Posted by: normanlgreen | August 25, 2011

dream, August 25 2011 sea turtles and gunbunnies


A giant sea turtle, conversant.

“Bombay,” an explosive strike.

“I want peace” misheard as “I want Paris.” Will this lead to war?

Earworm:  Way Down Below by Irving Berlin

a year ago, today:

Some of the old gunbunnies are to play as opening act in a little bar. I go to see them it is low ceilings and yellow light in the late afternoon. One corner has a barely raised stage, where the boys are just finishing up – there are one or two others in the house. Two of the guys take a seat by the kitchen entrance and sing a bit of a song in the manner of Elvis Costello – they play an old stratocaster, but the room is so empty that I can hear them play and sing. The headliner some out. They are an all women midget band who take the stage with confidence. The room fills with excited fans as they launch into some undistorted rock riffs. Then their lead singer comes out.  He is massive, well over six feet and 200+ pounds. He wears a mask pulled up over his forehead and is clearly developmentally delayed. He has a great time and leans way out over the audience as he sings. He carries his mic stand out toward the booth where I am seated, and he gets into the personal space of the person at the next table. I realize that it is a bar and want a tonic water. I think that if I do that, on the next round I am likely to ask them to put some gin into it, so get up to leave. The band and most of the crowd fades away.

Next I find myself in a truck stop convenience store with little more than a couple of booths. I am there with Stephen and I have to go through a narrow space between pony wall lined with product spinners and the exterior wall. I have to make myself skinnier to allow a driver passage around me. We do-se-do and I end up with my old leather jacket tangled over a spinner that has been emptied of paperbacks. The wine racks of the spinner get tangled in the back of the jacket and white wire pokes through the torn lining and out through a weak seam. I disengage.

Stephen and I leave top walk across a college campus. We are chatting and using silly voices. A lady we pass makes fun of our mock English accents. We sit with her at the stoned lined edge of a lawn. The stone drops away a few feet so I dangle my feet over as we wake up an elaborate lie about dad’s work taking us all over the world – moving from Kamloops to Japan. She gets a phone call so the conversation disintegrates. There is a brass fronted postal box to my side and as I get up I press against a portion of it which drops back into the box. I leave sheepishly. A few steps later I realize that I have lost the leather jack and Stephen has left the striped knit scarf (Keaton’s) on the lawn. I go back for them, but do not find them. I try to catch up with him and opt for a shortcut through the college stadium. I almost step onto the track where some athletes are practicing but decide that would be rude. I start moving faster and run up a stairwell that ends in a room with chipped red paint, no other exit and a small pile of yellow sand in the far corner. I turn to re-trace me steps knowing that Stephen is out of reach.

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