A Dream

Others they are just stupid – but I guarantee this dream is… well, just read on:

I dreamt I was in a sea-shore pub down the road from my daughter and her mothers house. I’ve never set foot on that land again, but I got a call while having a beer and somehow I decided I would go, after all my troubles are over, and so I did…

The next thing I know I wake up on a couch in their living room, my pants, my wallet, my keys and my car are all gone. I freak out! The car is a fucking Porsche! What has happened? Who stole my pants etc.!! There is a man there who I understand is her husband, he is called ‘Brest’, and the only significance I can think of that, is the Fassbinder movie ‘Effi Briest’, which I have never seen but now must watch to analyse for clues… or just the word ‘breast’ as in ‘tit’, but I’m still going to watch the movie in hope of profundities. He seems suspiciously subdued. There are two young infants on the carpet, I assume they are her new children. Nobody admits to knowing what’s happened to my pants or my car, and I didn’t think to ask how I ended up on the couch, and also realized under the circumstances any answer given will assuredly be a lie. In the dream I am totally lucid.

The circumstances are bizarre and possibly embarrassing, but I must face them no matter how odd, and I realize this. My first reaction is rage, but I realize I can not take out my rage on anyone here. I quickly scan ‘Brest’ to wonder if I should beat him. The urge is strong, and my hands and body are straining from resisting the impulse. The mother and my daughter seem conciliatory and reasonable, and they give me a pair of Brest’s pants to wear.(HA HA – dreams are diabolical.)

I realize there is nothing I can do but calm myself and rationally calculate. I know the mother is involved with the occult, all radical feminists in this area are. I realize there is no way of logically finding out what happened to my belongings, and little chance of recovering them in the present tense. This is a situation where no answers are ever given – and I realize this. So I decide the only prudent course is to be rational, pretend these strange events are small potatoes, and just leave and hitchhike home where I can think carefully on what has transpired. As I leave I meet a person who I knew when I lived on this particular island. I recall in the dream a conversation I had with him – We were drinking in a cabin and as an answer to a question and as a joke I said  that ‘I was a schizophrenic’. He replied ‘no, I am a schizophrenic’. I said ‘ya maybe, but not as profoundly schizophrenic as I unfortunately am.”  To which he replied ‘no I’m afraid you’re not as schizophrenic as I am’ – of course I came back with vastly elaborate and complex claim of exactly how overwhelmingly schizophrenic I was, that he had no hope ever of equaling my schizophrenic excellence.

To which he replied…and this came as a bombshell:
“ No,  I am ‘a-clinically-diagnosed-schizophrenic’…..” with the stresses and pauses in all the right places to completely convince against my will that his schizophrenia was an insurmountable fact, a mountain I could never climb. I admitted I was a fake schizophrenic, just a drinking boast of course, a challenge or duel, but that he was an actual ‘clinically-diagnosed-schizophrenic’ with bona fides, and I was man enough to admit it. So I had to give him my respect and applause. He had not backed down or wavered, or allowed himself to be outfoxed by me, and I’m a natural born outfoxer, and his confidence and resolve had won this drinking argument. Somewhere professionals had endorsed in writing his state of schizophrenia as 24 carats and that matter was beyond dispute.

Suddenly flash forward to the path outside the house I just left and there he is. He looks much older, yet I recognize him. He is wearing a blue shirt and he reaches into the ‘Brest’ pocket and hands me a small tied off balloon of cocaine.

I don’t really want or need it in my state, but to me to refuse hospitality is a sign of uncivilized behaviour, so even if I’m going to throw it in a ditch, I take it and say thanks and leave. And that was the end of the dream.

Don’t you hate me now?

(By anonymous author)

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