(Background: I'm a little sad that one of my friends is moving out to L.A., and it's not just because he could simultaneously escape a forest fire by being sucked downhill into the sea in a mudslide during an earthquake. We just also have fantabulous conversations, and even if sometimes he gives me a mildly concerned look, I don't have to edit myself - and this is entirely mutual. I like having special little worlds to share. It is a happy feeling. I like happy feelings.)
Actual exerpt from dream:
We are making giant ice sculpture babies, really chunky babies like eight-month olds, and having fun with how fluid and sloppy the layers of ice-fat are looking. There is pride in the ice-fat and a weirdly out of place soliloquoy a la Hamlet about appearance and actuality, expectation and touch, and the mutability of each. Wander around, contemplating; wander around listening to friend's voice contemplating and making me laugh. I walk off to get these special snow shoes my Lapp greatgrandparents have sent for me. Upon returning, a bunch of super-hero-esque men in jeans and tshirts who've gone without shaving for at least three days are lined up. The ice-babies are on mounts, and one after another, each man walks underneath a supported ice-baby, gets the ice-baby onto his back, and goes marching off with a happily dutiful expression - impossibly disproportionately large, fat ice-baby on back. Some of the babies start to wake up but we laugh and tell them to just go back to sleep. We're up to something, something we think is great, like a new step forward in evolution or something, and are excited.
And awake!
Now Head, pay attention...
What would've been a better dream:
Swinging from vines in a bug-less rain forest, then having my dreamfriendbird swoop me up into her ribs like usual and deliver me out to a soft stained-glass Viking ship, red sails and all. For a jester, there'd be a talking duck who would always let me pinch its cute duck cheeks, occassionally with a slight twinge of blushy embarrassment. Viking bunnies would stomp around trying to look all gruff, but then they'd turn around and giggle at themselves, and could jump up and down a series of levels to work all the sails. At night, the whole ship would turn into a giant egg and we could sink beneathe the water, sometimes luring sealife with our lights and laughing as they clunked into our one-way egg surface. There would also be lots of dark chocolate and berries, a koi stream, wing'd alabaster violins borrowed from The Graces, tribal drums, and fire ropes to make pretty shapes with in the sky or underwater. And a pair of really smooshy, warm slippers. That's a good start, I'd say.
Actual exerpt from dream:
We are making giant ice sculpture babies, really chunky babies like eight-month olds, and having fun with how fluid and sloppy the layers of ice-fat are looking. There is pride in the ice-fat and a weirdly out of place soliloquoy a la Hamlet about appearance and actuality, expectation and touch, and the mutability of each. Wander around, contemplating; wander around listening to friend's voice contemplating and making me laugh. I walk off to get these special snow shoes my Lapp greatgrandparents have sent for me. Upon returning, a bunch of super-hero-esque men in jeans and tshirts who've gone without shaving for at least three days are lined up. The ice-babies are on mounts, and one after another, each man walks underneath a supported ice-baby, gets the ice-baby onto his back, and goes marching off with a happily dutiful expression - impossibly disproportionately large, fat ice-baby on back. Some of the babies start to wake up but we laugh and tell them to just go back to sleep. We're up to something, something we think is great, like a new step forward in evolution or something, and are excited.
And awake!
Now Head, pay attention...
What would've been a better dream:
Swinging from vines in a bug-less rain forest, then having my dreamfriendbird swoop me up into her ribs like usual and deliver me out to a soft stained-glass Viking ship, red sails and all. For a jester, there'd be a talking duck who would always let me pinch its cute duck cheeks, occassionally with a slight twinge of blushy embarrassment. Viking bunnies would stomp around trying to look all gruff, but then they'd turn around and giggle at themselves, and could jump up and down a series of levels to work all the sails. At night, the whole ship would turn into a giant egg and we could sink beneathe the water, sometimes luring sealife with our lights and laughing as they clunked into our one-way egg surface. There would also be lots of dark chocolate and berries, a koi stream, wing'd alabaster violins borrowed from The Graces, tribal drums, and fire ropes to make pretty shapes with in the sky or underwater. And a pair of really smooshy, warm slippers. That's a good start, I'd say.
4 comments:
Chi è?
Vanilla Ice has the sort of magical charisma that makes one want to reach deep into the inner layers of his bathroom vanity case and bust out a can of Aqua Net. I bet Wynona can't do that.
[insert affirming sound clip from Ice Baby 'dong dee dong deedly dong dong']
Also, what's up with his skin? It always looked like his skull was still growing or something, like a pregnant woman's overly stretched belly.
Wynona also can't do that. :)
Hee hee: "dong."
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