Enduring Primordial Morning Dream

Enduring Primordial Morning Dream

Hey Pearl. I’m no good at interpreting dreams. If left up to me, I’ll decipher today’s early morning nap time dream as a message to go see Pearl at Makerspace or get f**ked up!


– I was in a men’s homeless shelter, one I hadn’t been in before. Lots of glass walls that let me see outside and lots of security that wouldn’t let me outside.

– At first I didn’t realize they weren’t letting me out, which is a violation of client rights–they can’t hold you against your will. I kept asking for exit and guard kept directing me to do this first or do that. Eventually, I told him ENOUGH. Let me out right now! I quoted my client right to be free from any form of detainment.

– There was an event I was supposed to meet Pearl at and I was running late. Plus this shelter was in a remote location that could only be entered & exited by a special bus, which would slow down my commute so I really needed to get moving. Plus I had an overdue library book.

– I was in contact with Pearl by phone and it seemed we were both running late so there was hope, but only if I got on that bus right now. I think we were headed to a place (and this part I’m imagining because I don’t remember): it was a special place, even magical, made up of the best memories of Brooklyn & Staten Island. Let’s call it: The Fuhgeddaboutdit/Forgotten Place.

– I saw an exit with a promising door and one guard. He verbally discouraged my leaving without going through the proper exiting process. You know those retractable crowd control bands that stretch from pole to pole, the kind used (to make people form lines) at the DMV or other government buildings with long wait times? There was enough of those bands forming a maze that maybe a 100 clients could easily wait inside of–and the guard wanted me to walk through the whole thing instead of just ducking under a few and getting to the front much faster. If I had walked through those crowd line control bands mindlessly, I would’ve missed the next bus. So I didn’t.

– When I got to the front much faster there was a much bigger security guard there, a mean-faced one. He was wearing a white shirt decorated with lots of Cracker Jack box medals, which meant he was in charge. He had a gang of lower ranking guards flanking him, a goon squad. But none of the underlings looked nearly as mean as this big guy in charge.

– One of the underlings spoke for the big guy in charge, said there’d be trouble if I tried to go through them. I was strongly encouraged to leave–leave from the exit area, but not leave from the shelter. I wasn’t going for it. This was bullshit! I know it and you know it, so I let them know it.

– “I’m leaving here one way or the other,” I told the underling. At that point, I girded my loins and poised myself to push forward. But I felt the need to deliver a line that would let me win the war of words because the physical battle was lost before it even began.
“Listen!” I said, after letting all of the underlings know (in the most assertive tone possible) that I was going for that exit, “I’m doing my thing, so you just gonna have to do your thing, his thing, our thing, La Cosa Nostra…”
That last part made the big guy in charge crack a smirk. Then he let the Hounds of the Underworld loose. It felt like an S&M bondage orgy sponsored by Hell. Hands were all over me. Cuffs on ankles, wrists, my neck. (There wasn’t really a cuff on my neck. That’s the shelter rubbing off on me. They always ramp up the incident report.)

– You want the farm-to-table, unprocessed truth? You want the real, unedited report about the incident?
Here it is: They fucked me up. All of them. At the same time. The underlings. The big guy in charge. They really fucked me up bad.


Pearl’s Response:

I’m responding immediately unfiltered. As long as they didn’t kill you. Bottom line, were you alive, would you survive? A dense dream, seemingly endless labyrinthine layers of tests and challenges… in which the WAR OF WORDS is pitted against the WAR OF FISTS and this time — this time — gets a beatdown. But if you’re alive, your voice cannot be taken from you… ah, the incredibly painful struggle to arrive at the place of MAGIC AND MEMORY. Is it not MAGIC AND MEMORY that constitute the fabric of our most enduring experiences…? Like a primordial wellspring of identity — lessons learned and burned into us — some of the good kind of insanity — laughter in the face of life. YOU DO YOUR THING, BUT I’M COMIN THROUGH. What a powerful visceral dream. One to inspire many poems and actions too.

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