What I dreamt and what it meant

I never have dreams about flying. I don’t like flying, and I never wanted to fly. My boss at my day-job always has dreams in which he can fly wherever he wants, even as a regular human without wings — he doesn’t turn into an angel or anything like that: he can control where he glides in the sky, because he’s the dreamer. (I know this cuz he always tells me about his stupid flying-dreams.) – I myself am not like this. My dreams are always about true friendship. Also admittedly I enjoy recurrent lustful dreams with harems of terrifying goddesses who I always win over — tho it ain’t easy: it’s always an intriguing, suspenseful challenge.

But last night I had an unusual dream, which was totally out-of-character for my dream production company to inflict upon me. I don’t know why this feature was scheduled. Maybe it’s a warning from God, who’s trying to tell me what he plans to do. Here, I’ll tell you the dream, because it’s simple — I think I can relay the whole entire thing in about two sentences:

MY DREAM
in two simple sentences

First, my mother and sister had purchased an all-glass apartment in Manhattan; and they had decorated it so that it looked exactly like the big-box retail store where they’re accustomed to shopping. Then, while mingling with the people who were loitering there (for there were crowds of people in my mother-&-sister’s new apartment — it was like a grand-opening party or something), I noticed, in mid-conversation, that I was intently sermonizing an elderly gentleman on a point about art. Initially I was unaware of his age, but suddenly it struck me: in a flash, I recognized how old the man was, and that he was surrounded by other elderly people, and that they were all wearing angry looks, which I could tell meant “You’re too close: your breath is likely to infect us with the plague”; therefore I backed off & apologized profusely — I had forgotten about the social-distancing regulations that had been implemented to minimize contagion, for I was preoccupied with pontificating. But then I remembered that the only disease I carry is aesthetic enthusiasm, which is life-supporting rather than life-threatening, thus this mob of mean old folks was wrong to shun me.

So, at this point, I left my mom-&-sis’s apartment, yet I couldn’t remember which turns to take to get outside of the building, whose interior hallways formed a maze. And just before I reached the exit (somehow I could tell that this was the exit), I encountered a long line of shoppers arm-in-arm blockading the front of a retail store — it was a higher-end place than the one that my mom and sis copied for their apartment’s decor. This scene of protest was fine with me, cuz I didn’t want to enter that establishment anyway; so I made a sharp left & assumed that I was home free; however, an equally lengthy lineup of police officers were blocking the maze’s exit, just as the protesting shoppers were blocking the mega-market’s entryway. But I stepped with confidence straight ahead nevertheless, directly toward the aggregation of law officers, thinking that these cops would understand that I’m simply & innocently aiming to exit the apartment/superstore. Yet then one of the policemen stepped forth & blocked me, very aggressively: he grabbed my arms and looked at me fiercely, and I tried to explain that I was not part of the line of shoppers — I only came here to visit my mother and sister in their apartment up above in the complex’s living quarters — & now I’m just plainly trying to leave the building. Here I noticed that this cop was not the officer who slew the citizen so gratuitously in that video that went viral umpteen weeks ago, causing the townspeople to rise up in righteous indignation against injustice (if you are reading this in the far future and thus don’t recognize the event I’m referring to, then simply fill in the roles with equivalent entities from one of your own epoch’s traumas — I’m trying to focus on the universal aspects of this thing, not get bogged down in specifics); but unexpectedly it was that selfsame victim wearing the uniform of his aggressor. Not willing to listen to my plea, he closed his eyes and shook his head: he was wholly aloof to any excuse or explanation. He simply held up his taser and tased me. (“Tasers” are weapons that were popular around the beginning of the 21st century: they come equipped with barbs attached by wires to batteries which, when fired, cause temporary paralysis.) But the electric jolt that I received from this dream-tasing was mercifully gentle: Altho it scared me, the fright that I felt was mostly due to the guy ignoring my attempts at communication.

So that was my dream. After a couple more shocks from his taser, I awoke to the common, shared nightmare of our ongoing history.

DECODING THE ORACLE

And the disciples came & said unto Jesus: “Why speakest thou unto them in parables?” He answered & said unto them: “Because it is given unto you to know the mysteries of the Kingdom of Heaven, but to them it is not given.”
[—Matthew 13:10-11]

CAPTAIN ANDY: “What do you mean by that, Duke?”
OFFICER DUKE: “I mean, I’m a Christian, but I’ve learned to not believe those things we’re told in those old books. You have to read between the lines and decipher.”
[—Wrong Cops (2013)]

And it came to pass in the morning that my spirit was troubled; and I called for all the magicians of Minnesota (my home planet), and all the wise men thereof: & they gathered before me; & I told them my oracle; but there was none that could interpret the mystery of this vision.

Then I called for my seamstress, my barber, and my lime-green-candlestick-maker. So my host of private mercenaries brought these wastelings hastily out of the dungeon (where I had thrown them for eternal punishment the prior evening, when I was wroth). Then I cracked my whip at my barber, and charged him to refashion his own and his two constituents’ hairstyles; and I also whipped my seamstress and instructed her to sew togas fit for a trinity. – Thus having rendered all raiments and visages presentable, I commanded the trio to drag itself before me.

I arose and paced leisurely before my three persons, now attired in finery & freshly styled. And when passing before each soul, I looked deep in its eyes: first I stared at the seamstress; I then stared for twenty seconds at the barber, in hot rage. Finally I stared at the lime-green-candlestick-maker (he & I had a hard time not breaking character & bursting into laughter). Then I said to my trio of dream-catchers:

“OK, wiseguys, you’ve had all morning to click on the link & view the night-vision that I sent you. Now tell me the meaning of this oracle.”

But not one of them was willing to fabricate a gospel-truth from whole cloth. So they all held their peace.

I was now furious again at my employees. In rage, I yanked down the lever on my mobile throne that activates the overhead intercom, and I barked an order to the ward, addressing the captain of the guard-house, saying:

“Come now and take away the chief barber and the seamstress, and let them go play with the tyger in the pit of the lowest dungeon. Let the tyger devour eight of the gangsters from the segment of the pipeline that runs from the preschool to the prison, just to give these dullards a fright. For it is my opinion that they could use a good bit of fear this morning. It might help them wake up.”

Then there was left only the green-candlestick-maker, after the servant to the captain of the guard came and removed the portly barber and the tall blonde seamstress. So I said to my comrade:

“Monseigneur Candlestick, you have always served me well, crafting your devices & igniting them & then hiding them in bushes; which I ordered my gardener to plant discreetly, round about my hillock, to lure wandering prophets. – Don’t let me down this time: I earnestly want you to succeed. Please interpret my dream flamboyantly. I don’t care too much if your take is correct, or if it comes true or not. All I wanna believe is that you were at least paying a modicum of attention. This will help me to feel less alone.”

Therefore did the spirit of the angel of the lime-green-candlestick-maker finagle a lying interpretation of this entry, dated 7 August 2020. (This means that the present account that we’re reading right now, which lacks any trace of conventional interpretation, is actually the winning interpretation.)

And it came to pass, as he embellished for me all that we (you & I, O reader) have just now read, I was restored in my spirit; and a far delightfuller demon usurped our mind. Thus I put in an order with my flame-blower (executioner of souls) for the candlestick-maker to be extinguished. And she blotted him, on the spot:

The damsel rolled out a gibbet from the shadows & did the deed; and it was finished. Nevertheless, my green-candlestick-maker emerged unscathed up out of this soul-killing realm from whose bourn NO TRAVELER EVER BEFORE HAD RETURNED. As it is written:

. . . after cutting himself down, he put on a sola topee.

[Quote from Exploits & Opinions of Doctor Faustroll, Pataphysician (Book 1, Ch. 2), by Alfred Jarry; translated by Simon Watson Taylor]

NOTE

The gibbet was a special model that I had custom designed so that, instead of violently & physically asphyxiating its customer, it inflicts expiry wholly intellectually: by tête-à-tête-ing you to death. It offers nonstop conversation, all of which is quoted directly from these journal entries of mine. Hence, some call it: The Gibbet of Godawful Garrulousness. But I prefer the nickname: FLIBBERTIGIBBET.