had a long, sprawling dream last night. It involved my mother. She was driving a car in an area where it was considered acceptable and even normal for people to open your car door and take a seat in the back, saying that they only need to hitch a ride for a short distance. I was in the passenger seat, engaged in a variety of drive-time activities. in response to something I said or did my mother said “they warned me that you’d be like this at your age.” She said it as if I was two years old so I asked what she meant about reaching 48 years. She just shook he head and said it was predictable I’d be like this. I was too mystified to take offense. We picked up a woman with a bicycle who needed a ride over some rugged terrain. We got to her destination where I met an achingly beautiful woman. Small, blonde, with outsized breasts. She turned toward me out of the blue and said “I fucking hate this guy”, in reference to a jock-type guy with whom she had been talking. I looked toward him and waved, smiled, said hello, my name is Mark.” He stepped over and shook my hand, then went back to his other jock friends. The woman explained that she worked in something like Maternal Science, or Mothering Technology. She wanted to know if I knew any 70 year old men who were still attractive to young women, and if so then I should send their contact info to her. I would collect a bounty for referencing such an individual. She made some strangely specific comments about how men in their 70s ejaculate differently than when they were younger, and that the way the seed scattered combined with the relatively small size of the emaciated sperm made these older men significantly more able to fertilize. It almot made sense to me until it did not make sense to me but I did not question her expertise. I wanted in her pants bad but nothing of that sort could be uttered with jock-boy in the offing. She attempted to write down my contact info in her little black book but for some reason her writing utensil was unable to record anything on the parchment at hand. She whispered to me “I have to go make out with him now.” She said it as if it was a chore. A repugnant, repulsive chore. I thought of ways to surreptitiously suggest that it didn’t have to be a chore but there was too much testosteronal attention flying around the place. I thought of her advances as erotic and intriguing, but then I imagined her making the same advances on others should we ever seal the deal.
We parted ways and I found myself at a large table with my computer on it. The computer had a screen saver that was accidentally created and which I could not delete or change. It was a video of my cock. It filled the entire screen (and then some, of course… huh huh). My mother saw it. I acted as if nothing unusual was passing through that computer screen, but I hit the space bar to turn off that fucking screen saver of my cock.
I think that’s how the dream ended. If it got any weirder then maybe I blotted that shit out of the cranial carnival.
Suddenly I am sneezing.
Suddenly, I sneeze.
…
I’ve been reading “The Executioner’s Song”, by Norman Mailer. Did Mailer really think he was Hemingway? That is my repeated reprise as I tap through the pages of the e-book. It’s a damn good book so far. But somehow the style is unlike his writings I recall from The New Yorker and other periodicals. It is jumpy and spastic, not pompously grandiloquent and humorously self-serving. Maybe through his language he is making a point about Mormonism? I guess I will find out in due course. Mailer made the most memorable comment I know regarding The Bible: “A great story poorly told.” I attribute that to the multiple layers of translation and linguistic bureaucracy. Today’s translations are derisively regarded by Kabbalah fetishists as the “Daily News” version of the Bible. The real meaning is between the lines, as the Theosophists pledge.
