When in a dream do you realize you’re dreaming? I don’t think I’ve ever come to this place within a dream. I invest in my dreams wholly, I believe in them. But they’ve allowed me no control. Even when the realism is gone, even when entirely, knowingly abstract things occur I never know in the dream that I’m dreaming. I’m still there as the me representative of my brain that feels in control, but no control. My dreams take my self control. Totally Branigan. Plus, I can’t fathom the strength to fly! I have friends that say they make themselves fly around in their dreams, all the time, and I’m like, damn, what do I lack as a man? And then I sob. And then I seek comfort in animal crackers. Barnum and Barnum and Barnum baby.
We don’t choose our dreams. If we chose our dreams we wouldn’t leave them. If I chose my dreams snow would be pissless and edible fresh. We’d make healing drinks with the snow, and houses, and tracksuits. Chosen dreams would be sextastic and full of flying. This would very naturally lead to flying sex and probably some underwater action as well - because you’d obvs have forever breath underwater. And you’d probably Mer it up down there too. Nobody would be allowed to call sex “action” though - that’s the worst. We’d ride dolphins into day-long sunsets. I’d catch fish in my bare hands and cook things out of a blowtorch in my pointer finger. During sleep in my dreams we’d be puppets and reenact hilarious moments in bear history. If I could choose my dreams they’d last every fucking second of my sleepy time.
I’ve been thinking a lot about my dreams. A LOT. Like a parking lot for giants lot. And that’s big, because the giants in my head are miles tall. They can jump continents and to them this planet is disappointingly small. These giants all have bad eyesight and this saddens them terribly, because they can’t focus in on all the smalls. They don’t kill humans because they like the tiny sounds of our voices, the same reasons we don’t kill talking insects, because they all speak with such adorably small british accents, nibbling on impossibly small cookies, with microscopic crumbs that tickle their tiny tummies as they fall to their feet. The giants can’t hear the bugs, so we smalls translate their stories to the very talls in shouts that sound like whispers.
I don’t think I dream enough as is. And when I do my dreams are typically rife with fear and longing and sad things, or hyperrealistic bizzarr-o shit that although on remembering is typically lots of fun as an idea, is not necessarily fun as a moment in a dream. Lately I’ve been dreaming of plastic organs, of seeing the toy insides of ourselves. Last night I dreamt of my ex girlfriend. We lay in her bed contemplating whether sleeping together again is a good idea. We are already naked. Her entire midsection is cleanly halved, which is entirely normal. I rub her back and look at her halved organs which are a shiny vibrant plastic, clean, clearly manufactured by Fisher Price. In the center of her stomach is a perfectly halved eggplant. It’s not chopped or chewed, it’s bright purple plastic, shiny, new, just like all the organs in there.
My brain does not connect the dots of - holy shit why can I see the inside of the stomach? Holy shit where’s the other half? Holy fuckface why isn’t she in pain and why are we flirting on this bed/3D operation table? I want to ask her if she chewed the food. I want to know how the eggplant got in her whole. I’m amazed. I wonder if the eggplant will turn to shit. I wonder if I continue to focus on her insides I’ll see this ugly transition, but then I look up and she is smiling and I forget entirely about the eggplant and fall back into thinking how nice it is to see her. It’s been years.
I wake and am like, woah-town, I just dreamt some really realistic feelings about someone I have not seen in a long time. Was the eggplant a baby? Did the eggplant represent my recent bout with constipation? Am I a half that is not whole? Should we get back together? Am I just hungry? What? The more I think about this dream, the less it makes sense. And definitely not a pick for what my dream of a dream factory should churn out. Stupid dream factory. Why am I not thinking about Karlie Kloss? Have you seen her new haircut, dream factory? Why am I not with KK on the Stegodactyl we should be riding while we battle it out for human survival? Karlie, baby, I’d say, summon some lightning bolts, they comin’! And then Stego would do a little swoop towards the volcano eruption storm on land and Fur bikini clad KarlieK would blast some motherfuckers with her goddess lightning.
Me and Andy Samburg once had a deeply philosophical conversation about his face being on the Hot Rod poster all over buildings in New York. Brad Pitt and I went on a mysterious river cruise on a flatbed raft of our own construction. He steered us like a gondolier, with a long stick pushing off the bottom of the bayou. We found ourselves in wonderous places, with swimming pool clear crystal waters under canopies of arched trees with giant leaves. The shadows danced across the water riding the wakes from the quiet ripples of our raft stick. I remember him calm, quiet. I talked to Jennifer Aniston in a wedding dress in an abandoned, yet immaculately clean train coach car. I remember thinking how nice it was to… you know, just talk, us girls.
I woke to wolves attacking my hands the other night, viciously jumping towards them trying to rip my flesh to pieces. I was frantic when I darted awake. The way I was sleeping on my arm had put my hand into a dead sleep. When I attempted to move it I could do nothing. I had to take my awake hand and slowly move my whole dead arm, careful to keep my hand out straight so as not to bend or break something I could not feel, and rest the appendage to my side. I looked to the ceiling in the dark of the room and thought of the wolves, about their wet mouths and tiny yelps and bellowing growls. I thought about the safety of my bed and the thread count of my sheets and I looked to my left and I was alone and thankful for it. No wolves in the bed, that’s a new rule for me.
The wolves felt like a reaction my mind was making to my dead hand. Does this mean all dreams are filled with meaning? Does this mean I’ve got to dissect whatever my brain remembers. I dreamt I was the road once and when I giggled I quaked and made a fun ride for cars who weren’t used to the road ripples or flight. What does that mean? Huh?
I want to dream that when I get off the train car I’m in the destination has an external soundtrack where whatever I’m listening to everyone can hear, like a musical, the people walking from here and there to the wherever places they are heading do so in lock step with the music, every once in awhile everybody stops for an overhead Thriller clap and continues on their merry way. There’s no time for troubles here. People walk with purpose and fights are always break dance battles.
I don’t like waking up groggy, or soggy, or funky, or tired. I like waking up with fresh scent, already deodorized and bright eyed. I want to wake from adventure. I want to wake from my dreams feeling like I will cure the world of its fears and approach the days with blinding inner light. I want to wake up having spent a lot more fucking time with Karlie Kloss than I have lately. Wouldn’t it be nice to wake with a new sauce recipe? Just, like, damn, ‘bout time I put in some thyme. And then you mix in the perfect shrimp and we’re making something special, you know, for KK.