Friday, January 09, 2009

The Mother (er, Father, of all dreams).

I don't know if I'm going to do this justice, but I'm going to try.

We've discussed Trina's vivid dreams on this blog. They come from her Father. Not like int the Obama Dreams of My Father sense, but as a genetic inheritance. Trina's dreams, as you have learned, are bizarre, abstract, detailed, and hilarious. But they pale in comparison to her father, who has walked his dreaming road a lot longer.

He told us this story when we spoke on skype the other day.

I was sitting at this round table full of knights, like King Arthur's round table. There were all these other knights, fully armored, even over their faces, with drumsticks in each hand. These drumsticks weren't the culinary type--think snare drum. Each guy had a stick in each hand, with the base facing straight down at the table. Soon everybody started banging their drumsticks on the table (not drumming, but hitting the table with the bottoms of the sticks, with their hands around the middle, like they were banging silverware on the table), louder and faster. I got up to go the bathroom and walked out the door.

As I stepped out the door, I was wearing one of those old deep sea diving suits, with the spacesuit helmets, standing next to a little treasure chest with small bubbles coming out of it. I was in a fish tank. The castle was behind me. Soon this little net came down and I was picked up by the head/helmet and pulled out of the water and set in a '63 Cadillac convertible (in the passenger seat) driving down the Arizona freeway going 70 miles per hour. I still had my helmet on, and bugs kept pinging my mask.

I asked the driver to pull over so I could take my helmet off. I did, and it made a very loud airy whooshing sound when I took it off. The noise woke up hundreds and hundreds of prairie dogs, whose little heads popped up from the ground all around us. They had little spoons, like those little collector spoon, in their hands.

They each came up to me and put the spoons in my head (which was soft like velveeta). It didn't hurt. They kept putting more and more spoons in my head. The windshield started to go up, and push on my neck. It got higher and higher until it actually cut my head off.

My head started spinning and flying up into the air into the clouds. There were these wispy clouds everywhere, and I kept going higher and higher, more wispy clouds. The spoons in my head were hitting (plucking was the word used) the clouds, and each producing a musical sound, faster and faster until it was some sort of music box sounding song.

And then my head floated up to the moon.