A Human Movement
Saturday, October 28, 2006
  dream #2
My mind is unfortunately not an instrument, but it does get going when it wishes. At this late hour the creativity will be low, yet perhaps the integrity will be intact enough to wrought inner innards mild intermediary even illustration when just as just.

She was a bus, if not a nose. I was on this bus, I never remember to breathe.
There were two buses. One drove into Russia, a snowy slippery traveling way was made, and the signs in odd diplo-linguistics that although were business signs, seemed to be all in English.

Her voice came through a plastic cup. This cannot be emphasized enough. Not ever.

The other ride took me to a mystical theme park that you've considered yourself. A Gothic jungle-gym the size of a rock quarry. When we first arrived we immediately witnessed a mystical beast licking away at some melting glacier. A small-headed, female, moose-like, winged beast slurping the ice drift that when those amongst me noticed, the guide said no.... He had been mocked & Remember this is a dream.

The calendar said 1984, black and white, the technology of water skiing trapped in black and white and I had seen it before.

Every absorption was a blood swell, or a muffed breath, stuffed nostril twitch.

Coming back, the bus let off, & it had become obvious that our arrival meant the tour of the Gothic remnants would begin. A stone tour in the high arches, lost twisting sideways, stone naves in hollow apses and I was afraid. Never being claustrophobic before didn't mean that a dream about being trapped in the smallest stone clutches of a church didn't pause my modern sense of pleasantness as if a nervous gut were enough. I was stuck.

I didn't fit. Literally, I was unable to make the second twist into the stone passageways, so squeezing back through the one turn I did fit through, painfully, I gave up and came back to where the bus had parked.

It turned out the guide of this Gothic adventure park was an avid photographer, and had been a friend of a former lover of mine. Actually I hated him and I loved her who he had known before I met her. She was gone, had been for too long and I was on the outside, unable to figure into the tour, her life, I was alone and had lost the girl I loved. He was all the more less queer in this present state. My charm dwindled. He had two cameras.

It ended up that we raced on scooters down a mountain. I don't remember who won, but the scooter I rode had very small wheels and was old fashioned. It was the kind of downhill course I have dreams about very often. The deja vu deja vus are made of. Unlike the gothic twists and gargoyle lockers which had taken my breath a few moments before, which was the first time I had felt that lostness. I can't wait to love someone again.
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