Alas the intervention never happened, because the psychologist who was to lead the process kept getting delayed helping other clients, and just like in Kafka's "The Trial," I never got to the intervention, nor did I get to read the questionnaires that my friends had filled out about me -- presumably including many of my HuSian friends. I really wanted to find out why and exactly which manner I was fucked up.
We were in a hot, virtually empty run-down American city, somewhat reminiscent of Fitchburg, Massachusetts, a very depressing place. Fitchburg was prosperous a hundred years ago and maybe as recently as fifty years ago, but there ain't much happening there now. I mostly wandered the streets by myself -- with a few notable exceptions we'll get to in a minute.
I did get to meet, however briefly, the psychiatrist guy. He had a beard & was very earnest in a Richard Dreyfuss or Robin Williams in "Good Will Hunting" kind of way. Actually he was very like the Robing Williams guy in Good Will Hunting, now that I think about it. But he had a coterie of very efficient businesswomen associates who were very protective of his time & schedule. These women were kind of like those hot expressionless babes in those Robert Palmer videos, only they were wearing business suits and not all made up. Whenever I showed up for my appointment I was told that my session had been delayed and I was given a new time to come back, at which the intervention would begin.
At some point my friend Mary showed up, my girlfriend-of-record before I met Dear Wife, and in my dream I was distressed by this because Mary and I were having an affair and I thought it would upset Dear Wife to find her there. But it turns out that Mary had filled out a form too, and had come all the way from Brooklyn because she was concerned about how fucked up I am, and she wanted to make sure the intervention worked. In fact she had brought a large pot of cream of tomato soup with her, because she found it "very soothing when you're fucked up." [Mary visited us last Sunday & we had some gazpacho on the back porch. I think my subconscious must have been going elsewhere.]
So anyway somehow I wound up on a sailing vessel which started out as the USS Constitution but became Martha's Vineyard's Shanandoah, and I was talking with this nice black gentleman--possibly atreides--and we were on the stern of the boat, or ship, as it sailed from Boston to whatever city that was were the intervention was to happen, and we were towing a kind of barge that had all the US Mail for the city on it. Of a sudden we were sailing not on open water, but down the streets of the city, where the roads somehow doubled as canals. We didn't have to worry about hitting any cars or trolleys, because the city was mostly empty. Anyway, my companion assured me that I was fucked up, but that the intervention would help.
So I went back, again, to the place where the intervention was to be, and this time I found myself in the lobby of a modernist building where at least three hot babes were waiting for me behind a kind of raised dais -- very similar to what really happened when I went to the headquarters of Sun Microsystems, Stockholm, in 1992, and there were three hot babes on a dais who seemed to be almost floating, like in Bill & Ted's excellent adventure, and they spoke nearly fluent English without Swedish accents, but with a kind of heavy smattering of MTV jargon. (Instead of saying "excuse me?" or "pardon me?" when they didn't understand something, they said, "say what?"). Anyway back in the dream I was seeing these people at the lobby desk kind of through a camera obscura, and I felt kind of like Mr. Lux before the Painful Inquiry. There were passports in clear plastic folders that were being handed to other people coming in, and I could clearly see a folder that had in it my report, all the surveys filled out by my family and friends about how fucked up I am, but they couldn't see it and wouldn't give it to me.
Then I woke up.
So I'm sorry to report, my dear friends, that despite all of your best efforts I'm still as fucked up as I was when I went to bed last night, although considerably less tired. It was a powerfully refreshing sleep. I find that when I wake up from a deep, powerful dream I'm more refreshed than otherwise, even if the dream itself is disturbing, as this one was.
This true part is much worse
Two nights ago, only a few minutes after I had lain down in bed next to my wife, some kind of bug crawled into my left ear and tried to burrow into my brain. It hurt like hell (and of course it creeped me out) and it made a horrible loud sound 'eeee-eeeee-eeeeee' and really got wedged in there. I jumped up out of bed and said gah! (I didn't scream though I felt like it) and startled the hell out of Dear Wife. I explained the situation as I paced around the room with my hand cupped over my ear. The bug would stop burrowing and there would be momentary partial relief, then it would start up again, "eeeeee-eeeeeee-eeeee". Unable to grab the thing, I figured I would at least kill it with a Q-tip but that didn't work and I really didn't want to mash a bug deep in my ear canal anyway.
Dear Wife jumped up, God love her, switched on the light, and went into the bathroom and got a tweezer, and even though she's generally pretty squeamish, she looked in my ear, said, "stay very still" and grabbed the thing by a leg, which fortunately did not come off when she pulled it. "Holy shit, it's enormous!" she said as she pulled it out. I repeat, this isn't a dream, this really happened. I felt great relief and the pain mostly stopped but my ear was bleeding where the damn thing had bit me. It flew away somewhere in the house so we don't even know what it was & I didn't get to kill it. Some kind of beetle or something. Damn, that was creepy.
All the next day, especially when I was at the Tisbury Street Fair just leaning against 651 & doing essentially nothing I kept re-living that incident, all post-traumatic-stress like.
So the moral of the story is, it's good to sleep with somebody, because you never know when a bug is going to try to eat its way into your brain via your ear canal.
Yesterday I washed all the screens, which were full of oak and dust pollen. It's lovely out and the birds are chirping, including the mockingbirds who have taken up residence outside our kitchen.
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