Friday, February 1, 2008

File Under: Friday's Misc.Thought Fragments

I have two recurring dreams that I am trying to analyze.

Dream #1 is the dream I have been having once every four months or so since I was 20. In it, I am the mother to a soccer phenom. No idea who the father is. But obviously, we did something right since my little soccer phenom son and I live in an elaborate manor in the lush English countryside. In my dream, the house actually looks exactly like the Selsdon Park Manor in Croydon, just south of London. I had tea there once and apparently it really stuck with me. So in my recurring dream I live in this, essentially:

Now what could be wrong with that, you ask? Here's the thing. We have a large pitch on the grounds so that my soccer playing son can practice constantly. There is even a sound system strung up around the pitch. There's the rub: my son can only practice his little heart out if Europe's "The Final Countdown" is blaring. And I do mean blaring. So basically, I am driven to drink because I wander around my country manor to the strains of "The Final Countdown" all day and all night. But I have to be supportive of my son. I have that same dream every few months. And have for going on 7 years now.

Dream #2 is a little less disturbing. It basically involves me going on tour with the Cult somewhere between Love and Electric. I don't know why I am tour with them or what exactly my job originally entailed but somehow my job evolves (or devolves) into being Ian Astbury's agony aunt (what's the American equivalent of that term?) and hair brusher. I go to the store and get him hot oil treatment packs in every city we stop in. We sit in hotel rooms talking about boys and we watch bad TV shows while I brush his hair and sometimes I even put it in braids since he really likes Native Americans a lot. He buys me a leather vest with fringe so we can dress like twinsies. We make fun of Billy Duffy behind his back and sometimes even put his stuff up on extremely high shelves just so he has to ask someone to reach it for him. I'm always really sad towards the end of the dream because I know that the tour will end soon and I cry as I write down instructions for Ian on what he will have to do to retain his hair's shine and luster. I choke up as I remind him to always rinse your shampoo with super hot water then rinse your conditioner with cold water. I leave the instructions like a Dear John letter or the letter Marty writes Doc about not getting shot by the Libyan terrorists in Ian's jacket pocket. I usually wake up around that point.

On a completely different note, I am thinking about starting a foundation to help encourage coked-up girls to have more self-esteem and confidence. It breaks my heart to see a girl with her jaw clenched, her nose dripping, her throat constantly swallowing but she just doesn't put herself out there. I want to empower coked-up girls to come up with creative new ideas like maybe going swimming or having an impromptu party. I want to encourage them to do things like confide lots of really gnarly personal information to complete strangers. I want them to have the confidence to corner people that they may have had a falling out with and try to talk through their issues. I want them to know that no matter what insecurities they may have, that at the very moment that they polish off that $40 worth of fun they become the most beautiful and sensual creature that no mortal man nor woman can resist. I also want to see if I can bottle the scent that emanates from their mouths when they've been drinking and snorting coke all night. I'm re-finishing a dresser and need to get the old layer of paint off.

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