d 7/9 '87
Various packages come all at once. I spread them on the floor of the den where B. is ironing. One of them isn't mine, a coffee table book, an anthology of artwork. The pages are bumpy white vinyl, but their adhesion doesn't harm the art. Securely slide the book into a vertical cryonic freezer, into the niche meant for someone else's body, hoping it will be safe from the owners.
Broad yard a ways from some house, at parked car. Man backs out, such that his face cannot be seen, so I may enter the car through the left rear door he holds open. Once entered, the back seat area simulta-neously emerges into a canvas tent set up on the same lot. Our special meeting room. Though light is discernible about the flap, no one exits that way except it's being the same car door. Am relatively early.
We'll need at least, or there are only, five chairs. I see and pick up to move Got-out-for-me's dark flippers, blocking one of the seats, just as he enters, but he doesn't mind. The others are leaving the house, on their way here, we can both sense. "It's my turn to get the food."
Now, heading back to the house, I see it's like a concessions 'shack' at a drive-in. The counter girl gives me half a plastic straw in half a paper wrapper. Finger it as she busies back 'n' fore, wondering how safe it is, how germy. Should I use it anyway, just because it's anomalous? Ask for another, which tho' sealed is wet throo on one end. And did I see teeth marks? Ask her about it. She says her cousin used it, but just played with it. "Guess I'd better not use." Walk away, then remember the food. 'Oh, yeah, I'd like a burger, (and so on ...the others' stuff)'.
Carrying the takeout amidst a claque of other patrons, diner regulars enthusing about 'the Partch anthology'. I stop myself revealing that I just hid someone's copy of it in their cryonic freezer. A weird old wife interrupts them with irrelevant and obvious comments.
In the now restaurant foyer, I try to explain how I want to do my art work. "And you'll do it, too," concludes the local weatherman of decades, extending his hand. To try and concur with this strange familiarity, I take it, but his fingers become twisted as we shake. His face contorts, and he dies, his soul departed. As some of the others cover him, I 'return' toward the kitchen, passing a vestibule where a television is already playing comments to the press of the previous old wife, how she 'was there when it happened', et cetera.
Turn to go back out the same way, but now a wedding is taking place in the large foyer, confusing the way out. However, I can walk between the bride and groom, unnoticed, as a nonvisible alien, five feet tall, bald, dark eyed, uniting with my preincarnate self (says only this dream).
Exit onto a broad plain bisected by a massive queue of red lit human souls who can only see the backs of those ahead of them, all advancing in the same direction, away from the material world, to they know not what--as yet for some, for others a long wait.
I wander. Try to call for help from a Burt Young type in front of me, but if you speak it is garbled; if you just think it forth you can be heard to whatever degree.
Am waking. Know that i could be helped out of here with the right assistance. Am I dead? [4:45 a.m.]
In my thoughts, aliens say no one here will help me because i was once one of them, an alien, in a previous life so the other humans don't think I need it --- they dully 'sense' I am not serious. I could get out anytime. This interim zone is free to go on occurring without me.
And of my usual dilemmas? They claim they foresaw such a wide gap would be between me and them, the aliens, in this life. I think, 'don't push it, (fuckers)', but they're more or less smug about foreseeing my hostility, too. Yeah, right.
My thoughts become lighter and more intelligible. 'Recalling' the opening of this dream, I find today 'The Kinder Kids' by Lionel Feininger in our local library.
[I never dream these sorts of 'alien connections'. I'm not close minded about people who do, or claim they do. But, in my opinion, 'the Greys' can take a flying fuck at the moon for all I care. None of that crop of stuff has personally involved me in any form or fashion, and it's fine with me if it stays that way forever. To my mind, they're just (generally) unseen and archaic progenitors of suffering, in a somewhat acceptable, bug eyed, 1950ish guise, however photonically or psychologically generated. Like stink on a cracker. This epithet does not constitute a new racism. I speak only of any beings causing pain to others. Not as a collective. If they're materially as real as we are (whatever that is), so much the worse for them].
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| Burt Young |
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| Lil Tiny Comics #2, (crop) c. 1980 Rick Veitch ~ Heavy Metal, August. |
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| This collection was a long time coming. Fantagraphics (2013) |
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