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I entered the cellar of an old mansion with a team of cat-burglar/specialists. We were there to find something out rather than to steal. I found a stack of old black and white crime scene photos on a work bench. Something horrible had happened here, and the photos that depicted the nightmare were left out in the open as if the events were just a natural part of this family’s story.

Six children had been savagely murdered by a teenage girl. She had killed them and then perched each of them atop a rocking horse. The first photo showed this from a profile angle with all the rocking horses lined up side by side. Two of the older children, a boy and a girl both about 5 years old, at the fore of the shot appeared to be smiling with blood at the corners of their mouths. They were all dead and were situated with their eyes open as if they were all at play riding together as a rank.

The young woman who did this had had an aneurism which triggered a violent rampage. She took a carving knife from the kitchen and went after the children, stabbing them maniacally as they slept. She drew the knife back behind her head and then back down into their little bellies over and over.

One brave girl escaped. She tucked her dolly in her bed as a decoy and ran and hid somewhere in the house. So one of the dead children perched on the rocking horses was actually a plastic doll with multiple stab wounds. The killer couldn’t distinguish between a real little girl and a doll.

The scene shifted. Now the team and I had managed to enter the upper part of the house. There was a dinner table set and we were all seated around it. Somebody started convulsing and there was a woman, a house servant who had been setting the table, who came to his assistance to administer first aid.

Minutes earlier this graying woman had been the object of our contempt. She was either the surviving little girl who had used her dolly as a decoy, or she was the teenage girl who had committed the murders. Someone in the room had been pressing her for information about her identity. Her rush to help this ailing man was now being cited by somebody else as evidence of her goodness.

She wore delicate cloth gloves to hide her hands. These gloves implicated her somehow, a stigma, but also indicated her purity. She pleaded with us and denied any wrong doing. What had she done? Was she the former teen killer? Would she strike again?

I was at my parents’ home—I don’t know if I was just visiting, or living there in the dream. My father informs me, quite somber, that he had found out that his close friend, who is also the father of one of my closest friends from high school, had been evading taxes, and after a lot of thought on the matter, he had decided to call the IRS to inform them. His friend had been hauled off to jail. I am shocked that this man who I’ve known all my life, would do such a thing. Later, I am hanging out with the same friend of mine, his daughter, and it’s exceedingly awkward. Her family, unsurprisingly, is in complete disarray over the matter. I feel awful for her, guilty with the knowledge that my dad is the one who called the feds on hers, yet I feel that what he did was right, and eventually, I just tell her, honestly and frankly—she just leers at me and says, “don’t worry, I already know.”

Not-so-coincidentally, in real life, my dad has been calling me daily to remind me to file my taxes.

i had a dream while sleeping on the green couches in rarig. in my dream, i was awakened by mark rehani dressed as richard simmons, jogging in place. he greeted me briefly and ran off, as i began walking through rarig which had become a strange underground maze of locker lined walls. eventually i found my locker, out of which i took a wooden, silver painted sword that kept getting longer everytime i looked away from it. i got onto a bus that ran through the rarig basement, but everytime it pulled over it would pull right to the wall so it was impossible to get off. finally we made it to the lobby area and i got off the bus. people were lined up to see a show, which was apparently in a theater where the bathrooms are in the real rarig center. at this point it began to turn into a lucid dream, as i walked over to the bathroom/theater door and the group of people outside, i told myself to just float over there and then i jumped and glided a few times over there. it might have been about to turn into a flying dream, but then i was awakened back in real rarig’s green couches (which are about a ten second walk from the bathroom) and had to go to class.

Steve Vai came to me in a dream last summer with an important
metaphysical lesson.

I was attending his guitar masterclass. Somehow he lapsed into the
topic of global politics and social issues with a very heart-oriented
world view. This became his main focus while some of the students in
the class noodled on their guitars. I sat with my guitar and was
engaged by what he was saying. I offered some constructive input which he appreciated. He was reaching for a word, and I knew the one he needed. It was actually a word that needed to be invented to express what we were discussing.

After he finished his lecture on guitar fingerboard theory he came and
sat next to me. My input during class intrigued him and he seemed to
identify in me a prodigy. He made small talk and then pointed across
the room where several collectible guitars hung on a wall, “I just
bought that old dinosaur over there. Let’s go have a look at that
Strat.” There was an old white Fender Stratocaster set apart from the other guitars.

As we stood and started walking toward it, some other students began to follow. He signalled to them to just hang back, he wanted to say something to me privately.

We didn’t stop to look at the Strat. It was just an excuse to pull away from the group. He led me past the guitar collection and along a path to a hilltop. The path was lined with abandoned home appliances, laundry machines, and other household refuse. It kept getting darker and very scary along our ascent. There were manacing beings hiding in the shadows. Steve spoke of imminent danger and we moved quietly.

At the hilltop he revealed a crucial metaphysical secret. He explained that our ability to perceive reality is like a semi-transparent checkerboard layered over our field of view. My vision changed now so that I could see this checkerboard as I looked out at the landscape. He showed me how I can only see through the white checks, but the black checks are blind spots. The black checks can be seen, or rather experienced, by others. The represent the subjective reality of others and may sometimes represent objective reality. It is my life’s mission to learn to see the black checks as a result of relationships with other people and their experiences with reality and to expand my own experience, consciousness, and being through this habitual exercise.

While he led me down from the hilltop we engaged in a playful banter, teasing each other and laughing as we went.

I awoke with the sense that Steve will be making more appearances in my dreams as a sort of soul guide.

i am in a maze…. i had this dream several times… where i am in a maze and keep following the path in the maze the walls are very high there are really long tunnels that are not very well lit…. I do not know where the maze is going…but, I keep following along… because I can see a light and keep hoping if I follow i will get out of the maze… somehow the maze always ends up with at open empty stage…. and me standing there…. for awhile i had this dream and when I got to the stage I turned around and went back through the maze or woke up from the dream… but, one day I remember… I walked across the stage… and went behind these huge velvet curtians… after that I never had the dream again…. NEVER….

you are at war with your self. eruptions, islands are hideous scars on the smooth blue surface of th seas, the beauty of the light on the water makes me sick and the sperm whale vomits giant squid ambergris and the maoris make perfume for I suck at beauty it poisons my wild love of I hate my self for not knowing how to. as the body boils away the fire gurgles with moist flesh into smoke is the truth that gone with the sound of boiling. I think I’ll sleep now.

the moonlights cold fingers straining at the springs potential hate steel teeth that arthritis aches when cocked spread eagle white wisps the water sands of mist outside in the fur trade remains outside in a steaming pile amongst the frosted warts are hidden in the velvet pelts the spirit melts the skin is ripped from muscle and the water stones like kidney knives shatter all that hard work was this once moist now brittle? their isn’t a word for the texture of shredding frozen flesh

The breath of the cop car tailpipe breathed into life a lingam a toilet plunger a suction device to make my cock hemorage and I was pressed between the sheets of a not soy based ink yet sofull of estrogen were the she males that my boobs crshed sideways like the flowers of long lost loves and my semen suck my secret pages together and they burried me in the dust bunnies behind the bed with a non corosive brass plack that said he left his/her body for the moon after sucking off the cop car ice lingam

So I had died, don’t know how, but I was sitting in the lobby of an office tower which unbeknownst to me was purgatory. I hadn’t really realized I had died until the receptionist and some others came up and told me I had died and they were going to take me to heaven. “Ah” I thought, “so thats why I’m here.” As they were leading me to an elevator an evil me appeared dressed all in red with little horns and a tail trying to beckon me to another elevator, saying how much fun it would be etc. Well, I saw right through it of course, the red with the horns and tail, that was so predictable did anybody actually fall for that anymore? So I went with the angels and we took the elevator up to the third floor, a floor just like any office floor where I would spend the rest of eternity in front of a computer doing heaven’s work, which I assumed meant I was doing good in the world, I didn’t really know. But it had to be better then hell, didn’t it? Well eventually it was time for a break and I was supposed to meet my friends at the restaurant in the office courtyard. I take the elevator down to the restuarant where my freinds were, as well as the G-20 summit. Everyone was there, I distinctly remember the Queen of England, various rulers etc. and Michele and Barack Obama, who were sitting with my friends. Between the Obamas and my friends the table was full, and they had been sitting there for awhile already when I arrived. When I got to the table there were no more seats, so Barack offered me his. Thinking that the Obamas were probably leaving anyways I took it. So I was mortified when he returned with another chair and squeezed in next to Michelle on the corner of the table. It was the fucking president of the US and I had made him grab a chair, he must have thought I was an ass. So we were all sitting there. In silence. I was trying to think of things to ask the Obamas, you know the usual questions. Where do you work? Well duh he was the president of the US. Where do you live? Duh again. Where did you grow up? What do you like to do? I already knew so much about him, what the hell could I ask him? I couldn’t even tell him that on the third floor of the office building we were eating under was heaven, who would believe that? So we sat in horrifed silence until I woke up, with me thinking all the while how I had blown it with the president of US.

I am at my best friend’s wedding. Her father is a wealthy, well-known businessman, and somewhat domineering as well. He has decided that since he’s paying for the wedding (or maybe his company is, I’m not sure), he’s going to use it to benefit his company as well. It is being run as a media event promoting the company (with a cadre of press in a roped-off area), and as a sort of company morale event as well. A number of employees are at the altar interacting in a team building exercise. One employee is doing really badly at the exercise. Somehow I know that he is not well-liked at the company, and that he was chosen for the exercise because someone wanted to embarrass him and get him fired.

I am really bored by the whole thing, and am wondering where my friend is. Then she appears in a gigantic white poufy princess dress at the side aisle, gesturing for me to come over. We sit down in the aisle and talk quietly for a while. Then the vows are about to begin and my friend has to leave. I notice that she has forgotten a little makeup bag. Maybe we were putting makeup on each other, I don’t remember. As I am picking up the makeup bag, I notice other things left behind in the aisle from our time together. There is a hitachi magic wand vibrator, a bottle of lube, and a giant double dildo. At that precise moment, my friend’s father appears, furious at me for making a mess in the aisle and distracting from the festivities. I hurriedly attempt to stuff the double dildo into a plastic shopping bag before any of the wedding guests notice it, but it’s so long and floppy it’s hard to get it in there.

In real life:

When I told my friend about this dream, her only question was, “why did you bring your sex toys to my wedding?”

I dreamt last night that I was dreaming (yes, a dream within a dream) that I was in the house that I grew up in, and I walked into my father’s study. he was sitting there at his desk, and I came up to him and gave him a hug and told him I loved him so much. And he told me he loved me a lot. And then we just kept hugging, and I felt time speed up or at least it felt like days went by.

It felt wonderful.

Then other stuff happened that I don’t quite remember.

My dad died when I was 24, and we weren’t very touchy-feely when he was alive. I very rarely dream about him so this was a very meaningful dream for me.

Inside a large house in the Edwardian era.

A little boy with knickers on and a bald head is playing when he hears someone crying in another part of the house.

He calls for his mother. She does not answer and the crying continues.

He runs up the stairs as fast as he can calling for his mother. As he is running up the stairs, he does not notice arms and legs made of glass strewn all over the stairs.

His mother is sitting in a chair in front of a mirror wearing a dress that she might have worn to a ball, and that might have been pretty once a long time ago. She is crying. Her face is hidden.

Beside her is a little girl made of glass. Like a full-size ballerina from a music box. This might be the closest thing the little bald boy has to a friend his age.

The little boy comes close to his mother. “What’s wrong, mum?”

“Nothing,” she whispers, then jerks her head towards his face and looks fiercely at him, “except my FUCKING FACE IS FALLING OFF!”

She says this in the most horrifying cockney accent! The boy screams. She stands up and takes the chair she was just sitting in, grabs the back of it and swings it at the little girl made of glass. She shatters.

I wake up

parked in an old station wagon by an airport or mall the station wagon has opaque windows as though covered with paper. someones with me, Alex? outside there keeps being skirmishes, arguments, little fights I wonder if I should intervene until finally someone’s shooting, “don’t kill him – just put his eyes out – c’mon” and finally I climb on top of the station wagon and can only see the guy swinging the hammer and add to the clamor “seriously, don’t kill him, not here, not on the sidewalk, its ok” before its over I’m driving in a van, someone with me, this time its Alex, suddenly he double-takes “oh shit – my rainbow pumps! My pumps flew out of the van” and sure enough in the review mirrow is a rainbow colored high-heel, I can see it. U-turn and hazards in time to get that one before traffic but the next is on a curved ramp two lanes in each direction, hazards but traffic, already sketchy, then walkers and bikers, dangerous, feels dangerous, like someone should get hit, and no way that pump is going to last forever until finally its run over, someone smashes it, and I take the next chance to speed off as Alex says “great, now all I’ve got is a shoe.”

this dream happens in different settings. someitmes i am alone, sometimes with others.  most recently, alone, and in a city.  

i’m driving a car. suddenly, without warning. i am on a steep incline, about 75 degrees or more. very near to vertical.  i am panicked, but figure the only thing i can do is to floor it and ride it out. see what happens.  i know (or just think i know) that to release from the gas at all is instantly slide back into other traffic or to backflip in the car to my presumable annihilation. i don’t ever picture that death, just the sense of dread once the irrevocable back-motion begins.    but it  doesn’t happen. i keep pushing on the gas, watching the Ultimate San Francisco buildings on the hill  zoom by as i climb the incredibly long hill. my adrenaline is pumping. i’m not enjoying it.. but i’m not not-enjoying it.  at the top, i reach a plateau and all is fine.

Pick up pick up stop drop stop drop pin drop skin drip

The powder fly

in

An

Old

House

Blue grey seven stories

Shingles shutters carved and cracked fancy ballisters

Creaking blue pink pale white lace billowed skirts

Blue white powdered

Powdered

Dust rising on impact

Did the powder cover stick blend with the color of life

Is there no color left

I was lost in a big

Cold

Grey

House.

But who was

Who was

So mad

Eyes open

To a bedroom petrified

And blaming

Fuck you

I know

Each and everyone

Was.

The count from sesame street came into the bathroom I was toweling off while dad was shaving, back turned, in the mirror… the count sat on the pot and took me over his knee threatening that now he WOULD bite my butt…. I was maybe 7

Last night I had a dream that I was attending a Bedlam show. It was a preview that was the last dress rehearsal before the opening night. The show was in the year 2012 and the plot centered on a staged ET invasion orchestrated by the U.S. government that was thwarted by a real alien invasion.

I was sitting in the front row and at a point early on in the production there was an awkward silence. I looked around to see Maren Ward off to the side looking at me like “what the fuck are you doing?” I had the feeling that I should do something so I quickly ran back stage and started to push a giant Julian McFaul designed alien puppet on stage.

I then started to adlib lines. But they were not really improvised since they didn’t seem like the sort of things I would have thought of on my own. It was sort of the same sensation I experienced when I had actually helped to write a play and had the whole thing half memorized from having edited and rewritten it hundreds of times.

My delivery of the lines was sort of choppy with long, pregnant pauses littered throughout. This was due to the fact that I didn’t know the lines. The audience however thought this was a deliberate artistic choice that a “real” actor would have made. Thus, all of the awkward moments in the show were perceived as intentional and they usually got laughs.

It was a musical comedy and I began to recognize the tunes as well. It was as though I had written them but didn’t remember writing them. There was one point in the play where an elaborate production number ensued. This was when the “real” aliens, (the “fungal” people) were engulfing the earth. There was this big green sheet of fabric that was being spread over the entire stage and beyond swallowing up the audience while the actors were jumping around in green costumes singing “Your planet is our Petri dish.”

I then went back stage and saw somebody folding the programs for the show. I saw my name being credited as one of the authors as well as Mike Harris, Maren Ward, John Bueche, and (of course) Chris-Sparky-Newt-Skink-Huff-Hanson. (All of the funniest lines were his.)

I heard of many actors who have had dreams that they were on stage but forgot all their lines. This however was a dream where I was a co-writer-producer of a show that I completely forgot having hatched.

The preview went well so I decided to appear in the entire run and try to replicate my half-baked performance. Then I began to think about the very adult concern about how to arrange for childcare so I could perform for the next three weeks.

I was in a typing class when I suddenly found myself floating about the room watching all of these people frantically typing away.I remembered that typing or the motion of tapping one’s finger tips is supposed to be great for the memory.I continued floating around the room,weaving by their keyboards, completely fascinated by these typists and I had the thought “Wow! Typists are the most enlightened people!”

I wound up in a separate room where this old and wise looking yogi man was wheeled out on a cart sitting in full lotus.

He looked at me and said “Let me explain the ‘should theory’ to you. Maybe… you should.”

My constant worrying (maybe I should do this,maybe I should do that) was finally able to rest a little.

It was the most brilliant and helpful piece of advice I’ve ever received in a dream.

Again, I am in front of the mirror, my teeth loose. I wiggle them with my fingers, mouth wide. One falls out and clinks into the sink, a front tooth. Then another. Again, I am upset. This is a reminder of my own mortality, and I am frightened. (But then…something breaks the cycle of re occurring toothloss dreams:)
Suddenly, I reach into my mouth and pull out all my teeth in my bottom jaw, all at once, like they are a set of dentures, but they’re not, they’re mine- and bebeath them, amazingly, there are fresh, white, beautiful new teeth, in rows of three like a shark. I am delighted. I am relieved. I am ecstatic. The nightmare has been broken.

In an illogical dream transition, I sat cross-legged in the campus library, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with my classmates in a narrow aisle; The Bacchae was at my elbow, I noticed. My English professor stood stiffly before us, weeping silently, the sirens still blaring. With a great flourish he took a piece of paper from his back pocket and handed it to me with a deep bow, his face twisted grotesquely with repressed sobs. It read, “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.” It is sweet and right to die for your country. I understood I was to parse sentences for the war effort. I made to pull The Bacchae off the shelf, but my professor reprimanded me in harsh Latin I couldn’t understand. “Fourteen dead” a girl to my right reminded me.