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Oct. 19th, 2005 04:19 amTwo nights ago, I dreamed of sharp-toothed zombies. Then Orangemen sponsoring the campus pub, much to my chagrin and that of Stan Rogers as voiced in "The House of Orange."
Last night, on a high bluff, two futuristic tanks circle each-other warily. One was driven by a robot, the other by a human. The latter carried bacteriological weapons that would wipe the pilot's own species should he decide to release them. The robot is victorious.
On a hill overlooking the city of Iraq is a quiet American suburb. It's some kind of Jewish holiday and I'm this scholarly middle-aged man whose wavy russet-blond hair lies around the fringes of a bald cranium. My task is to watch this brat who, given the holiday, is to eat out of a bowl that sits on the ground. All day, he is to eat it with a tiny fork. Then I'm to shepherd him across town to his spoilt/spoilng mother. On the trip there, he will and has grown into a youth. When I will get there and when I have in the past, I mill return here to find him a child again.
I hold an Alice walker book with a red cover and a title in metallic script, but I can't remember its name or which dream it fits into.
The Main Street Skytrain platform rolls down at the lip and the further the cars stop from the platform, the greater the angle. Things aren't so good right now and the train is so far out that it comes in almost upside-down: you have to clamber up and flip around to exit. Loading strollers on board must be a bitch.
I'm this confident cop-type woman, and we're skirting through the long-ongoing construction, shimmying along where panels have been lifted and heavily-hazmatted Black men wade on shallow shelfs in oily pools where foam rubber balls float.
"You know You're already gone" says my low-tact partner who has black hair like mine but short, then I slip and fall into the the oily glop. I know they'll dig me out but I don't really care as I limply sprawl fetus-style into its viscosity and it closes over my head.
Last night, on a high bluff, two futuristic tanks circle each-other warily. One was driven by a robot, the other by a human. The latter carried bacteriological weapons that would wipe the pilot's own species should he decide to release them. The robot is victorious.
On a hill overlooking the city of Iraq is a quiet American suburb. It's some kind of Jewish holiday and I'm this scholarly middle-aged man whose wavy russet-blond hair lies around the fringes of a bald cranium. My task is to watch this brat who, given the holiday, is to eat out of a bowl that sits on the ground. All day, he is to eat it with a tiny fork. Then I'm to shepherd him across town to his spoilt/spoilng mother. On the trip there, he will and has grown into a youth. When I will get there and when I have in the past, I mill return here to find him a child again.
I hold an Alice walker book with a red cover and a title in metallic script, but I can't remember its name or which dream it fits into.
The Main Street Skytrain platform rolls down at the lip and the further the cars stop from the platform, the greater the angle. Things aren't so good right now and the train is so far out that it comes in almost upside-down: you have to clamber up and flip around to exit. Loading strollers on board must be a bitch.
I'm this confident cop-type woman, and we're skirting through the long-ongoing construction, shimmying along where panels have been lifted and heavily-hazmatted Black men wade on shallow shelfs in oily pools where foam rubber balls float.
"You know You're already gone" says my low-tact partner who has black hair like mine but short, then I slip and fall into the the oily glop. I know they'll dig me out but I don't really care as I limply sprawl fetus-style into its viscosity and it closes over my head.
