my dreams...

Have gotten strange lately, unnerving.

A few nights ago I had one set at some kind of camp. Never in the day, only at night, and the figures that appeared were all out of my youth-group past. Two significant things happened in this dream. The first was a suicide "scene", if you will, where somebody that I don't recognize, we'll call him the Surgeon, cruised down a hill in a car and plunged into the ocean. As the car passed me everything happened in slow motion, and I caught the defeated expression that he wore on his miserable face. He wore glasses. Then the car disappeared. Heavy stuff, I guess.

Then we come to some sort of board meeting--this happened later in the dream--where Spike Milligan voices four of the characters, acted by people I used to know. They're all bad impressions of Goon Show personalities. I particularly liked that they were bad impressions and truth be told, most of them were Seller's characters anyway. As Spike struggles to voice four people, I recall Bloodnok and Crun, somebody reminds him that he has to do a fifth because the Surgeon is dead.

When Spike Milligan appears in your dream, doing five voices, you may have problems.

I've had a series of strange, wonderful, and anxious dreams in the last two weeks, but I don't remember many of them, only the feeling I have when I wake up. Last night's dream was long and detailed, however. It featured Her at the beginning, dolled up and glad to see me, but in the end the same girl I remember--It's that scene right out of High Fidelity, where Rob seeks out Charlie and finally realizes what an awful person she actually is.

Then it goes in a vicious murder and a vengeful retribution, the entire act of which I am both an observer and a participant. Then I'm at home, on the sloping hillside that runs up along the driveway, at night. It's neither somber nor festive but it's connected to the murder somehow, in a post-traumatic sort of way, and I'm a new, separate character, albeit reborn of the dead murderer. I'm fortunately detached from his motives and mind.

At least, that's what I make of it all. I don't remember falling asleep at Lovely's, and I really don't remember much of what happened after we got to her place, although it must have been six in the morning. The walk was cold. I don't remember cutting my knuckle on my guitar and I don't remember Lovely tearing at my back, but the marks are all there.

A mild bout of amnesia, but I'm blaming the dreams this time and not the beer.