barbie-esque dolls in there. I beg her to zoom in closer so I can see the faces of the dolls better but she says they look too scary and just pans around the building instead.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
I was backing a car down Manor Road. My old friend Geoff was in the back. I was trying to ask him how he liked "Age of Mythology" because moments ago we had left his house and I saw it on a bookshelf. It was real hard driving in reverse on a major road and trying to figure out if I was in the right lane using the reflection in the rearview, and I think Geoff was occupied with something as well, so I never got to know his feelings on the game.
When we got to my parents' house, we watched a giant aircraft fall out of the sky and land on somebody on the ground.
When we got to my parents' house, we watched a giant aircraft fall out of the sky and land on somebody on the ground.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Thursday, February 23, 2006
I leave the airport without picking up this t-shirt I've had made at a store there. I forget what it says on the front, something which includes my name. I walk from the airport to the beach house, which doesn't seem to take that long, but when I get to the oceanside, I realize that it'd be better to go get the shirt now. I'm meeting some friends soon and I want to get the shirt and get back to the ocean before we're all supposed to go somewhere together.
As soon as I start going back to the airport, I realize I don't really know the way. It becomes obvious that walking there and back is going to take too long. I keep going, however, and soon a little girl overtakes me. She's walking briskly ahead of an older woman --perhaps her mother?-- who is berating her and throwing rocks at her. Walking along, picking up rocks, throwing them, and shouting. Ignoring the older woman, I tell the little girl it's going to be OK, that the older woman won't keep after her much longer. Some time after that I'm inside a car, putting Smartmedia disks into my samplers, testing out the songs that Sand Cats are going to play at the show tonight. I'm surprised at how great they sound, even a new one I don't remember writing. Roby is driving the car. We decide on a set list. Then we get to the mall.
A show, of course, is happening in this large mall. People live in the mall, too, of course. The show is in a spacious but crowded apartment. I walk around the show and ask a few questions of the kid that is in charge, but there's not much for me to do. I sit in the front room, where a few white love seats are pushed against the wall. There are people sitting all around this room, but no one is talking. The sound of the conversation from the next room, where the instruments are (but where no band has begun playing) is deafening. The girl next to me is a thick-enough redhead with freckles on her face. I turn and start talking to her. I find out that her name is Rhonda. She's very shy. My phone rings, and she totally withdraws from the conversation, before I've even answered it.
I go outside and press the button for a gold elevator. There are two girls inside of it. I press the button for the first floor.
As soon as I start going back to the airport, I realize I don't really know the way. It becomes obvious that walking there and back is going to take too long. I keep going, however, and soon a little girl overtakes me. She's walking briskly ahead of an older woman --perhaps her mother?-- who is berating her and throwing rocks at her. Walking along, picking up rocks, throwing them, and shouting. Ignoring the older woman, I tell the little girl it's going to be OK, that the older woman won't keep after her much longer. Some time after that I'm inside a car, putting Smartmedia disks into my samplers, testing out the songs that Sand Cats are going to play at the show tonight. I'm surprised at how great they sound, even a new one I don't remember writing. Roby is driving the car. We decide on a set list. Then we get to the mall.
A show, of course, is happening in this large mall. People live in the mall, too, of course. The show is in a spacious but crowded apartment. I walk around the show and ask a few questions of the kid that is in charge, but there's not much for me to do. I sit in the front room, where a few white love seats are pushed against the wall. There are people sitting all around this room, but no one is talking. The sound of the conversation from the next room, where the instruments are (but where no band has begun playing) is deafening. The girl next to me is a thick-enough redhead with freckles on her face. I turn and start talking to her. I find out that her name is Rhonda. She's very shy. My phone rings, and she totally withdraws from the conversation, before I've even answered it.
I go outside and press the button for a gold elevator. There are two girls inside of it. I press the button for the first floor.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Everyone at school has been rounded up, thousands of people. Teutonic, mustachioed musclemen with crew cuts herd us into various places-- I am part of a large crowd that's standing on some bleachers. Two helicopters circle overhead. One is directly above us, firing into the crowd, and nobody really panics even though people on the bleachers are dropping dead. I notice that the helicopter never fires at our backs, and I slip under the bleachers and run away from the direction that everyone is facing.
I run to a house. Roby and I have to play a show in the basement. We play and the samples sound really, really good. I'm shocked at how good they sound. I don't remember making them. But I want to smoke, so I tell Roby I'm going into a closet to smoke. There's a crowd of kids standing, watching, but we haven't fully told them we've started so I figure they can just wait some more, listen to the loops. I go in the closet and puff but not for very long. It's a large closet with cement floor and a green wooden door. Some kind of old heating pump is in there, too, and the far wall has some kind of bricked-up window in it. When I come back out, the samples have stopped. Some pedals have fell off the table where my shit was set up. It takes me a very long time to put the pedals back together, their cords are all tangled up and some are missing. While I put them together, one of the samplers somehow continues playing a loop. It's very, very long. It's basically a full song all by itself, minus the vocals. I listen to it while I fumble with the pedals but the whole time I'm worried that everyone is bored and waiting for our set to actually start. Musclemen arrive, and I notice them coming down the stairs into the basement, so I scoot.
I come to a ballroom-- there are about two hundred or more of these Teutonic musclemen here. I walk among them with no problem although I know that they are supposed to be looking for me. They are all getting ready to be a part of a large play, so maybe they're too busy.
I leave and find a shopping plaza. An old lady comes out of a windowless CVS and I ask her where she lives. She tells me that almost all the houses around here are empty because the musclemen have taken everybody away. She's got a plastic bag with some peanut butter and some boxes of fancy crackers in it. I thank her and take off, trying to beat her to her own house. When I'm there, a lot of people I know are there, and they seem only vaguely aware of the impending danger of the musclemen. I go to the basement just as the musclemen arrive. There's a similar closet to the one I smoked in before. I have the feeling that this house is my parents', although I have never seen it before. In the closet there is a bricked-up hole, from which I can pull the bricks rather easily. Once the bricks are removed, I find a hole that is just about too small for me to squeeze through. Beyond it I see some old heating pumps. It's possible there is more beyond the pumps-- like a tunnel, perhaps, but I can't get myself through the hole. I leave the closet just as the musclemen are coming down the stairs. I find a window in the back of the basement, open it, and pop out.
I come to a large, old apartment building. The kind that was once just a mansion but has been cut up to make separate luxury units. My dad gives me a video tape, it's a message from a real actor to Joan Hiller, who has auditioned for a role in a Hollywood movie. The actor is some kind of fantasy mash-up of Jeremy Irons, Willem Dafoe, John Malkovich-- guys that style, all combined into one uberactor. He looks into the camera and explains to Joan how actors used to have to train for years and do extremely difficult and demanding things to prove their skill, but then people like musicians and movie stars started being put into leading roles in Hollywood pictures, which degraded the art. From now on, the uberactor says, only real actors will be in movies. No musicians, no wannabes-- nobody but those who have been tested and proven.
The video makes me mad. I become determined to be in a Hollywood movie. My dad is late for a big play, though. I ask my sister if we have two leashes so that I can bring both of my kittens. There's a purple leash under the sink, I know, but I'm not sure if there's another leash. I try to put my belt around Melvyn, over his head and around his arms, but it's obvious he'll be able to slip out if he tries. I wonder if it will be OK to bring them to the theater without a leash. I hear Fine Young Cannibal's "Good Thing" on some kind of PA system and it includes the line, "Good thing, I have no arms."
I run to a house. Roby and I have to play a show in the basement. We play and the samples sound really, really good. I'm shocked at how good they sound. I don't remember making them. But I want to smoke, so I tell Roby I'm going into a closet to smoke. There's a crowd of kids standing, watching, but we haven't fully told them we've started so I figure they can just wait some more, listen to the loops. I go in the closet and puff but not for very long. It's a large closet with cement floor and a green wooden door. Some kind of old heating pump is in there, too, and the far wall has some kind of bricked-up window in it. When I come back out, the samples have stopped. Some pedals have fell off the table where my shit was set up. It takes me a very long time to put the pedals back together, their cords are all tangled up and some are missing. While I put them together, one of the samplers somehow continues playing a loop. It's very, very long. It's basically a full song all by itself, minus the vocals. I listen to it while I fumble with the pedals but the whole time I'm worried that everyone is bored and waiting for our set to actually start. Musclemen arrive, and I notice them coming down the stairs into the basement, so I scoot.
I come to a ballroom-- there are about two hundred or more of these Teutonic musclemen here. I walk among them with no problem although I know that they are supposed to be looking for me. They are all getting ready to be a part of a large play, so maybe they're too busy.
I leave and find a shopping plaza. An old lady comes out of a windowless CVS and I ask her where she lives. She tells me that almost all the houses around here are empty because the musclemen have taken everybody away. She's got a plastic bag with some peanut butter and some boxes of fancy crackers in it. I thank her and take off, trying to beat her to her own house. When I'm there, a lot of people I know are there, and they seem only vaguely aware of the impending danger of the musclemen. I go to the basement just as the musclemen arrive. There's a similar closet to the one I smoked in before. I have the feeling that this house is my parents', although I have never seen it before. In the closet there is a bricked-up hole, from which I can pull the bricks rather easily. Once the bricks are removed, I find a hole that is just about too small for me to squeeze through. Beyond it I see some old heating pumps. It's possible there is more beyond the pumps-- like a tunnel, perhaps, but I can't get myself through the hole. I leave the closet just as the musclemen are coming down the stairs. I find a window in the back of the basement, open it, and pop out.
I come to a large, old apartment building. The kind that was once just a mansion but has been cut up to make separate luxury units. My dad gives me a video tape, it's a message from a real actor to Joan Hiller, who has auditioned for a role in a Hollywood movie. The actor is some kind of fantasy mash-up of Jeremy Irons, Willem Dafoe, John Malkovich-- guys that style, all combined into one uberactor. He looks into the camera and explains to Joan how actors used to have to train for years and do extremely difficult and demanding things to prove their skill, but then people like musicians and movie stars started being put into leading roles in Hollywood pictures, which degraded the art. From now on, the uberactor says, only real actors will be in movies. No musicians, no wannabes-- nobody but those who have been tested and proven.
The video makes me mad. I become determined to be in a Hollywood movie. My dad is late for a big play, though. I ask my sister if we have two leashes so that I can bring both of my kittens. There's a purple leash under the sink, I know, but I'm not sure if there's another leash. I try to put my belt around Melvyn, over his head and around his arms, but it's obvious he'll be able to slip out if he tries. I wonder if it will be OK to bring them to the theater without a leash. I hear Fine Young Cannibal's "Good Thing" on some kind of PA system and it includes the line, "Good thing, I have no arms."
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