woke out of a surprisingly pleasant dream about having a long conversation with Leonard Nimoy while sitting and having nachos in an OmniMax theater at the Museum of Science in Boston.
He was excitedly talking about being able to take a trip to the ISS on Thursday. Here’s hoping.
Yesterday is chasing me down the island, south, into today
Last night’s ill-advised late dinner turned into a series of IEDs as I drove towards morning
and dreams of guilt and frustration woke me, head aching, long before the hissing alarm
but the two bellows I left breathing in the bedroom are still facing the coals,
glowing – now brighter, now dimmer – in the crepuscular dawn.
One a flailing, snorting concertina; one the woman I stood to marry these many sunrises ago,
ahead of so many befores.
As a kid, I spent a lot of years in constant motion between my divorced parents’ houses. I was never particularly good at keeping track of belongings — maybe because I had twice as many places any single object could be? — and for whatever reason, a recurring bad-dream theme was losing small, personal things. A watch. My contact lenses. A bracelet. None of them particularly important or irreplaceable, but knowing that it was something I’d handled just days earlier and now couldn’t find bothered the crap out of me.
When I go on big cleaning rampages, I frequently re-organize things and in so doing, mess up my mental picture of where things are. For the last week, I haven’t been able to put my hands on my ProTools install CD. Haven’t really needed it, but couldn’t find it. Knew that I’d handled it recently. Knew that it and the serial number on the back of it was worth money. Knew it was very likely within six feet of my desk, but I Just. Couldn’t. Find. It.
Just found it. Whew.
Now if I could just find my damn bluetooth earpiece.
Slept a little fitfully last night. Woke this morning out of a dream in which (mostly) benevolent and unbelievably powerful aliens arrive on Earth and do little things like reroute rivers, create playgrounds where there were none before, and give everyone on the planet an iPhone. Most of their astounding feats happen during the night: a mysterious bank of fog rolls in, and in the morning, it dissipates, leaving… a field of wheat! A playground! A rushing waterway where there was none the day before!
Occasionally, the aliens would ask a human being for help, which was considered a real honor. The way they’d get in touch with you? Calling your iPhone, of course. When their distinctive caller-ID showed on the screen, whoever got the call would be terrifically excited.
As the dream was winding down, I got a call with the aliens’ caller-ID on it, answered the call, and found a market researcher for Amazon.com on the line, wanting to ask me how I felt about a series of special sales Amazon had recently run. When I complained to the woman that pretexting via caller-ID as the alien mothership might be a little unethical, she brushed off my concerns. I asked to speak with her manager to complain, and woke up.
I have no clue what this one’s about.
If you’re living on the Moon and you’re approached by Gary Coleman who tries to teach you about the impermanence and flexibility of the rules of the visible world — very much like Laurence Fishburn’s character in The Matrix did for Keanu Reeves’ “Neo” — you should listen. Because if you listen carefully and practice making your body become intangible enough to sink into the moon’s dusty regolith, then when you’re suddenly pulled by a rope into the moon valley containing the giant, ravenous, 3-story-high white zombie gorilla which is composed, Voltron-like, of about 17 normal-sized white gorillas, then you stand a chance of keeping your wits about you long enough to fade into intangibility and escape being consumed.