I’m in a junkyard filled with smashed up cars. The world is set in a deep blue cast. The crushed cars are arranged as a labyrinth — the walls, six high. I am wondering through this maze and a woman, a college crush of mine, is following me. I’m annoyed by her presence. She never cared for me. Why the hell is she following me around? She flirting with me and I want her to stop.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of one of the cars. Do I have a second nose? What’s going on here!?
No, it’s not a nose, it’s some kind of bump or pimple to the left of my nose. And it’s growing. It isn’t painful, but it is hideous. When I squeeze it nothing happens. Every time I see my reflection I shutter. Will this thing ever go away? Or is it new and here to stay? It has now exceeded the size of my nose, and it’s expansion is showing no sign of stopping. Should I cut it off? . . . or learn to like it?
And why . . . why is this girl following me?
I’m in Texas, but this Texas isn’t landlocked. There is a sea that floods in at high tide and renders travel impossible. I’m traveling, trying to find my way to . . . wait!? To Where? Where am I going?
Through hitchhiking I’ve made it to a strange roadhouse. It’s nestled between two short brown dusty mountains, but high up, and I have view that extends 100s of miles into the desert. I don’t have a lot of time here — the tide is coming in, and when it does I will be stuck here for days, maybe weeks. I decide to make a call to my mother. A familiar voice answers the phone, but it isn’t her. I must have dialed the wrong number, but I can’t just hang up — I know this person. I have to figure out who it is without tipping them off that I unintentionally called them. I ramble uncomfortably about nothing for a few minutes. . . .
Got it! It’s Kirsten. I know her, but haven’t spoken with her in years. Shit! Now is not the time to catch up. I need to get out of here — I have to find a way to make this short. She then tells me it’s her birthday and is upset cause no one (other than me) has called her. The tide is coming. I’m stuck. I’m staying. I’m listening. The flooded mountains do look magnificent — but I left my camera in the trunk of the last ride I caught.
I am at a strange campsite. People live here. Or perhaps I do. There is a fire between three trees that share the same root structure, and a large grate is nestled between the valley of these trees to form a stove top. On the grate is a giant chrome metal pan — it’s about 1.5 meters in diameter (5 feet). In it is sausage. My mother is making it. It looks like goat shit in gravy with a cheese layer on top. It smells delicious, and it’s finished.
“Do you want some?”
– – –
There is strange woman with tattoos of stars above her anus. She’s nude, standing in front of a mirror, spreading her butt checks to reveal the stars. Another woman with tattoos (whom I recognize) is trying to tell me something. I don’t understand her. I don’t know what I’m doing in this dark room. There are other people here too . . . a lot of people, but I can’t see them. I want to leave, but there seems to be something in the mirror that the woman is gazing at herself in. . . . No, it’s not a mirror anymore — it’s a window. Perhaps because of a spell relating to the star tattoos. There is violent storm happening outside . . . it’s not a good place to escape through — I’ll have to find another way out. ♨
I broke into a house with a friend of mine — the friend was a woman for sure, some sort of hybrid of my Mother and one of my best friends. She was pissed off at the homeowner, and I’m not sure exactly why. But she was full of a righteous anger. The homeowner was also a woman — I didn’t see her, but in my dream I knew who she was (though now I don’t recall). It was night, and she was asleep. We crawled in through a back window, we were in the basement, my friend started vandalizing the house. She started smashing the framed family photos on the wall, and when she realized the sound wasn’t drawing any serious attention she went crazy. I left the house and waited outside. I didn’t like what was happening. I didn’t know what I got myself into. I waited under a tree at the side of the house, and looked out at the cal-de-sac in a daze — partially keeping an eye out for signs of police. The cal-de-sac was the same as the one my family’s home is in and where I grew up. Occasional I would go back and check to see what was happening and try to get my friend to abandon her malicious project, but to no avail. I waited under that tree until daybreak. Then I demanded that we go, and I said I would steal the small mobile-home from the driveway and wait in the dead-end street around the corner from the cal-de-sac (a place I spent much of my childhood). I did so, and as I was there some strangers came that wanted to buy the mobile-home. I thought that it maybe a good idea to get rid of it, but didn’t want to deal with the paperwork. Finally my friend showed up, she more clearly resembled my Mother at this point, and she said she was done and that we could leave. I remember feeling bad for the woman in the house, and feeling ashamed that I played a role in the havoc. While driving away, trailing the stolen mobile-home, I saw that the house was my family’s home. ♨