Sweet Dreams


Two nights ago, I had a nightmare that I shot and killed the Youngest, along with two other civilians. I’m not sure why I was firing a hand cannon from a protected position, or why, after the targets were eliminated, I continued to shoot the Youngest until he fell twisted and bloody onto the steel floor of some futuristic dystopian environment, but I sure did wake up with the fantods when I was unable to hide his body. It’s a scary thing to have blood on your hands, and nowhere to stash the corpse.

Strangely, the killing of the Youngest elicited roughly the same emotional response in the dream world as mowing down the first suicidal Charlie in the classic NES video game Contra, a man I have shot and killed several hundred times. Usually, when I have violent dreams involving the Youngest, we’re like modern day Butch Cassidays and the Sun Dance Kids, running, shooting, beating, and other scenarios ripped off (poorly) from the big screen. When he gets got, I vow revenge. Although you're innocent when you dream, I apologize just the same for two nights ago. (Although you probably had it coming)

Then last night, groups of people spontaneously erected elaborate bridges in the shapes of letters along the Mississippi river. The collective unconscious of the good people of the river valley spewed forth monstrosities of construction in some sort of message to God knows who.



The dream flashed to hicks in overalls, wallowing in the mud, building a giant letter L bridge over a sharply banked river. I walked into the marshy land to investigate. It felt like I was in North by Northwest – completely alone and yet completely vulnerable. A dirty looking man appeared nearby, head lolling a bit. I grabbed a two by four and hit him across the face. A solid thunk, but the “man” appeared nonplussed. Another man appeared, so I hit him as well. I ran back and forth, between the two, hitting these zombies in the head with a long piece of wood about 10 or 15 times. Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! Thunk! They neither advanced, nor retreated, they just took their beating with an undead stoicism.

You don’t have to be Sigmund Fucking Frued to interpret these dreams. These dreams mean…they mean…. It’s Springtime in Los Angeles! It’s shootin' season on the express ways. The gangs are back outdoors, and the beaches are packed. The long, somewhat cool winter has run its cycle, and now it’s time to toss away the long sleeved shirts for another season. We keep the windows open at night, and the wailing of the city's populous pours forth as we lie in bed, somewhere between awake and asleep with damp sheets. We are torporific. Was that a scream of agony or ectasy? Are those the foot falls of a recyclables collector, a graffiti artist, or a homeless man looking to relieve himself? A tidal wave of humanity flows into our room and effects our dreams.

Last night, I choked one of my teammates unconscious. It started when he made gagging-gargling sounds, but he’s made those before. I tightened the choke. He made some more gagging-gargling sounds, and so I sunk it in tighter, aroused at the propsect of tapping him out. He stopped making gagging-gargling sounds, and sort of went limp so I let go, and he fell forward at an awkward angle, like a half-cross legged bow to Mecca. The lead instructor/owner came over, and helped revive the poor son of a bitch who came to, and proceeded to attack the lead instructor/owner, thinking he was still involved in a sparring session. His dreams were no doubt as troubling as mine.

“Now there’s a true fighter,” the lead instructor/owner said of the formerly unconscious Brazilian Jiu Jitsu practitioner, “He passes out, and when he comes to, he’s still going!”

I fucking love Brazilians!