THAT DAY

Saturday, but not much of a holiday--a storm rolls through town. Black rainy streets. Stay in, do the taxes for our co-op house.

By noon, a lull. No sun, but the sky lightens. Walk over the hill to the Farmers Market, and lug back big bags of vegs, fruit, eggs. Make a big vegetable soup loaded with garlic--maybe it'll help cure this nagging virus I've had all week.

Eat while watching The Philadelphia Story. Cary Grant, Kat Hepburn, James Stewart, and a superb supporting cast. Such sharp writing. And with a lesson. I'm like Kat Hepburn: don't forgive people their flaws, much. Or can't; feel I HAVE to shun those who distress me, or I'll get sick. That's been my pattern. Fussy, look like a snob--but when I relax those inhibitions, I get ill.

Before bed, I skim my dream journals for the last few months, late 2006 and early 2007. Partly I'm just getting the lay of my recent dreamscape. My dreams see health, love and career differently than my conscious...

But partly I was stalking through my own dreamscape like a prospector hunting ore--new material for the World Dream Bank. I've focused on others' dreams the last few years... maybe I want to swing back and focus on my own dreams for a while.

THAT NIGHT

I'm eating meat. Not just any meat. Me!

I grew a whole crop of penises on my body. They're like bananas, apparently. They gradually matured, started to pinch off. So I picked them (quite painless, as I recall), cooked them up (they smelled like garlic sausages), and now I'm eating them. I wonder if I can digest them, though; I'm normally vegetarian. I'm making an exception because no one died for this meat. I'm not even mutilated; I still have my original penis, it looks and feels unchanged. But these others WERE part of me, and now... aren't.

Wow, talk about You Are Lunch! When I invented that dream-category, it just never occurred to me you could be both the lunch and the luncher--simultaneously.

NOTES

• Bunched like bananas = my housemate brought home a bunch of bananas.
• Penises bud off painlessly = my dreams? Once literally my "private parts", but now not...
• Cooking penises = typing up and editing private dreams for you to read--like this one!
• I'm vegetarian; can I digest meat? = cooked a veg stew loaded with garlic that smelled meaty AND gave me gas all night. Wake up farting as I wrote this down--guts as upset as if I HAD eaten meat! I've been blaming beans, assumed I can't digest them; but it may be the garlic I often add (among many other spices) when I cook 'em, thinking they HELP...
• ACTION: lay off the garlic and see what happens. If it turns out I can digest beans better than I thought, it'd mean a lot. Try hummus with lemon and cumin etc but not much garlic. Same for curry rice--omit garlic.

AFTERWORD

I keep trying to find a deep sexual meaning here, something self-destructive and twisted and fascinating to jaded Web readers... But you know, I can't. This isn't like that European idiot who volunteered to have his penis cut off and cooked and eaten. Not suicidal, not self-destructive, no knives no blood no trauma. I'm quite intact--just confused. Possibly having bitten off more than I can chew...

...which sounds like an excellent summary of the World Dream Bank.

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