I am plagued by bizarre recurring dreams and nightmares. I can’t figure out why, but it’s been like this since I was just a kid. Three frequently appearing plotlines:
1. I am barricaded inside of my childhood home and Michael Jackson is trying to get inside and kill me. I know this sounds like something made up, perhaps for comic effect, but I am deadly serious, here. In the dream, I’m usually youngish and alone and absolutely straight terrified. And I can see Jacko lurking in the cul-de-sac outside my bedroom window, just sort of skulking around wringing his tiny hands. It’s the Black-or-White-Era Michael, with the shoulder-length curls and the big aviators and the pink lip liner. And that jacket with the fringy tassel things on the shoulders. As for me, I’m piling furniture up against all the doors and windows and crouching in corners and just feeling dead fucking certain that he wants to do me unspeakable harm. I never know why he’s come, or how I know the terrible danger I am in. It’s just a sense that I have. Usually, I’ll have to sneak out through the garage at some point and my heart just beats out of my chest and if I’m lucky, a big, brown unmarked Cadillac tears around the corner and scoops me up just as Jacko gets me in his line of sight.
2. I am attempting to outrun a rather sizeable tidal wave. I’m usually somewhere in the Caribbean, or, less frequently, at the Oregon coast. And the sky starts to cloud over and the earth rumbles and the chaos ensues. In some way or the other, I’m always given a bit of advance notice that the wave is coming, but I can never seem to get my shit together in time to flee for the hills before the fucker is thundering down mere meters behind me. What usually waylays my escape is my fear that I’ll leave something precious behind. A plain brown shoebox is a frequent guest star in this dream. I grab it and fill it up with my most prized possessions, like beer caps and my piece of the Berlin Wall and perhaps a few tattered snapshots and my journal, of course. And everybody’s screaming and howling and the big black wave comes building up over the horizon. I run. And it just builds and builds and right as it crests and comes pounding down on top of me, I wake up.
3. I travel to Amsterdam through a pothole in the street but the place is totally messed up. This could be an amazing dream to have, but the way my brain plays it, it only sucks. Cause when I slip through the pothole and climb out up onto Rembrandtsplein or or where-have-you, nothing looks right. I am usually wasted and find myself stumbling around looking for all the old places I used to love visiting there, like Vondel park and The Flying Pig and Baba Coffee Shop and Big Banana’s Night Shop. But they’re all gone. Often, I am ensnared instead by endless kilometers of heavy construction. I wander uselessly around the periphery of the city on wobbly plywood walkways. The canals are full of life and the city looks insane, but I’m not included in the joy, somehow. I can’t find any coffee shops. I’ve been separated from my friends. And usually, I only have some ridiculously short amount of time in the city before I have to jump back through the pothole teleportation mechanism. And usually, it just gets squandered with all this meandering and my frustration grows intolerable and I start to cry. And I wonder what the point ever was to get there at all, through such outrageous means, for dumb old this.