brother minister takes things into his own hands

beer bust at joe's, late night hanuted house & tomato eating with duane & flo, 3am quesadilla

I'm doing a wedding in this gigantic, extremely wealthy home. Much like the Dinges' house when we were kids, cream colored everything and lots of light in the split level. The whole process is a hassle, though, and things are sort of poorly planned or something, people aren't paying attention, things are going, wrong, etc.

Afterwards, people are getting very drunk, especially it seems, one of the bridesmaids [who is a mix of Rachel that I met last night who works for D&F and DiDi from Josh's store]. She has taken or torn off the skirt from her dress and merely wrapped a sash of a wide ribbon around her waist, which obscures her bajango but leaves her butthole exposed (and strangely pert and visible). She's bustling around the place, hootin' & hollerin'. There's some whispering about who got to be maid of honor and who didn't.

I go for some time by myself, and where else would I spend a quiet moment but at the top of a sky-scraping wooden utility pole that seems to overlook my neighborhood. I find myself up there, but I feel I am not as at ease as I would normally be, as of course this is my usual unwinding spot [a considerable contrast to any and every other dream I've had about being somewhere high up]. I realize that the utility workers have studded my relaxation pole with spikes so they can climb it more quickly, but for me it just makes it harder to properly hold on. I think back on how I would usually throw my legs over one cross beam at the top and basket myself quite comfortably, but no more, I guess. I suddenly have a friend who is hanging out in the swaying top branches of adjacent tree. This makes me feel dizzy and I want down. (I think there is also a blimp coasting by.) I climb down, scraping myself up the whole way.

Back at the reception, things have deteriorated and now the party has been crashed by thugs. They're really redneck teenagers, but I think we're calling them "punks," kind of Dirty Harry style. The drunken bridesmaid, myself, and a few of the guys decide that we have to take care of this problem. I will lead the way, they'll back me up. I go upstairs and find one of the crashers. Pretty hot guy, trim but muscled & wearing a tight gray t-shirt, baseball cap, jeans, a little bit of beard. Lickety split I get him in some sort of hold and I hyperextend his arm at the elbow. I expect it to break, but instead it bends, sickeningly. His forearm becomes gaunt and it's like slowly bending a very thick and stiff piece of rubber. His wrist where I'm gripping him squeezes down to a mere shred of skin, the hand balloons, and is left dangling like a popped-out eyeball. I know that I am causing this guy unbelievable pain and I like it, even if his ruined arm is making me feel sick. Another of his friends, a big guy in a hawaiian shirt, comes charging up. I drop mister flexo and punch the guy straight in the face. I somehow put my hand behind his head and sock him several more times in the mouth. In typical dream fashion, my punches are not terribly effective, but I'm applying myself and definitely doing some damage.

mick jagger's cherry tree

dream 2 of 2

sandwich mentioned below

I'm up at my parents' house, apparently living there. I am awoken early one MOnday morning when Aunt Anne and Uncle Howard and others come over, they've brought this young cherry tree for me that they intend to plant in the back yard. We sit in a circle of folding chairs in the grass of my parents' yard, talk. Hang out.

A few days later, I'm in my parents' bedroom, it's 10pm. My mom mentions that Mick Jagger has called and would really like to talk to me about that cherry tree. I know that Mick Jagger is at home in London, dying, but I don't know why he's calling me. I suddenly realize that he gifted the tree to me, but that no one had ever come out and said that. I fell funny. But if he wants to talk to be about the tree, I should call him. It seems important to him. My mom hands me two zine-format booklets [but more like what I make for doing weddings], and I look through them, both for Mick Jagger's number and for some space to jot notes as we talk. Mom and I (and some strange man in the doorway?) discuss the time difference. I'm sure I'm right and that I should go ahead and call.

god rapes an old woman

dream 1 of 2

(a suprisingly tasty) grilled veggie sandwich and fries from Mimi's Cafe, early to bed

I'm visiting a small town up in foothills, probably an old mining town. Wandering around the main drag, consisting of literally fives of old storefronts. The world here has a nu-horror-film blue/silver cast to it. I go into one of the storefronts, it is an open space with wood plank floors that step up some half way back. I run into some older women there, maybe they think I'm someone else, but they want me to help go through their friend's things. I'm not certain if she has died, or if she has been put in a home. I tag along. Maybe we check through her desk (was she a teacher?), and then we go to her house.

We're going through boxes and closets. Pulling our clothes, exchanging memories or something. Then suddenly the woman is there with us, aged, bent, in a white night gown. She seems afraid, out of it. She needs help. The door bursts open and God (or a god? i'm not certain) is standing there in the person of actor James Cromwell (played George on _6 Feet Under_). He is naked, triumphant. A small sun obscures his genitals and gives off a blinding light. He siezes the old woman and begins to savagely fuck her. She goes limp immediately, either catatonic or dead. He continues to assault her, this way and that, she is a rag doll. He keeps on repeating, almost robotically, "I love you. We've never been together like this before." But no matter which way she is turned, bent, twisted, her head always falls back and her empty eyes are fixed on me.

[Strangely, this dream was alarming, but not as horrifying as it sounds. I was sorry for the woman, but rather emotionally removed, as a character in the dream.]

the "in-field incident"

beer bust with chris, late night cereal

I'm working as staff at a women's soccer tourney. I'm going around with a clipboard, trying to get something straightened out; or maybe I'm handing out snacks. Or both. The ball comes bouncing out of a game and past me, I stop it. Then it's actually a men's game, and I decide that I'm going to participate, even though it's not my team. I pick up the ball and intend to throw it back in. A skinny guy comess running up and admonishes me that nobody wants to see a repeat of the "In-field incident," a reference to some epic screw-up that I'm famous for. I feel slighted and needled. I throw the ball in, but my strength is zero and it's a lousy throw, goes nowhere, and gets knocked right back out again. I run to throw again, to the groans of my teammates, and this time the sun blasts me in the eyes and I make some maniac throw into the crush and jumble of players, again useless and I am humiliated.

coffee

beer & frontier, late night bowl of frosted flakes

Standing at the buffet in the kitchen. I'm going to be nice and grind some of Josh's coffee from the Sunflower Market for him. I depress the top of the grinder, hold it, shake it around a few times to get it all right & ground up. But then from the living room or the blue room, I hear Josh activating a grinder, too, and I realize that he's grinding some cheaper coffee, and that I'm wasting his nice stuff. I feel bad, I don't know if the ground coffee will keep or if I will have to toss it. I keep grinding, though, and consider the fact that I'm approaching an espresso grind. Maybe I should stop.

hanging a show at a warehouse dentist's office

pasta with cream sauce and mushrooms, broccoli, onions, garlic, and sausage; water

I'm supposed to hang a pretty big show at my Uncle Thad's new office, which is warehouse scale and just finishing up on construction. There's a big grand opening tonight and there are loads of people puttering around, caterers, contractors, well wishers. It's arranged into operatory cubicles, but on a huge scale-- each "cubicle" is easily 30 feet wide and 60 feet long. Each has a concrete floor with a long ramp down into the room from the main hall at one end. The artworks are supposed to go up on the long walls, which means there is the straight wall (they don't reach the very high warehouse ceilings) vs. sloping floor problem. I need to ask how they want this done, so I go in search of my dad to ask [how ridiculously Freudian], as he is apparently Jefe on this project.

Looking huge room to huge room, I get to the front room and there are a bunch of rich bastards up there sucking up to my uncle. They hand him an envelope and he opens it. It's a prize (the "Park Prize" maybe?), and he reads it aloud, that he gets $200,000. Of course he is hugely happy, but he acts like it's a lifesaver for his starving family, rather than just a nepotistic toss off from some rich society friends. Everyone is highly self-congratulatory and the crowd breaks back up into milling rich people.

I finally find my dad and explain the issue. I tell him that you can either measure from the floor or the ceiling, and he looks at me like I'm crazy and just being particular. I insist that if you want a long row of artworks to be hung straight that you do indeed have to measure. He's dubious, but I drag him back to the last giant operatory to show him. In the meantime, however, someone has gone ahead and hung the objects, and rather HIGH, right up against the top edge of the wall, so that they start off natural at the entry, but are way over your head by the end of the room. Dad doesn't like it much, and neither do I. I feel really undermined and wonder who is fucking off like this. Am _I_ supposed to hang this shit or not?

[sidenote on the artwork. All abstract horitz oils on canvas. Some are very flag-like with heavy, knifed application, rather like Jasper Johns. Others are more wild and all over. At least one, in the middle of the wall, is very long, maybe 7 feet, and only a foot high. The overalll effect of the hanging is kind of a rainbow shape. Double hung at one end, up to one, the long in the middle, and then double hung at the other end. It doesn't look right.]

rollercoaster

beer bust with chris, bagels & cream cheese

I'm on a roller coaster. The cars are long, and you strap in laying down, so that I can only see the sky, except when I'm flying down a slope, then I can see the actual coaster and out across the world. Occasionally, my view becomes 3rd person from the ground and I can see the entire thing. The actual sensations of powering around truns, clunking up slopes, and plunging downward and enormous speeds were amazingly realistic. Frightening but also very thrilling.

where's the team?

humus pita pit, water

My soccer team and I are staying in the downtown area of a city. It is suspiciously like the Gold St. area of ABQ downtown. We're all broken up and all over the place, but the coach announces to me that he has landed us a slot in a tournament in London. But where is everybody? He sends me to find people. Whoever I can lay hands on, enough to field a team and the rest will just have to stay behind. I strike out, crossing large skyways and bridges between buildings. I need to get down to street level.

There's a trio of bars where I suspect I'll find my team mates. I go into one, look around, no luck. Cross caddy corner and into another one. This one is painted and decorated like a kindergarten class turned into a coffee house. An Asian woman comes up to greet me and says she bets I need a place to study, indicates several low school desks where people are spread out reading. I tell her no, but I am looking for some people. She seems sorry I'm not really there to spend any money. I look around and leave.

I cross back to the third bar, enter. A voice suggests that a person can become sexually attracted to someone _after_ having sex with them, because the body will produce hormones in connection with the event. It is a pair from my team, apparently secretly a couple, and they're courting me. But I explain the situation, we need to get going.

renee's crazy family

beer, pizza, beer

[first part forgotten]

Out with renee's (from work) family, we're sort of picnicking on the grassy knoll just behind the Popejoy Hall loading dock. Some guy (her son?) and I are playing a sort of football type game with two spongy, nerf-like balls. It's getting to be twilight and harder to see to play. I think maybe weather is rolling in. There's anoher family packing up, too. They have two little girls, a toddler and a 5 year old, both very pale with pale pale blue eyes and white hair. The girls are dressed in white sun dresses. I go to help them, not certain if they really want my help though, a perfect stranger as I am. The toddler is being a pest and a bother, I pick her up but she struggles and flips around in my hands. There's something wierd and creepy about the girls.

Back at Renee's house, which is rather like my parents' house but sort of split level. They've been getting strange mail from someone, and they think it might be a long lost son harrassing them. No one is sure, though. They've gotten this strange pamphlet of collaged magazine images of women. There's a strange tear that progresses page to page. We hear the door, someone has come in uninvited and is walking through the house. We all think maybe it's him come back and it's alarming. But then it's just a friend of his, a tall, pale young man with crazy red hair and a goatee. He triumphantly announces that he can prove that it is indeed the son sending the strange mail. He has a handwriting sample on something, and the handwriting is very distinct, very stylized and pointed with lots of extra hooks and crooks. We're all absorbed in comparing the handwriting on the friend's sample to the writing that pops up in the pamphlet. I think that my experience with handwriting analysis should put me in charge of the comparison, but everyone is pulling and pushing and I have no real chance to put my skills to work.

a flippant bit

pesto pasta with broccoli & mushrooms, water, some otter pops

some bit that i can't remember, it hooked into the warriors come out to play dream

another failed sex dream [extremely explicit!]

saggios pizza with mushrooms & broccoli, water

The big contractor guy [that comes to the restaurant with the obnoxious skinny contractor guy] and I are in some sort of mercado like place, we duck back into a stall, a twisted little space that keeps us somewhat hidden from other people around. It's grimy, a concrete floor, plaster walls painted yellowish and greenish, a wrecked place. He lays down on a low platform or maybe a matress up against a wall, stretches out naked. I'm not thrilled that he expects me to suck him off, but he's such a hottie I'm willing to give it a try.

His dick is enormous in every way and I can barely think what to do with it. I manage to finally sort of stuff it down my throat in a way that it can just kind of be there and he can push it around and such, but I can still breathe. That goes on for a little while, not very fun for me and I'm still at a loss. Then his hard-on is gone, and all that's left is this tiny thing the size of the last joint of a pinky and two balls the size of lima beans. It's freakish. I start fumbling around, trying to get him hard again, he's rather demanding (especially for a guy that can't keep it up), but there's simply so little to work with. I get him up at least to palming size, but then there's this creepy, chitinous appendage at the end, which is ugly and unpleasant. His cock kind of comes and goes, always with the creepy claw on the end. I finally say something and he blythely declares it a toenail that grows there sometimes; he unceremoniously peels it away.

All the while I've been aware, and ever more so, that this guy is just some straight jerk that wants to experiment and have a go, and I'm not very into it. I give up on his dick entirely and decide to just try to enjoy his body while it's there. I start to nuzzle around on him, lick him and such. But then he's a gangly, dusky sack of a man, completely unattractive, his body hair reduced to little clutches of bristly whiskers like doll hair. Never mind.