Monday, September 13, 2004

Afternoon dream stampede....

Just woke up from a dream where I was spending the afternoon with my spiritual sis Arya and my real-life snooty (although I love her anyway) beauty Queen sis Beth and the three of us were in New York shopping (shopping?) and Beth and Arya kept trying on shoes. They kept trying on stiletto's and sandals and all sorts of classy footwear....heaps of shoes. Tons of shoes. More shoes than a marathon stampede. My crazy siblings would slip one shoe off and then scoop another sole up using only their toes. They seemd to be having the time of their lives--They would exchanged glittery smiles amongst themselves and laugh and continue to chat and when I realized that I was the only male in the classy shoe-fraught dreamscape department store and that I alone was holding their purses and highly stacked packages and that everytime I would stare at them and point at my wrist and stamp my foot impatiently they would both tell me that, "It's a female thing. You wouldn't understand." And then they would continue trying on more shoes.

At least we now know where all the Cinderella's are hibernating. So much for trying to crazy glue the glass shards of the slipper back together.


5 comments:

daku said...

You can ask my friend the Dreamhunter to interpret the dream for you. I will also send him hunting on your blog (-:
http://etherealrealm.blogspot.com/

Joe Propinka said...

A college town is a fucking gorgeous thing and a wonder to any breathing soul. But our endeavor required self-control, and I could already see that was my post today. Jesus too, Vaughn was already slathering at the sight of coffeehouse coeds. The demoniac would slide alongside any random offering and run his hand over every greased organ except his paranoid fear of the law. Vaughn was an old-school speed-piece, and even a glance might tell you he spent amphetamine evenings coming to terms with his own carnival version of puberty, taping short curled hairs of barmaidens to the dresser-edge, frothing before, after, and during. What must be understood is the tie of hallucinogenic necessity binding all those paranoid insomniacs, the fraternity of crankheads, sharing their chilling stories of razor-wielding murderers implicate in the shadow-patterns of leaves against frosted glass, comparing knuckle-scars and ravaged bank accounts during those weeks that stretched like pale, lean months when you came down. Vaughn's parties were full of the bastards, weaving thin sonsofbitches, blue-veined faces, talking over and over about their triumphant fistfights with parking meters, legendary expulsion-arrests from pissing on statues of the school founder, near-dodges of electric-eyed deputies who eternally let off the bloodshot 140-mph stranger with a warning never to use this particular back road again or be thrown in for the sticks-and-bones treatment at county. Vaughn nearly stabbed his typewriter to death one evening, claiming it was informing on him. The lunatic was telling the truth, of course; a man of his history lacks the inner resources to really, truly lie unless a score of some kind is in the balance, at which point he will kill, cheat, perjure, rape the dead, white-flecked at the corners of his mouth with the Saharan distance of anticipation.


With Vaughn one lived in junkie time, a strange undulating wavelength of events that ran together or else spread, segmented, across paint-spatched newspapers lining the floor to cover the burn patches and foul excreta and other fallout of any of his gatherings. One of these days he'll be charged in a criminal conspiracy against time itself, and have no answer but his piscine grin and a few lewd winks at the steno. And Vaughn's loose-toothed clock-heart was grinding and smoking and screeching in him at the sight of coffee and potential clove cigarettes. Driving was never easy for him, with its unfair restriction of raw red need. He brushed his hair back with his jittering, uncalloused hand and forced the bent-framed car door wide, his feet not rising but sliding across the gravel, the shuffling gait of someone determined to die, but die like a firecracker tied to a cat's tail. He swung towards a slightly zaftig brunette, dressed Catholic schoolgirl style, with the exact anxious walk of a lapsed. I know all about her. A still-attractive fortyish smother figure back home who calls daily about cookies and virginity, speaking secret Latin incantation that seal knees and lips together, while an already-enbalmed father plucks his eyebrows while watching last year's Superbowl on tape wondering how the fuck could he miss that pass, and won't the boys at work soak him in the office pool, and didn't I have a daughter? Granted, I'd seen Vaughn peel off every layer of blouse and and corset and underwire that kept these types wound to the flesh of black magic and uncelibate lechers, but this was not the time. We couldn't afford to be discovered. Firm hand on his shoulder, I steered him towards the bug-spattered java house, allowing him a gallery view of the arrayed goth, 'nik, prep, etcetera specimens within as added incentive. His hands rubbing together flylike, he got the message and turned.

arya said...

new york? shoe shopping? are you sure it was a dream? were you the one holding my purse when it got stolen?

David Von Behren said...

Beautiful prose Joe! Have we met?

boabhan sith said...

I definitly have a shoe fetish but, as for the glass slipper thing...(best valley girl impression here) that is sooo out of style!
lol