The yield of the deep night and early early morning so far has both my closest friends and I bumped off by assassins after some significant attempts to fend them off and then cut up into package sized parcels and stuffed into the ceiling vents. All of course in broad daylight in the middle of an older part of the city at a vacant supermarket storefront. You would think that my subconscious, or the gods and goddesses of the night if you choose, could at least give me a break? The next back to back segment had me as a passenger of a C47 flying at treetop across country. The cabin was more reminiscent of a bus and it was a struggle to keep from being tossed about.. All the passengers had to where an inflatable flight suit that would be inflated to full like a child’s ball if they visibly minded the erratic flying of the pilot. When the aircraft finally taxied into a drive-in restaurant, all the ‘inflatables’ were not deflated and couldn’t deplane to use the restroom.
Now tell me? Are these dreams really something my own active imagination would come up with on its own? Well, I suppose half would say, “Yes, they’re your dreams you came up with them!” and the other might say, “I can’t say I’m an expert”. But I would say that whatever the case may be, there is a toxic element born of watching too much television that disorders the subconscious of the mind. “Yes, I plead guilty!” I spent too much time with an older relative watching too much of the ‘boob toobe’ and look what happened! Cognition and recognition, “wreckognition” if you will. Both infer that there is a replaceable part (i.e. “cog”?) that is key to this form of synapse brain sourcing. Are these fruits of my inner imagination somehow from the wrong part of town consciousness? Or is something stimulated within my id that perversely suppresses the residential possibilities of sun filled tropical islands with beautiful maidens handing off pina colada or two to such as the like of me? It make one wonder if the well of consciousness is filled at the bottom with all manner of experiential pollutants in its sump accumulated over a lifetime of less likely encounters. Something along the level of a La Brea tar pit that offers up a skeleton or two at its surface. Maybe the ancient Egyptians were right, and Thoth has to wear rubber gloves at his scale for those messy souls? For my money, I’m about due for the sunlit lounge chair at the end of my rocky plane ride, “Good Night!!”