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February 17, 2006

Bad Dreams

As some of you know, I haven't been feeling well. Sick with something that has just left me dead, exhausted, and mentally raw. Well, these things can lead to bad dreams.

 

As most of my re-telling of my dreams starts, this one starts with, "there was a lot before this point that I don't remember," and then we're on to the dream that I do remember:

 

I am at the supermarket, looking at the magazines. There are some other people around, but even with their presence I'm not my normal shy self and I pick up a Penthouse from the top rack. Flipping through the magazine I see that the whole thing is dedicated to two models, both with black hair, and they're often in the same photos. However, instead of being a typical Penthouse spread, most of the photos are simply of the two women's faces; ether they are kissing, or one is biting the other's ear playfully, or they are smiling together at the camera. There's also an extensive write up, several pages, on why they love each other.

 

I put the magazine down, thinking that it has been a long time since I bought a pornographic magazine, and head out of the supermarket. I notice on my way out, that all of the cashiers are Victoria Secret's models. One smiles at me. I smile back. But I head outside.

 

I make my way across the parking lot to my car. I throw my jacket and a small revolver onto the passenger seat and I am about to get in when I notice a small liquor store just a few yards away. I think to myself that it has been a long time since I bought a pornographic magazine and that, since it doesn't look like there's a lot of people at the liquor store, maybe now's a good time to buy one.

 

I head over to the store. There is a homeless woman standing outside the door, looking around, but I pass by her and move inside. To my left there is the cashier's station, with a man, of Middle-Eastern descent, waiting on another customer. The wall to my right is just a large window, and the wall opposite the door is a floor to ceiling magazine rack. At the back and left of the magazine wall there is a hallway that leads to the other half of the store.

 

I move up to the magazine rack and look to my left, down the hallway. There is a door at the far end and the hallway bends to the right at the door. It turns out there is a dance floor in the adjoining room and people are coming in to the dance from that door, but they are also coming in to look at the magazines. Well, since several of the people coming in for the magazines are women and get shy and just stand a few paces back from the wall, trying to sneak a peak at the names of the pornographic magazines, all of which are shielded by a brown rack cover. Since I can't tell what the pornographic magazines content is, whether male models or female, I start to look at the other magazines.

 

On the floor rack, I see some Scientific Physics America magazines. I bend down and pick one up and see that each one comes with a set of graph-paper so that you can work on the physics problems from each article and I think to myself that this is something I should patent, or copyright; professional journals with "homework" problems for every age category relating to the individual articles.

 

Flipping through the magazine, I find that it is an issue on love and that there are detailed image scans of the nerve centers for various erogenous zones, like a man's chest, and the nape of a woman's neck. There is also an article on the flow of some kind of gas, smoke I think, that has three dimensional topographic maps of the denstity and direction of flow of the smoke.

 

I put the magazine down and head back out to my car. As I get close to my car, I see that the passenger door is open. A few steps closer and I see the passenger door slowly close. Realizing that my car has been broken into, and that they may have my gun, I rush around the side of the car and see a man, crawling on his hands and knees, sneaking behind a van in the parking lot. I rush up on him and pull him up. He's in his thirties, may forties, and Hispanic. I start yelling at him, "did you break into my car?!" He replies, "No, I didn't! No, I didn't!" but then he reaches into his pocket and yells, "here!" throwing some change at me, change that had been sitting my passenger seat. I become so enraged that he stole from me, even though it wouldn't amount to more that a dollar, that I grab him and beat him. I throw him to the ground and then drag him back to my car. Throwing his head against the hood of my car I bring up a knee and rest it on his neck, where he's now unable to move. I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out my cell phone and call 911. I get an operator, but the line is bad and I have to repeat myself several times, "I have just apprehended the man who broke into my car, I would like the police to come and arrest him!" The operator tells me that because the line was bad, she is a general California 911 operator and that she needs my location. "Behind the supermarket in Rohnert Park." She tells me the police are on their way.

 

As I'm staring at the back of this man's head, my vision slowly falls into the shadows of his hair. Within a moment, I come to realize that he and I are now in another car, a VW bug, and he is driving. We're speeding along a cliff-side road, with the mountain to our left and the cliff and forest to our right. He's speeding to get us back to my car so he can be arrested. "I can't do it, the car is to slow and the roads are to tight, I can't go any faster!" he yells to me. "You have to treat it like a monster truck, drive up on the shoulder to our left around the curves!" I yell back. He takes my advice and soon we're speeding around the bends at a furious velocity. Next thing I know, we've jumped the rails and are soaring through the air. My view rises from first-person out to a third person view high above the car and the cliffs and the forest. I can see the car flying over the trees. "Sorry," he says. "No, this is great, watch," I reply and we soar over the forest only to land back on the road, having flown by several twists and turns. I can see the word "Ococha" written on the top of the VW bug, and I realize that is the name of they guy that is driving and broke into my car. The birds eye view continues to change until I'm not looking down on a hand drawn map of the area and the car is a simple child's line drawing of a box within a box that's supposed to be the car. Again the car launches into the air and the man says, "sorry, we're not going to land back on the road!" I watch as the box-car flips around several times and say back to him, "no, this is good, watch." The car lands in a sparcly drawn area of the forest very close to the liquir store on the map. "See," I say, "we're in the golf course, and when the police see our headlights they'll know we're coming."

 

Still watching the box-car on the hand-drawn map, the car pulls off the golf-course and onto the street next to the liquor store. As it enters the parking lot a police car, angular trapezoidal box-car, pulls in behind us. I tell myself that I have to remember to tell the police that I have a gun on me. Ococha and I get of the car, we are just stick figures, and we both raise our hands. Two stick figure police get out of the car. I hear in the background the Pure Imagination song from the original Willy Wonka, "There is no/ Life I know/ To compare with/ Pure imagination" and the police shoot Ococha. He's dead. I wake up.

 

So ends the dream, that I'm a little haunted by. The name of the man doesn't have any matches that I can find. The closest I can find is a Jayjay Okocha, from Nigeria, who is a football (soccer to some of us) player. But I've never heard of him before my Google search on "Ococha".

 

On one hand it is a perfect American-mass-culture dream. The sex is avoided, blocked, or ignored while the violence is either direct and vulgar, as when I beat the guy, or it is put into playful imagery, yet no less haunting, as when Ococha is shot. In addition, the stereotypes are there, a Middle-Eastern liquor store owner, a Hispanic car-thief, and shooting-happy racist police. Which says what? I'm racist? No, don't think so. But that cultural dogma slips into the subconscious, sure. If I was racist, I would have not felt the shock and horror when Ococha was shot (enough shock to wake me up), there was even a hint of realization of the injustic of the situation just before I woke up, like I was about to yell at the police. In the end, if felt like Ococha was my friend. We were having fun driving and flying off the road only to land again and go for another leap.

 

I really would like to see professional journals start adding "homework" problems for all age categories. This would let you play with the math and science behind the breakthroughs. So if anyone out there was to go through the trouble of patenting my idea, I'll take 10 to 30 percent of what you make. Thank you.