Saturday, July 3, 2010


a selection from HYPNOZINE (ONE): the forthcoming graphic novel and spoken word CD

DREAM #.070310: "GANG OF ONE"

   In my dream, I'm at an airport of some kind. It's generically vast and busy, but its details most clearly evoke the San Francisco International airport. All gleaming white. Ceilings that are stratospheres unto themselves. I'm wearing the long black overcoat I used to wear almost every single day, back in my senior year of high school. It's splattered, here and there, with blotches of red and yellow paint. It smells like paint, like an art class or something. My hair is tousled and greased into the kind of perfect haircut I only get in dreams. I'm holding a big black notebook. I'm not sure if I'm here to meet somebody or to see somebody off. I'm definitely not here to travel. I feel as if I'm more rooted and native to whatever territory this airport is in than anyone else in the complex, like I'm the mayor or the village wise man or something and I've been whatever I am my whole life. It's understood.
       I start to spot people I know. Old friends and new friends. Lovers and enemies. Family members I never see. They're all arriving (or have arrived ) separately, but I'm somehow warmly greeting them individually, all at once. This is some kind of crossroads place. I introduce these figures (from the whole expanse of my wandering life) to each other. I introduce friends to other friends and they seem to hit it off, then flight attendants will bring them their beautiful future children and the whole family will be escorted through a departure gate, off to their new lives together. It's obvious that I'll never see them again, in any lasting way, and that's okay. People meet and connect and intertwine. It's that kind of world.
        Some friends form gangs, people from wildly different locations and periods in my life who I always knew would get along, finally meeting, falling in some kind of love, sometimes getting a family of their own from airport staff and then leaving for their future. Even my Symbiote gets introduced to the lover she'll have after she's done with me. He's young, but he looks like he has money, and like he adores her.
It stings, all of this stings, because I'm seeing everyone I've ever known, everyone I've ever felt ANYTHING for, and they're all saying good-bye. But I reconcile myself to the sting of it. Like it's something I've had to get used to, because of what I do, who I am, what I'm for. Everyone is on their way to some future, some heaven, some hell. I'm a creature of the crossroads, apparently. A custodian of this interstitial space.
       Eventually, the airport is emptied of its teeming people. In the process, I come to realize that EVERY crowd in the complex is made up of people I knew or have yet to know and the people they would come to know after meeting me. Even the staff is familiar. They slough their uniforms and exit through the departure gates, bound for points unknown. To me, at least. All the directories are blank. But I'm sure that every being I've encountered here is on their way to a more profound and complete engagement with life and the dynamic frictions and fusions of other lives. The surging, churning human tragicomedy. Powerful stuff, or so they tell me.
I'm definitely set apart from this whole process. For a moment, I feel above it all in some way. then I correct myself. I'm not above anything or anyone. My place is just to the left of all this life, right at the corner of everyone's eye until I disappear from view completely, or they do. After hours (and, yet, a mere moment), the airport is empty except for me and some crows croaking intermittently in the rafters.
          It all seems sad, at first, this role of mine. All the hellos and good-byes. Even with my low impact effect on other beings, it's like I've done it all wrong, creating as much confusion and suffering as I have delight and enlightenment. Alone with the crows and my notebook, I feel like the worst conductor this crossroads has ever had. But I know I'm the ONLY conductor this crossroads has ever had, so I'm also the best. And I never had a choice. It's like every self-image I've had that connected me with other people has been a vain hallucination. I'm lonely at the crossroads, but I'm authentic. I miss everyone, almost as much as I missed being alone. I stop lying to myself and the crows careen and croak and swarm in celebration. I open my notebook and then I tell the only truth I know.

Friday, July 2, 2010


Not even the faintest wisps of dream survived my waking today, I'm afraid.
So I am compelled to open the vaults and share a previous dream from way back, in the form of a love-letter to my Symbiote.  In our first cycle of courtship, I made a gift of every nightmare.
This a minor classic from my oneiric hit-list. Stay tuned for the sexy spoken word version, like Barry White on bad acid.
Hopefully, a harvest of fresh hauntings will be available on the morrow (or after my next nap).

      "Red shoe fever.
      A huge gymnasium on the outskirts of some major city.
     There's an outbreak of some hideous disco disease. Once you catch it, it incubates in your network of nerves until it hears/feels/senses music. Then you have to dance to maintain your humanoid physique. if you stop dancing, your bones melt and your organs slide together and cluster at the core of your new body. Your features and angles recede into this pulpy, throbbing meatbag that once was you.
your holes close but your pores open wide to suck the air in, giving the meatbag a spongelike texture at
every inhalation. Then the pores close with the exhale and you dribble a viscid effluvium. the outer
rim of the gymnasium is equipped with those japanese dancing games where you must match your moves to a cgi dancer on-screen at faster and faster speeds. The moves get progressively more complicated. The contagion likes to be challenged and entertained. If you pause at all in non-rhythmic fashion, the mutation begins and who you were melts into a suffering meatbag.
      Every dancing booth is occupied. Tinny techno breakbeats erupt from every console. There
must be a few hundred of them, but the beats are in perfect congruence. closer to the center of the gym,
the two of us and several other scientists (in lab coats and hello kitty surgical masks) are making the
rounds amongst those who have fallen victim. A few of these monsters have an eyeball or a finger or a few toes or a nostril or a testicle braking the surface of their veiny, tormented flesh. a protuberance,
apparently, is a sign of cureability.
       Those who can't be cured would be better off dead.
        That's our job, under the flickering, bug-hungry fluorescent bulbs. We're euthanizing meatbags. despite the giddy techno soundtrack., the overall mood is solemn. funereal, almost. not for us, though. discreetly, we sneak mischievous glances of sinister complicity at each other. A mask on your glamourpuss casts those electric icicle eyes into higher relief. none of the others can know that this epidemic is making the two of us horny.  We're injecting mercury into those growths who are beyond hope, exchanging goo-goo glances, waiting for our shift to end so we can go fuck in the room where they keep the free weights.
              Waking up slowly, I imagine an additional mutational layer to the disease, finding in the midst of our mingling that we, too, will melt into shapeless meatbags if we ever stop fucking.
         And you know what, Dr. X? i think i'd be okay with that."

Thursday, July 1, 2010


     Another party dream.  I'm throwing the party, this time, a very important party in my lavish home, and it's not as easy as you'd think, even with an elite staff of planners at my beck and call.  There are so many strangelings on my guest list, each with delusions of cosmic entitlement and highly idiosyncratic needs, comfort-wise.
    Some guests will need all their food to be raw.  All their fruits must be tortured to perfection.   All their nuts must be chastised by rabbis.  All their animal meats must be ritually murdered and skinned by autistic children.  The skins must be slit and stitched into designer bathing caps for some elderly folks whose nursing home had its back yard turned into a toxic waste dump.  Maybe this is a fund raiser.  The senior citizens in question have since grown gills.  Swimming should be sexy.  it's where all life comes from.  From deep inside and underneath.
     One of the more cutting edge celebrities at my party insists on having her meal vaporized.  She then inhales the vapor through very chic-looking tubes.  The tinted plastic bubble on her head fogs briefly and then she burps.  It's like a designer baby-burp, the most elegant little glitch in an angel's digestion.  The most fleeting of perfumes, at once evoking swaying sun-scarred cornfields and steaming equatorial riverbeds, like her metabolism is as rich and as pure as the rainforests were before the white man came and tweaked the gardens of Eden into star-splashed showrooms, all this marshmallow static and hot pink plastic.
     She does seem ever so slightly more vibrant and alive than the rest of us.  So alive she can't quite hide the moss she grows instead of hair.  Mossy stubble of the food breathers.
     Where some would see a symptom, the fanatic finds a sign.