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And never forget.
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I keep updating and playing my new Michael Tsarion PLAYLIST for getting in bed and listening. The rules are: I can fall asleep if I'm going to. I can listen again when I'm awake.
Usually if I'm going to incorporate his voice into my dream it turns out to be darn wonderful, but the jury's still out on today's dream.
I was out in a farm yard, very busy working for the prosecution. Vladimir Putin was the DA and we were trying to nail a murderer. Vladimir kept showing up in the midst of my efforts. Wearing an impeccable suit. Smiling warmly at me. Touching me on my shoulder. Very happy with me. But suddenly we were in some kind of outbuilding and the defendant, an extremely tall and skinny and sleek and vain fellow dressed in perfectly fitting 30s style attire was nattering on in some loooong self-serving riff, preening in the mirror, nose in the air, acting as though we were unscrubbed proles beneath his notice, evidently quite smug that he was going to beat this rap.
A rage welled up in me to silence him and broke over him like never anyone has suffered my wrath before, but it didn't even slow him up.
This made Vladimir even happier with me, but the thing is: I was the murderer. I can't remember for sure if the victim needed killing and the skinny pig needed framing, or if I'd meant to kill the skinny pig, screwed up and had to punt by framing him, but I do remember that Vladimir knew about this and was going to make sure the right person was convicted... which, go figure, was not me.
I don't know if Michael was saying something out there that was pissing me off or what. I'm going to have to listen again, but it was a really outrageous riff on the virtues of being the preening sleek skinny pig and I can't describe the molten hatred I felt. Maybe if you picture that wave that shoots out from the base of a nuke while the mushroom cloud is going up. It was something like that.
...
Yes. It seems backassward that I, the perp, and Putin, knowingly prosecuting someone for something he knew he didn't do, would be in most versions the bad guys, the guilty, but it was definitely not that way in the dream. It helps if you remember that all the parts of these sorts of dreams only make sense from the way the dreamer sees them. If I were someone who did not trust Putin, he would not have been the dashing DA in this dream, but I do trust and like him. Whereas, and I remember thinking to myself in the dream, the spectacularly tall and skinny pig preening away looked a lot like Adrian Brody, who played the lead in The Pianist. While I think Brody is kind of cool-looking, kind of chic in outline, I really hated the guy he played in that movie. That was one protagonist I disrespected more as the movie went on. He never won me over. So that was a great resemblance for this fucker in my dream.
He was wearing beautifully pressed brown felt slacks, a wifebeater and he'd just taken off his Sam Spade hat and thrown his dark gray chamois shirt across the back of a chair. His hair was long and dark brown like Brody's and he had the same hook nose. He was checking his face for the closeness of his shave, and towering there by the mirror. He was rapping down this perfectly executed swath of sophistry in praise of his own filthy character. He was most definitely the bad guy.
And even though I remember feeling a steak of fear that it would be discovered I was the real murderer, despite complete faith in Putin to keep that from coming to light, I never lost the distinct feeling that we were the good guys and the Brody-morph was evil incarnate.
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