More than a weirdo to me

So I’m more of a weirdo than I previously suspected. Maybe not more than you previously suspected. I don’t know your life. I had mentioned on here that I have a dream cast. Not that I have the ideal cast that I would put in a movie or a play or a TV show–I have a cast of actors for my dreams.

Franz Liszt_in_1843Iggy-Pop_1977 by Michael MarkosIt never before occurred to me that this was so peculiar until I was at dinner with my friends the other day and we were talking dreams. I don’t dream in color, but I know what color everything is. If something is in color, it’s extremely important. The color, that is. (But I don’t think in color. I think in concepts. I can’t take bets on color-based memories. I always lose them.) And I have the cast. The cast is what makes me freakish.

I do have a favorite. He doesn’t have a name. He’s tall, Caucasoid and brunette. I have a thing for brunettes. (Who doesn’t? I know Quink does.) He looks a little like Franz Liszt circa 1843 times Iggy Pop circa 1977 divided by any mean, disaffected bar bouncer you’ve ever been disgustedly sized up by if you’re a dude, or absently been called “Sweetheart” by if you’re a chick. He has a lot of tattoos on his arms, but nowhere else. And he looks good naked. Tall. And he can play any part–really a versatile actor. He’s been my husband many a time (one time getting me pregnant by just laying his hand on my arm, so he’s powerful potent), but he can drive a bus, run a company, serve in middle management, work a cash register, wait tables, and throw cars with his bare hands.

Also starring in these plays is a middle-aged white woman with frizzy hair. She needs a hot oil something wicked. There’s a forty-something Black man as well. He’s often the cop. I don’t know why. Maybe he likes to work the siren and write tickets, or maybe he has a boot fetish. (Have you ever looked at their boots? They’re really S&M material.) Oh, and there’s a person who plays the hooker, pretty lady, and best friend parts. Really gorgeous–so gorgeous that right now I’m not totally convinced this person is not a transvestite. “She’s” mixed and looks half Filipina.

Anyways, telling my friends unsettled them a little. They thought it was very odd. I haven’t met these dream people before. They are not modeled on anyone. If I meet the man [of my dreams], I will engage him in some sort of interaction. I will not tell him where I know him from. I’ve already met two people who are imaginary, and I never want to say to anyone, “You remind me of someone–someone who does not exist.” That’s too insane.

Red_King_sleepingUnless he’s dreaming of me. But that can’t be happening. Can it? Do I want it to be? Is this helpful in anyway? Miss Silver Squid would say we are destined for each other. I am not holding my breath.

`He’s dreaming now,’ said Tweedledee: `and what do you think he’s dreaming about?’

Alice said `Nobody can guess that.’

`Why, about you!’ Tweedledee exclaimed, clapping his hands triumphantly. `And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you’d be?’

`Where I am now, of course,’ said Alice.

`Not you!’ Tweedledee retorted contemptuously. `You’d be nowhere. Why, you’re only a sort of thing in his dream!’

`If that there King was to wake,’ added Tweedledum, `you’d go out — bang! — just like a candle!’

`I shouldn’t!’ Alice exclaimed indignantly. `Besides, if I’M only a sort of thing in his dream, what are you, I should like to know?’

`Ditto’ said Tweedledum.

`Ditto, ditto’ cried Tweedledee.

He shouted this so loud that Alice couldn’t help saying, `Hush! You’ll be waking him, I’m afraid, if you make so much noise.’

`Well, it no use your talking about waking him,’ said Tweedledum, `when you’re only one of the things in his dream. You know very well you’re not real.’

`I am real!’ said Alice and began to cry.

`You won’t make yourself a bit realler by crying,’ Tweedledee remarked: `there’s nothing to cry about.’

`If I wasn’t real,’ Alice said — half-laughing though her tears, it all seemed so ridiculous — `I shouldn’t be able to cry.’

`I hope you don’t suppose those are real tears?’ Tweedledum interrupted in a tone of great contempt.

–Through the Looking Glass (and What Alice Found There) by Lewis Carroll, ch. 4 “Tweedledum and Tweedledee”

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