Thursday, September 16, 2004

Dr. Omed ponders a dream. I HAD A DREAM   Imperfectly remembered, probably embroidered by the conscious effort to make it sensible. Picture two stolid looking men, dress ‘em in vintage film noir suits and/or overcoats, put fedoras on their noggins—their twinned characters could be adequately described as supporting-dumb-police-detectives. They are standing before a particolored pile of small furs. It is a large pile. The setting would seem to be some kind of warehouse, very dark and decorated in Industrial Desolate. The little furs are more or less butterfly shaped—they are the tanned skins of women’s pudenda. The two men are picking up and examining these little memento morae, reading aloud the cryptic texts written in ink or blood on the skin side, then tossing one grisly scrap aside to pick up another. The two men do not seem horrified or aghast in the least. They behave instead as if they were breaking open Chinese fortune cookies and reciting the nebulous bit of Confucian wisdom inside.   Forgive the static and chaff as we make a garbled transition to Scene Two. A half American, half Japanese woman in her early twenties, dressed all in black, walks down a dark…runway…corridor…alley, in the same sort of Industrial Desolate setting. She’s walking along a strip of concrete that falls off to one side and rises on the other, like a dockside or dam but no water. Abadoned pieces of machinery are scattered along the way. The chewed up pieces of a dismembered corpse are strewn on the path. Glossy white bones protrude.  The women weeps, not in anguish but in a kind of poised lamentation as if she stepped out of an Egyptian wall painting. She cries out: “The bones are singing. Take me to my brother…” Here the dream becomes confused again, and soon I woke up in the still dark bedroom, in a wee hour before dawn.   From Dr. Omed’s Book of Dreams   10:59:28 PM    comment []