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I put on the first installment of Dan Carlin's King of Kings series [mp3] to cover any daytime noise problem and because Part Two is coming soon, stripped, put a headband over my eyes like a sleep mask and zonked out. Hadn't been able to get to it for three days, not since about five minutes of it dreaming my temporary boyfriend was really a drugstore chain magnate and he was ushering me around to various aisles of his superstore, hiding me from his mother.
So, no, no, no, I couldn't just finally get it at the end of the strobe fest I'm supposed to refer to as "sleep" last night. I had to be up and pumping myself up past my eyeballs with about five mugs of septuple-espresso strength coffee to shove me through the pain and hate sludged intertubes for some hours before there was no further possibility of staving it off.
Dan began lecturing to me out of an old fashioned radio set and a strange man materialized behind me and I didn't care if he was a murderer or a demon or could definitely have been younger because he was perfectly fulfilling his responsibility for raping me. I mean, not likely I'll let you, but if I do, you better not fuck up. He didn't.
A really tall, supermodel-like redhead came in to snatch up some clothing she seemed to think I'd stolen from her. I didn't care about that either, but I began to want to open my eyes, but they seemed to be glued shut. I couldn't see my expert assailant. I seemed to be able to see everything else but not him because my eyes wouldn't open even when I was using my fingers to pry them open. He was being solicitous and sounding concerned about my plight while he was sprucing himself up to leave.
I finally got the headband off my face and he was in a crisp linen suit with perfectly greased hair and rouged lips... maybe 50 and kind of puffy, but doing the Dirk Bogarde bit, without the hat. Fine. He gave me a peck, winked at me, and left as the supermodel was materializing again. I asked her if she were a demon and she admitted it. I didn't care. It discouraged her.
The house was, incredibly, an even worse mess than this one and seemed to be one I'd shared with Libby forty-five years ago. Libby was not dead. She was in a rest home and dying and her kids and other relatives were arriving and acting imperious about the state of her house, and I didn't care, but what I did care about was that it was becoming evident that I had not fed her cats in days, that I'd forgotten all about them and they needed feeding darn badly.
They were chasing me around the chaos and came out on the deck with me where I was looking for something mandatory to getting them fed. I was scratching the forehead of one of them and hundreds and hundreds of fleas were jumping out of her fur while I was doing it.
I keep trying to get dressed because people are coming and I need to get to the kitchen to find cat food somewhere in this squalor, but I'm beginning to remember that there's no more cat food and I have to go to the store for it while I'm in the bathroom cleaning up some heaps of thoroughly mouse-gnawed toilet paper with dead baby mice in them before the cats might resort to them. The mice were dead from poison. Didn't want to poison the cats.
Finally I'm dressed and about to rush out to the store when Libby's daughter, who is faaar too young to be her daughter, if, of course, Libby'd ever had a daughter, which she certainly did not and was actually part of why she killed herself forty years ago, but I was being addressed as though I were Libby's handmaid and quizzed about my performance and beginning to be ordered around by this young lady, who couldn't have been more than twenty and a snot-nosed preppy her mother would have killed, to boot.
For a moment I tried receiving this action, out of pity or befuddlement or whatever, but shortly found I did not care about her any more than I'd cared about the supermodel demon and cut her off to announce I was going to the store for cat food.
I drove off. The nearest "grocery store" was half senior center lunchroom and half spiritual library and meditation center. There were turnstiles going to each half. The codger comedian who'd been chatting me up from the parking lot to the "grocery store" was going to the lunchroom to meet up with a bunch of his family members, invited me in.
Had to tell him no because I had to get cat food. I was in the middle of the meditation room slash library with my grocery cart wondering how the fuck this was progressing toward fed cats when I woke up.
Seem to be having a run on sexy dreams lately. Darn. But this one had a lot of Zen symbolism in it I have to mull now. Actually, maybe even the secret drugstore mogul dream needs a bit of concentration too.
always and any time....
