Sometimes an Androgyne is Just an Androgyne/Jane Seymour, Orson Krennic, & Inigo Montoya Walk Into a Mansion ...

I was a disembodied entity travelling through a living cityscape straight out of an M. C. Escher print.

Inhabiting this cityscape were mouthless, legless semi-humanoid beings which somewhat resembled the robot from the Looney Tunes short Robot Rabbit.

Playing through the air was music I can only describe as "synthwave jazz".

Then I found myself within an infinite corridor similar to the one from Escher's Another World (Other World Gallery).

In each partition of the corridor were two persons — one unique individual, each with their own particular neurosis, and one identical matronly woman in horn-rimmed glasses discussing Freudian/Jungian psychology. I found myself in the "alpha chamber", the only chamber with three walls; on that wall behind me hung a poster with a pictographic representation of an infinite corridor. I was inhabiting the body of a bald, ugly, stoop-shouldered man with an irresistible compulsion to kiss the hand of every woman he came across. After he/I forcibly kissed the hand of my matron, she showed him/me a card. On the card was a drawing of an androgyne. Unable to process the male/female aspects of the drawing, he/I froze, incapable of any action.

The dream probably would've continued, but I was rudely awakened. 😦

* * *

I was in a forest. My sister gave me a marijuana brownie. After eating it, I quickly grew anxious, as she'd made it with sativa. After telling her she should cultivate some indica strains, I wandered off into the woods with my girlfriend, Jane.

(Literally Jane Seymour)

We were both wearing 19th century clothing; she had on a heavy dress with a bonnet, me a black suit with a string tie. I hugged her close to me as we walked through the woods together, all lovey-dovey.

We soon emerged in a clearing, where we found a prodigious white Antebellum mansion.

We went inside. The interior was entirely pristine, completely uninhabited.

As we prepared to settle down in our new home, we went to the open front door and peered outside. Coming towards us was Orson Krennic, with him a mob of ornery white Southerners.

They swarmed into the house before we could get away, apprehending us. I believe they fully intended on lynching us. Before they could, Inigo Montoya came to our aid, running one of the blackguards through on his sword.

I really wish I remembered how the dream ended. Jane and I escaped, at any rate.

Limited Flexibility/Who's That Homeless Man Goose-Stepping Across My Mother's Bed?/Tales of Mystery and Imagination: Deluxe Edition/So I Grabbed Dina Meyer's Sweet Can

The following's a fragment of a larger dream I no longer remember.

I met a girl. She was big — tall, taller than I, and voluptuous.

(With a huge, round pussy.)

Unfortunately for me, she was homosexual/homoflexible.

(She was using deliberately obscurant metaphors, so I couldn't figure out which.)

In either case, her attraction to the opposite sex was marginal and her attraction to me nonexistent.

* * *

This dream was incredibly short. It lasted fifteen seconds at most.

My mother and I were standing at our kitchen window, looking outside. That's when we saw a homeless man cut across our front yard. He resembled a young(er) Harry Dean Stanton, wore a red-&-white baseball cap over longish hair, and was pushing a shopping cart, goose-stepping all the while. She and I exchanged glances; she was mortified/bewildered by this man's presence and desperately wanted to know who he was. Then we both turned to the living room. The man was suddenly there; he goose-stepped across her bed, air-gripping the handles of the shopping cart he no longer had.

* * *

I bought/received/found a copy of The Alan Parsons Project's Tales of Mystery and Imagination on vinyl.

It was a deluxe edition which included three records.

* * *

The following's a fragment of a larger dream I no longer remember.

I was in a buffet, helping myself to eight slices of toasted French bread — four with just butter, four with dark plum jam. Beside me in the line was a young Dina Meyer.

She let me grab her sweet can.

No Soap for You

This dream was set in a Soylent Green-type near future, after the Americas had devolved into Third World countries, where hoarding soap was illegal.

The Mask

got into a fight with a supervillain who resembled Billy Idol.

They unleashed nuclear attacks upon each other, but as they were both essentially omnipotent, they weren’t able to inflict injury on one another.

Then faux Billy became a chrome-sheathed villain with no face.

Every superhero from the MCU confronted Chrome No-Face and crucified him to a crystal objet d’art, reciting a prayer as they did so. I thought to myself the prayer was too exclusively Judeo-Christian for the more syncretic orientation of the Marvel Universe.

I was then inside a dilapidated office building.

While actual office work went on inside some of the rooms, in most people were just partying and engaging in substance abuse and illicit sex.

I was striding room-to-room, lip-syncing to the Nine Inch Nails song “The Hand That Feeds” which was loudly playing from some nebulous source. While doing this, I came across a woman who resembled Tori Amos. I took her by the shoulders, lifted her to eye level, then kissed her succulent lips.

What a Story, Mark/Last Priest of Krypton/Brunette Bonanza/Apple Binldings/Tuning In Tuning On

I had a dream I told my mother and sister about 

They both got a kick out of my descriptions of the plot and Tommy Wiseau’s persona. I know in real life, though, they’d never be able to enjoy The Room; “so bad it’s good” is a concept utterly foreign to them.

* * *

Superman was an ordained Catholic priest.

He took a demonically possessed teenage girl (who may or may not have been my sister) to a cold, dark, abandoned church with broken doors to perform an exorcism. During the exorcism, the demon periodically hopped in-&-out of Superman's body, using his great powers to wreck havoc across the land.

* * *

I met both Heather Langenkamp and Brooke Shields at a convention.

My reaction was thus.

* * *

In my hometown, on the waterfront of the lake closest to me, were buildings constructed from old apple bins

which had been arranged/stacked together then bolted in place.

* * *

I was watching/inside some Kim Wilde music videos. At least one of these videos had been shot in my hometown. In this particular video, Ms. Wilde walked backward through town, from the lake to the highway. As this was happening, the seasons were passing in reverse, from summer through to winter.

During the dream, I caught some of the lyrics; they weren’t bad, but could’ve used some polishing.

(I forgot them soon after I awoke.)

Outside the video, Ms. Wilde and I met up in a local thrift store. We made chit-chat in front of a small shelf bearing gaudy, ugly clothing.

Swing on This/Bart Simpson: Husband, Father, Neither/Cat Baby

I had a dream I was Jerry Cantrell. It was the mid '90s, and Layne Staley and I were writing a song together about hatred for neighbours.

During the writing process, we both realized we had to incorporate a famous Hollywood starlet into the song’s narrative. Charlie Sheen was there. He suggested an obscure actress from the Golden Age of Hollywood. We decided the actress had to be both young and contemporary, so we didn’t run with his suggestion. We ended up choosing Denise Richards.

I recall the first few lines of that stanza:

🎵Denise Richards lives next door to me. Looking sweet and pretty as can be.🎵

Essentially, the stanza was about the narrator realizing he hated Denise Richards 'cause she was a neighbour, too.

As we were finishing the song, Staley offered this as the closing line: “No singing, just a hum.” There was actually a bit more to the line than that, but by that point, I had run out of fresh pages in the notebook I was writing in and my OCD wouldn’t allow me to jot the line down on a page with even a minimum of writing on it. Once I finally found a clean page, I asked Staley to recite the line again, since I'd forgotten the extra bits, but he was too far into a heroin-induced delirium to care anymore.

* * *

A grown up Bart Simpson fell in love with a green-haired Allison Taylor.

After they were married and a daughter followed, wife (and possibly daughter) were murdered by gangsters and/or a fallen angel. Bart then took to the bottle pretty hard and became a drunken souse.

* * *

I had a child, a baby girl. The mother was nowhere to be found, so I gave her to some cats to nurse.

The cat milk had a mutagenic effect on the child; she developed cat-like ears and black fur over her body.

I didn’t mind having a cat-person for a daughter. I was just happy to be a father.