[last nite i dreamt...]

Dinosaurs still lived behind the Basketball Hall of Fame in Springfield, MA. I blogged about it.

I was on a floating couch

with some friends after having escaped campus. Earlier, we had performed an improv sketch in front of the dean during which my pants ended up on the floor and a mouth ended up on my nutsack. But this wasn’t a sex dream.

On the couch, we floated out to sea, further and further away from the gloomy campus. The water was calm, the sky was blue, and the air was hot. As we sailed further from shore, I started to see swimming about tiny bluegreen creatures that looked like avocados. I reached down from the couch to pick one out of the water and slowly put it to my mouth. At first it was delicious, but soon my tongue began to swell up and my mouth began to taste of slimy mushrooms. The hand I had used to handle the creature began to swell as well, but only to a reasonable and curable size. I threw the avocado-type back to the sea and it hit one of its kin, and the target that had been hit grew in size - an interesting reaction. The couch, whose stuffing was exposed through a hole in a cushion, provided more material to throw at the growing creature. The more stuffing my friends and I threw at it, the larger it got. We soon were drawn into a trance from making the creature grow, and before we realized how large it had gotten, it grew a mouth, large vicious eyes, and arms with sharp clams at their ends. A fast-moving overhead cloud turned the calm waters into treacherous seas, and, fucked, we frantically began paddling back to school. 

But it was too late. The creature we had created flipped the couch. We were thrown into the darkening water and fell victim to its powerful jaws.

A fast, flickering, collage of images

flashes back and forth from one another.

I’m crossing the Zakim bridge in Boston, and I’m met with a large crowd of people at its center. They are all waiting to get on a water ride of the log flume sort that lifts you up to the top of the bridge’s cable supports, and then plunges you down into the Charles River. 

A cat sits outside my window at night meowing.

I am on the east coast at a loved one’s funeral, an event I thought I wouldn’t be able to attend.

I have built a home for myself in a complex net of steel beams underneath a highway overpass. Someone knocks at my door.

I get into the log and we begin to descend to the top of the bridge.

When the cat realizes I’m ignoring it, it beings to meow louder.

Everyone at the funeral is drinking.

My door is broken down and I need to escape. I break through a wall and swing like a monkey down the jungle of beams to the ground where I begin to run.

I can see all of Boston - from the North End to the lights of Fenway - sitting atop the Zakim bridge. Its daytime during the summer. The ride hurls us toward the water. Everyone screams.

The cat is frustrated. Its meow mutates into a woman’s scream.

Bar fight at the funeral.

I run as fast as I can.

We hit the water and sink to the bottom of the Charles. Blogger Molly McAleer from The Molls Show waits for us at the bottom. She’s hotter in real life.

There was a road block

on my way home from work. As I approached a line of police officers in my car, I saw that around the next curve on Main Street in Southampton, MA there was a dense collection of fire trucks and FBI vehicles. I inched my vehicle forward and a cop waved to me as if he knew who I was. As I rolled down my window he informed me that a sacred Mormon text had been found and it informed of the coming of Jesus. The officer requested my help, so I proceeded on foot to the center of the scene. There, I found a bomb attached to the sacred text, which was a giant grey stone with engraved messages in another language. The bomb was set to go off in thirty seconds. As the clock neared ten seconds, I realized that my disarming attempt was futile, so I gave up and told everyone to take cover. When time was up, nothing exploded. A bright white light shone from the heavens, and a figure began to descend to the ground.

The next thing I remember I was looking through a one-way window at an FBI agent interrogating a long-haired man dressed in robes with a halo around his head. The octo-mom appeared next to me and said, “My babies have been killed, and all they care about is this guy?”

It was a late hot summer afternoon

in Western Massachusetts. Two of my neighborhood friends and I were shooting the breeze down at a common hangout: the hill at the end of our dead end street. In our younger years, the hill - a sledding hotspot in the winter, main entrance to a forest kingdom, and home to many large, canopying evergreen trees - was a kind of nature’s playground. Now in our teens it was still a place of respite, but more a catalyst for getting high and talking about people behind their backs. Over the years the hill had transformed from a smooth, even-sloped, green-grassy carpet to a steep, jagged, grey-brown rock face. Many would have said the hill was dying, but we soon found out that it was starting life anew.

Sitting on top of the hill we had known and since become unfamiliar with, I noticed that my bottom side and my hands felt warm against the ground. Suddenly the warmth grew so drastically that I had to lift my hands as if they had been placed on a frying pan. My friends and I quickly got up, extinguished our joint, and began to search for the source of this new heat. Where we had been sitting I noticed tiny vents that were emitting tiny plumes of smoke. The ground beneath us soon was too hot to bear even through the rubbers of our shoes, so we began to descend the sharp cliffs of the hill. Jumping down to a platform lower in elevation, my friend noticed a hole in the side of the cliffs, and we joined him to look in awe at the hill’s insides. A deep red glow came from within; an unbearable heat and chemical smell emerged. A viscous red liquid slowly rose from the depths of the cave that we examined, and we soon realized the reality of the neighborhood volcano.

Quickly, we scampered home to warn whomever we could of our impending doom, as the lava inside was rising at a rapid pace. At first no one believed us, but when I pointed out the front door in the direction of the bubbling and glowing formation at the end of the street my parents realized my prophecy was the truth. The thick, red liquid inched its way down the street. Though it moved slowly, my family and I knew we had little time to prepare for our end. Our neighbor’s house - the one house between ours and the hill - suddenly burst into flames, and we knew we were next. Lava slowly crept into the kitchen. My dog whimpered from the fumes and clicked his tiny paws around the linoleum floors trying to escape the heat. When I saw that the dog’s only option was to retreat into his kennel in the corner of the room, it became apparent that any rescue effort was impossible. The dog growled at the approaching magma as he squeezed into the corner of his kennel. We ran out the back door into the forest kingdom for higher ground. As I took one look back, the kennel went up in flames, and soon the entire kitchen was afire. We crossed a stream - a barrier which would stop the flow of lava from entering the forest - and I watched the house explode. The last thing I heard was a dog’s squeal. 

I had acquired an unusual photographic device

that was cylindrical and about three feet long. The long tube acted like a very long, very intense telephoto lens, while another lens which encompassed most of the camera’s length provided very wide panoramic views. The camera was held by both hands, one at each end; there were even indents and grips where the hands could take hold firmly. In order to take a picture, two buttons needed to be held simultaneously by each hand, one at each end of the long tube. The two methods for capturing a photo are as follows:

• Wide shot. Holding the camera length-wise perpendicular to my body, arms stretching to hold each end, I could look through the viewfinder in the center of the device. This allowed me to get a very wide shot of the scene in front of me, as the lens being used was very wide (about 2.5 feet). The resulting image actually encompassed more than the eye and its accompanying peripheral vision could see.
• Narrow, deep shot. The viewfinder used in the wide shot could be pulled out and rotated so that it was aligned parallel to the tube. I could use either end of the tube, as a lens was located on each side, to capture a very deep, almost three-dimensional shot. Again, both buttons needed to be employed to take a picture, so the camera had to be held like a bazooka on my shoulder so that the small, adjustable viewfinder could fit my face and eye comfortably.

I walked around the densely wooded area behind the house where I grew up in Western Massachusetts trying to find the most beautiful shots possible so that I could make use of my unique device. I stumbled across many other people in the forest taking pictures with much smaller, more primitive cameras, and they all gawked at my mammoth contraption. I used the wide shot to take some pictures of the sun setting behind the hills, while I used the narrow, deep shot to photograph railroad tracks. The sun setting behind the hills appeared to extend forever in both directions, and it even might’ve wrapped itself behind me. The photo I took of the railroad tracks also seemed to go on for eternity, as one foot into the distance appeared to be about twenty.

I returned home once the sun had set, only to realize that I had no idea how to develop the film. So I snapped the treasured device in half atop my knee and threw it in the fireplace. The smell of the camera burning was akin to the first rain shower in Springtime.

The maid I hired to clean my apartment

began to show interest in me as more than just a client. Every week after she cleaned we would retire to my bedroom. Then, as she was leaving, she would take the usual $50 I had left on the counter for her cleaning services. Weeks went by, and eventually we began screwing constantly. She’d leave without cleaning, but would still take her money as if she had. Effectively, I was paying her for sex and sex alone. So I fired her.

I need to stop watching ‘Seinfeld’.