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TrumpAir

Dream 2018
TrumpAir


I walked alone somewhere strange and cold on what seemed an infinite pier stretching over a gray ocean. I knew I was on a trip away from home, but didn’t know where. Although I was alone, it didn’t bother me. I was comfortable.

Comfortable.

From behind me came a gaggle of voices, laughing and singing, in an Irish accent. They moved ahead of me, a small group of men and one woman. From the similarities of their features, I could see they were siblings.

The sister turned her head to stare at me, grinned. She was tall and strikingly beautiful. Her focused energy made me uncomfortable.

“Which way are you going?” she asked. “Why are you walking by yourself?”

I pointed down the pier. “I don’t know, but there’s only one direction, anyway.”

She fixed her chilling eyes on my face and swung her head left. The wooden path before us split in two, doubled with the movement of her head. The pier now forked in two directions, the original knifing away into the dismal distance, and a new way paved in concrete which descended in hundreds of steps. The level of the ocean dropped uncannily with the steps. Once my eyes froze on this new path, I was afraid to look again at the first pier, afraid I’d be crushed by water.

“Why don’t you walk with us?” the woman asked. I started to say something, but she grabbed the sleeve of my jacket and pulled me close to her. It was a cold day, and she radiated a warmth which was calming. So I followed her down the steps, with her brothers behind us. They spoke Irish now; I had no idea what they were saying, but each sentence was like a burning wick into a bomb of laughter.

At the bottom of the steps, the path broadened into a vast plaza, at the center of which was an airplane surrounded by a small group of people. Emerald Gaelic characters covered the side of the aircraft. The woman’s brothers began to cheer and run, as did their sister.

“Where are we going?”

They ignored me and raced to the aircraft, and I followed. As we got closer to the people there, the woman stopped abruptly and cursed. A tall man in a rumpled suit stood by the staircase. He smiled at her like a ghoul. It was Donald Trump.

Trump reached for her and the green lettering fell from the plane to the tarmac, revealing gold letters: TRUMPAIR. He grasped her elbow while she screamed.

“I am the pilot of this plane,” Trump said. “The best pilot. We’re all going on an amazing trip!”

The woman’s own brothers surrounded her and dragged her up the stairs, while she fought and bit them.

Like a coward, I turned to run, but Trump’s men grabbed me, herding me onto the plane. I struggled to get free, facing Trump as he ascended the stairs, the hollow white skin around his eyes like the prophecy of skeleton death as he smiled and smiled and smiled.

The interior of the plane was much smaller than the exterior suggested, one row of seats behind the cockpit, and one seat high in the rear, accessed by a small stairway. The men shoved me up the stairs to the lone, high seat and strapped me in. The harness was tight and pressed me down, and as I fought against it, a window opened in the aisle floor between the seats below me, revealing the tarmac.

The Irish brothers piled into the seats on the left of the plane and were quiet, staring serenely at the cockpit. Their sister was squished into the window seat at the right by Trump’s men. Her face was pushed against the glass with a man’s elbow jammed into the back of her head. She made keening sounds that scared the fuck out of me.

In the cockpit, Trump settled into the pilot’s chair and an advisor, whose face scrolled through so many different features to make me dizzy, sat in the copilot’s chair.

Trump pursed his lips and squinted at the controls. He reached for a dial.

“You don’t know how to fly, Sir,” said his advisor.

“I am the world’s greatest pilot,” Trump exclaimed and his hand got closer to the dial.

The advisor grabbed Trump’s hands and pushed them to manipulate all the controls in a blur, then the plane rose from the tarmac like a helicopter. Once we were airborne, with the runway not far below, Trump laughed and grabbed his advisor’s head in one hand, then shoved him down onto the floor of the cockpit. He then grasped the yoke with both hands and yanked it back and forth like he was captain of a Tonka Truck.

The Irish woman freed her face from the window and shrieked at him.

Trump’s face got red and the plane dipped fast toward the runway. I could see a man down on the tarmac through the floor window. He was a black man in a work outfit. The plane fell and fell, and I turned my face away in horror as the bottom of the plane hit the tarmac and crushed the man; his remains gored the glass.

Captain Trump’s advisor climbed back into his chair as the plane scraped against the ground. He guided Trump’s hands again on the controls until the plane again ascended and Trump again pushed him away and took charge and the craft plummeted. This cycle occurred over and over, smashing and squishing countless people into the ground under the aisle floor window.

I imagined the trail of crushed people behind us and got sick. We never, ever took off. Just a series of leaps and falls that slaughtered the unwary.

It finally ended when I looked up from the viscera-crusted floor window to see the brothers were standing in the cockpit around Trump, and their sister had her fingers tight in his hair. He was squealing in pain, and his squeals seemed to lower the plane gracefully to the runway to a soft landing. She let go of his hair and the exit door opened and stairs lowered to the ground. My harness vanished.

Trump and his men washed out of the plane like vermin on a tide of lye. The woman and her brothers exited the plane, and I followed.

Trump was surrounded on both sides by his entourage. He looked pleased, proud, vindicated.

I peered over my shoulder and saw that endless trail of death on the runway and shuddered.

One of his men pointed at me, pointed at the Irish woman and her brothers.

While Trump looked at nowhere, a satisfied smile on his face, the man said, “It isn’t his fault. He never claimed to KNOW how to fly. That’s preposterous! Surely it’s your responsibility, and he has nothing to do with it.”

They surrounded Trump in a lighted coil that SQUEEZED and soon pressed out all illumination, and drifted away.

Dream Over
































The Wheel of Time Fashion Show.

The Wheel of Fashion Show with No Regard to Time: Robert Jordan and H. sit on opposite sides of the catwalk, which is lit by rows of engraved STAND LAMPS. The engravings are myriad and Jordan describes each. H. has a censor button that she can use on Jordan, but she smiles at him because he is so beautiful and doesn’t push the button. Numerous people from Randland walk up and down the catwalk beneath tapestries so varied and described by Jordan without H. pushing the button. The people are dressed in intricate fashion: sleeves, necks, belts, jewelry, etc., which Jordan describes in a deep, rich, slow voice, and Harriet never pushes the button. Nynaeve is pulled into the chamber by her braid, which is yanked by an unseen force. While the models drift on the catwalk, liveried servants scurry around them carrying towels. They knuckle their foreheads and kneel and appear startled, before running away. Nynaeve steps up behind H. and pulls her hair, but H. still won’t push the button.

This goes on forever and is reborn.

Santa Claus

Santa Claus can bench press 950 pounds without a spotter.
Other things Santa Claus can do:

A. When inspired, he can take off his cap and his scalp becomes a tremendous spotlight able to penetrate the abyss of space. He uses this to show individual naughty children the planet where they will be exiled after too many sins, and even more specific, the mountain cave where they will wait to be eaten by unnamed beings.

B. He has a water organ made entirely of frozen peppermint candy and powered by fortified wine instead of water. When he plays his favorite tune, which is a secret, Easter eggs in America turn into miniature Eyes of Sauron.

C. He can knit deceptive sweaters that look warm and fuzzy, which they are, but they steal the warmth of everyone that person would have cared about in the future. Of course, that person doesn't know, and Santa wants to keep it that way.

As you can see, Santa Claus is amazing and terrible.

Dream: Follow the Kitten

Dream May 3, 2018


I had a dream that Morp Konky bought out a creative firm on an isolated island somewhere on the Tyrrhenian Sea off the coast of Italy. I was hired there by an old friend. I went there by ferry, and at one point my car fell into the ocean and everyone laughed at me as I singlehandedly pulled it out of the water. When I got to the firm, my friend showed me around. I was still wet. Keenla Sloey worked there and gave me a bright smile. Gary worked there, but he pretended he didn’t know me. A big weight-lifting guy worked in the same office as Gary and said to me, “You look sleepy.” I said, “Your neck is huge.” And he pulled his head into his sweater like a turtle. I asked my friend if I would be copy-editing. “You’ll see,” she said. We walked into a hallway that was bordered by chain-link fence. Morp Konky was standing there at a counter holding a baby that looked just like him. The baby had curly hair and was sucking a pacifier. “Shake his hand,” he said to me, pointing to the baby. I did, and the baby’s grip was ferocious, hurt my hand. “I’ve been training it,” Morp said. So we kept walking down the hallway and my friend pointed to a kitten on the ground by the fence. “One of your main duties will be to keep the kitten from getting out.” Immediately the kitten crept out through one of the fence holes, but my friend didn’t say anything. The tour went on and on, and I had no idea what my job would be, and I didn’t like the idea of working for Morp, so I left my friend and found the back exit. Zig Ziglar stood by the back door. He saw I wanted to get out and said, “If you leave, I will turn into a demon.” I saw the kitten out there and shrugged and walked out. Over my shoulder, Ziglar was growing into something monstrous.

And that was that.

Dream Over

Dream - Cliffside Writing Cabin?


Cliffside Writing Cabin?


A disjointed dream. I was attending a sort of writer’s workshop and general getaway at a cabin situated at the edge of a cliff hanging high over the lapping waters of a cave ocean. The cliff on which the cabin was situated was the topmost of several cliffs, each one stretched out farther than the one above.

A prominent fantasist was the guest writer to lead the workshop, and in the dream – he was surly and quick to anger. While the cabin was inhabited by writers, it was also crammed with squatters. There were multiple bedrooms, but not many bathrooms. One jerk had taken up the back bedroom with his small family, and that room had a bathroom to itself. If anyone wanted to use that bathroom, he sneered at them and called them sick and gruesome names.

At one point in the dream, I stood in the dark street in front of the cabin with others. The guest writer was engaged in an argument with another man. It escalated, and the two men proceeded to beat the fucking shit out of each other. While they punched and kicked, they started crying. I was so embarrassed, so I crept away toward the only entrance to the cabin, which was in the rear, just a few yards from the cliff. The stone steps to the door were piled awkwardly on a buckled hillock of land. I saw it and immediately knew that because of my dipshit leg and balance, I might fall. So I watched several people enter the cabin, looking at me like the what the fuck are you waiting for dude?

Finally I tried to ascend the steps, and the world TILTED. I pinwheeled my arms and fell to the ground, sliding down loose gravel toward the edge. Before I pitched over the edge, someone grabbed my feet, and began hauling me up. It was my brother, saving me again. He pulled me upright and said, “You almost fell.”

We stood there silent for a few minutes, staring down at the black water. Enormous ripples disturbed the surface, as if something colossal moved below.

I looked around in panic. I was suddenly worried about my sister. “Where the hell is she? I haven’t seen her for hours.” He didn’t know, either, so we began a search for her. We found an access path down the cliffs that led to the water, and we descended calling out her name. At the bottom near the breakwater, we saw no trace of her, both of us horrified that she may have fallen. Someone called from above, “Your sister is at Wal-Mart! She’ll be here soon.”

We exhaled in relief.
Far out in the cave ocean, something positively gigantic broke through the surface. Four ebony sperm whales rose up, each one ten times as large as a normal specimen. The whales were attached to each other, head to head and tail to tail. When they cleared the water, they transformed into elephants, the color of coal and each the size of Tolkien’s oliphaunts. They broke apart and charged away into the inky recesses of the cave, the water supporting them as if it was shimmering, black glass.

Dreamshift.

We were back in the cabin. It was crowded with writers, strangers, friends, and family. A creature walked in, smoking a cigarette, a three-foot-tall Ganesha. His packoderm skin was heavily pebbled and black like the oliphaunts we had seen on the cave water. He blended into the nearest conversation with ease.
The crowd in the cabin seemed to multiply, knotting up. A man I didn’t know pushed through from the back, his eyes focused on mini-Ganesha.
“What the fuck is that thing?” He pointed at Ganesha, his finger going from head to toe and back again. “You must have some sort of BIRTH DEFECT! How do you even let yourself be alive?”
Ganesha smiled, didn’t say anything. He took a long drag on his cigarette and stretched his trunk out to the man’s face, and blew the smoke out, enveloping the asshole’s head. When the smoke had dissipated, so had the man’s head and neck. His body was still, with a blank space above his shoulders.

With one of his many arms, Ganesha gestured to a shadow in the cabin, and a woman I had once cared for emerged from a doorway. She looked at me for a moment. I could see my image reflected in the wetness of her pupil, and it swiftly deteriorated, and her recognition of me was gone. She leapt into the air and started to dance around the crowd, dancing alone, weaving through the people maze. I squinted my eyes and didn’t know who she was.
I wanted to watch the cave water again, so I went out the door.
Someone had fixed the steps.

Dream Over


















Transition

Transition


Our robotic coal mine canary runs on a solar charged battery. Cheese Kurls have been rising out of the foyer carpet for five days now, and Shibbety the Maid avoids that room. His army-issue canteen is a holy chalice that shines like a green angel in the catacombs. It’s tough when you have three shoulders and a jelly arm. We drink waters out of the radiator when our stomachs wants to boils the boll weevil. A lazy river has no place in Becky’s kindergarten cafeteria, Uncle Ragout! Your dairy barn dress design will win first place for sure, maybe last place if the buttons fall off, and I hope they don’t because everyone here under the stage wants YOU to win. She dropped some collagen in his Cheerio bowl when he reached for the butter hat.


Transition

Why is Donald Trump scary as President of the United States of America?

I was asked this question.

My response.



He's scary because he's not bright enough to be President of the United States; he's scary because every interaction he's had with the public since January 20 has been that of an impoverished mind obsessed with himself and how he still harps on media coverage of his winning even though he won; he's scary because his henchwoman Conway told the public there are "alternative facts"; he's scary because he talks of war like it's a child's game, a cartoon in which massive death is not real; he's scary because the energy behind every action we've seen him do comes from Bannon, a smart, educated Nazi bent on division and the dissolution of democracy; he's scary because he convinced a great deal of the American public that he cares about them, when he only gives a fuck about himself. As for the cultivated opinion of celebrities? Some of those people are obviously idiots, reality show stars, much like Trump himself, a celebrity who starred in The Apprentice. But if you love any books or music or movies or whatever, "entertainers" give to the public, and many have imaginations and their minds are cultivated to think critically about issues. They are not automatons programmed with entertainment. It takes thought and a lot of fucking work.