Tag Archives: Dreams

In the dream I am at a encampment. Not a slammer but we are all sharing cots and food is scarce. I go to help with the crawlers. One of them has grown silent…too quiet. I pick her up and realize she’s stopped breathing. I know it’s difficult to give a toddler mouth to mouth. The breastbone is still quite fragile and risks snapping under the weight of misplaced pressure. This is no ‘Pulp Fiction’-esque procedure with markers and best guesses The little angel has fluid lungs, the product of a c-section. I worry for her, I kiss her blue’ing lips and place her next to an older girl in different sleeping quarters to secure her safety. Later, I’m in a pool.

There must be hundreds of babies splashing around in the azure puddle. The water is salted and cold. With a deep, warm undercurrent, I can feel only around my ankles. I cannot tell if we are all there by choice, or have been assigned. I cannot tell if these little ones are swimming, drowning or just splashing. And I’m overwhelmed by trying to assess which to save first. Chubby little arms, legs and faces are crowding me with urgency, making flesh colored foam.

I have a vague recollection of where I was before this prison, in Virginia, at a multi-floored beach house with my sister. Cynthia has tickets to a Stone Temple Pilots concert, and promises, with some malice, that she is most definitely not going to take me. I’m devastated and a humming rings out throughout the house, to the tune of “Sour Girl”. I run from the house, over the dunes and down to the ocean front. A couple of older kids walk up to me, and I’m encouraged to go with them. I don’t feel too much younger then they must be, and I’m enjoying the adrenaline of risk. We wander off to a nearby dock. I’m aroused…

Back to the camp. I’ve heard Scott Weiland is there. I think this makes perfect sense and I wonder if he’s going to offer me a shared heroin needle. Cynthia’s there too, but she’s never had the same inner ill-advised, risk taking tendencies. My confusion begins to grow brighter. To love a rockstar is a given disaster, this seems obvious, but is not – as things in dreams often go. Now, the babies are all crying with scarlet fury. I am the only person paying any attention to taking care of them, and I’m so high I can’t keep their faces from morphing into devilish hellions. I can’t sleep and I can’t see Scott, until they quiet. They’re reaching for me, through wet, soft gauzes, tiny limbs disowned by mothers and caregivers.

In this dream a young woman is silently singing into a microphone attached to a washing machine. She has muddy brown hair and a dirty profile, thin, a wilted rash. She is aware of my presence, knowing how I wish she would bathe. She drops away and wettens down the drain. I am left facing a large balcony with babies jumping into it – in reverse – from the ground up and over the railing, kerplop. What seems like 4 of them are lined up vertically, nose-to-toe, their arms and legs tied. They cannot move. I am scrutinizing their faces, looking for recognition of this reverse flight issue. Some of them wear the expression of knowing suicidal jumpers. I continued to sit there in front of the sliding glass door watching what then becomes a cat fighting for its life, entangled amidst restrained chubby baby limbs. The cat reaches out for me and I realize, it has the same dirt-riddled fur as the willowy drain-lady. Repulsive.


Starring: Marco, myself & the Ram of Death.

And it was around midnight, I was seriously annoyed and extremely tired. The 2 girls sharing my room were nattering about this & that, preventing me from catching the serious shut-eye I so desired. The place? A boarding school. Location? A time zone other than PST.

Pissed, I climbed into bed, stewing, staring at the night-sky outside of our shared window, wishing they would just shut the hell up. Without warning the inky darkness suddenly turned to eerie daylight, within minutes, shining a whitish-grey light that could only be described as the type of light you would see rimming the heavenly orbs during an eclipse. Shadows seemed longer, leaner, the sunlight was terrifying, promising destruction.

I jumped for the window, tore open the curtains and felt every fibre of my being go rigid. People were filling the streets, screaming, tearing at their hair and skin, crying out, “The sun doesn’t just rise! What’s happening?!! ARMAGEDDON IS NIGH!!”.

Horrified, convinced of certain and total annihilation, all I wanted to do was talk to Marco. Scrambling, I threw my suitcase contents about, desperate to find my cell phone….because surely the apocalypse wouldn’t affect my cellular services. Then I remembered, Marco would be sleeping, I wasn’t in PST, should I wake him & tell him we were all going to die? Would he believe me? I hesitated….of course he would want to know – I had to call!!

I dialed his number, lifted the cell to my ear. He answered, sounding tired and peeved that I would wake him up…he didn’t know what was happening yet!! Before I could start explaining our certain extinction, there was a popping sound. And all sound became null in one mighty vacuous void. I screamed emptiness, ran to the window and looked up to the heavens.

Shimmering into existence for all eyes to see, was the outline of a giant ram. Resembling a hybrid between the common symbolic Ram representative of Aries – crossed with the style of lion found on the flag of Richard the Lionheart. This giant Ram hung, shining in the sky, for about 10 minutes before fading away to nothing.

When the Ram disappeared, all sound came back. I could hear screaming, wailing, cars crashing, buildings burning and everything horrid. But most of all, I could hear my heart beating. We were finished.

And I woke up thinking how weird that I would have seen Aries – when everyone knows that Sagittarius is the harbinger of the end of the universe. Psssh, come on now.


Starring: Marco, myself, Steve Senyk, Jared, Andrew Hurysz, Mike Muehlherr, Paris Hilton & Nicole Ritchie.

And we were on a hovercraft boat, Andrew at the helm, Marco, Mike & I gripping the ropes along the side of the raft as we flew, quickly, over the clear grassy glades. Destination? To find Steve at this mansion on an island – because Steve had the drugs we wanted. The plan? To pick up & head to the last night of Lollapalooza, followed by an outdoor all-day-night rave the day after. {of course}

The sun was setting in the sky, I would guesstimate it to be around 8pm, summer season…somewhere. The island loomed into sight, impressive, tropical, and beautiful. On the cliff face was a siiiick mansion, jutting out in modern directions, oozing wealth. We’d arrived.

Andrew, Marco & I climbed out of the boat. I turned & scooped up Mike…who for all obvious reasons, was only about 9” tall…about the height of a regular bottle of beer. Anyway, I scooped up Mike & deposited him in my cardigan pocket (deep enough that he could sit down, hold on & peer out as we ventured).

Inside the mansion, everyone was sleeping. Turns out, the owner of this place was some kind of Hollywood kingpin drug lord homosexual. Everyone there was passed out, sleeping off the previous Lollapalooza night’s party destruction. As we went room to room, it was hard not to notice that everyone there was gay, in various states of undress and compromising positions…asleep.

Finally, we came to the last bedroom & found Steve, standing beside a bed, covered in jackets (presumably those of the people passed out everywhere). Jared lay snoring underneath the jacket mountain, oblivious to the weight of stylized fabrics upon him.

Steve gave me a hug, told us he had “the stuff” and asked us to toss our coats onto the Jared-pile; we obliged. At the time, I remember watching Mike remove his teensy weensy leather jacket & it crossed my mind that his jacket may get lost…

As the night progressed, the house came alive. Creepsters, Queens & Skags awoke and started partying it up, pulling on clothing, puffing on joints, snorting up everything in sight, guzzling booze from every filthy glass. Steve offered us some beer, which we gulped enthusiastically. He even had mini-beers for Mike to enjoy.

I put Mike on a shelf-top with his mini-beers, turned around and was disgusted to find Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie had arrived. They were standing on the opposite side of the room, surrounded by a pack of adoring Putos, oozing stupidity. Mike became incredibly nervous, sweating profusely from his every tiny pore. He told me that he wouldn’t (didn’t) know what to say to them, that he didn’t want to talk to them. I assured him that I wouldn’t be talking to the likes of them and not to worry about it. Then I picked him up, greasy with sweat & put him back in my pocket for safe-keeping.

Shortly thereafter Steve announced that it was time to roll & ushered everyone to the Jared-pile to get our jackets. One faux fur by one snakeskin leather, the pile diminished, everyone adorning their outer shells, stumbling off into the night. Jared roused, shook off his twitching & followed suit.

Andrew, myself and Marco pulled on our jackets and then realized that Mike’s little leather jacket was nowhere to be found. Anxiously we split up, looking on, under and around the bed…nothing. We scanned the floors, furniture and every room…that little coat was gone-zo. Mike was devastated. No amount of mini-beer would console him over the loss.

And I woke up thinking I should tell my younger stepbrother, Mike, that he played out as a “little brother” literally in my head. That Steve & Jared would probably find this dream funny. That Marco would listen, as I babbled this out to him. We would probably both wonder why Andrew was in this dream…and who the hell invited Paris and Nicole into my sacred brain space?




haggard anticipation of

consumed cognition of

flagging cerebration of

enervated rumination of

hackneyed theorization of

bromidic heed of

worn logic of

overtaxed deliberation of

spent ideation of

prostrated meditation of

platitudinal discern




I slid off the couch and across the floor, my pyjama pants snagging and creeping up my legs as I dragged along. Gracelessly, I creeped up the side of the wall and legs first, poured out the open window. With a loud ‘pop’ my body squeezed through the narrow opening and I floated carelessly up into the night sky, arms splayed.


Where was I going? I barely knew, my eyes were closed and I really felt it didn’t matter anyway – the weightlessness was delicious. If my cosmic umbilical cord wasn’t intrinsically woven to the man-partner and upcoming baby, ethereally I believe I would have snipped the line and dissipated with a smile.