So, Im dreaming. Im at a small restaurant sitting along the wall at a table directly across from a table at which sit Gabrielle Union, Sanaa Lathan, and several other actresses. Somehow Im engaged in some very witty banter with the ladies (Im always so witty in my dreams, and I do a lot of flying too). Well, apparently, in the back and forth, I almost spill the beans regarding a birthday surprise that Gabby (that’s what I call her) was planning with my help. Gabby gives me a look, like boy your better shut up, as Sanaa rises and walks over to my table to sit next to me. Sanaa begins to chat me up a bit. We talk about Atlanta, Puerto Rico, and other stuff. Shes trying to charm me for info. So then I tell her that I imagine her playing a character in my book, Sacrifices. She smiles and seems personally touched. She leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I blush a bit before I look into her eyes and see that theyre glowing yellow, like in one of the horror movies shes been in. In my dream, apparently shes some kind of soul drinker. Well, lets just say that the night gets worst from there. I woke and wondered to myself, how could a dream with both Gabby (my buddy in the dream) and Sanaa go so wrong??? Must all my dreams go off the rails? So, I’m dreaming and on my way to work, driving across the Golden Gate Bridge (no, I dont live in SF), and apparently a small earthquake is starting. Amazingly, I avoid a section of the bridge which has fallen through and get to work. Standing in the lobby, Im doing my levitation thing and several of those also waiting on the elevator are impressed, including two men of an unknown middle eastern, northern India sect (think Hari Krishna - like, but with turbans), who compliment me on my gravity defying skills. Well, I get on the elevator, and there is my cousin and her assistant. I want to show my cousin my levitation skills, but theres no room. Anyway, the assistant is carrying on about a date she had with someone my cousin and I both know, who does not cook, but she doesn’t realize that we don’t cook either. The woman says, ...and then after cooking dinner, he asked me to make him sandwiches for the week. Me and my cousin nod and then sneak a glance at one another in recognition of the awkwardness of the moment as her assistant rambles on. I manage to eke out to the woman, Yeah, personally, I could see that happening. I mean the food is already out, so why not ask? At last my floor is approaching, the worked up assistant leaves me with one last thought, “I can’t be taking care of no grown man.” I give an involuntary eye roll and exit to my floor, as an aftershock hits. Yeah, the floor is swaying and all, but I have a nine o’clock call that I can’t miss. So, I keep it moving. Okay, in my real life, its not quite this way, but dream life Alan tends to exaggerate, all except for the part about me levitating. So, I’m dreaming. I exit the elevator and step right into a night club. Jumping off the stage and headed right toward me is Richard Nixon, yes, that Richard Nixon. He’s all amped up and yelling, but it’s so loud that I’m only catching every other word, “This is the ‘ish, isn’t it?” something, something, “all my jams that way” something else, something else, “and that’s why they call me Tricky Di..” “Whoa!” I yell. The ex-president replies back, “Yo bro, but that’s what they call me.” I yell back over the din, “I don’t care what they call you, I can’t roll with any dude who calls himself, Tricky whatever.” He leans over, truly perplexed, “So, what should I call myself, Tricky Penis?” I back up half a step, “Whoa, too much!!! And that sounds like a condition, or an STD.” So, he goes, “Alright, alright.” He breathes in deeply and then exhales, “I wish my road dog, Agnew was here to see this. But check out my boy, Ford on the stage.” I look up to see the pasty Canadian mayor spitting verses. “Coming up, coming down Most of yall think Im a clown Bad rash, T-town Keep it real, yall know yall cant get down Mounties chasing le benz Pard my Québécois Its dinner time in no time keep your hands to your plate, not mine Its red and grape kool-aid Chase it with hard lemonade Whens Robs out, those paparazzi out Yall put, yall put your lens in Clap for a ginger with his rapping ass Blow a stack for your ginger with his pale ass Spent all of what’s left On crack and meth I party with bucks and doe’s Rocks baking soda and snow Eh, Rob here, Rob there, Rob clever, whatever [Hook] I dont pop molly I rock Rob Ford Canadian, bring back the Concorde Ooh, I dropped one, check the floorboard Rob Ford Rob Ford Rob Ford Rob Ford Rob Ford” The President yells, half spitting in my ear, “Rob is the illest Illuminati out there, isn’t he?” I go “What?!?!?” But before I can follow up, I wake up. Why are all my dreams so poorly timed? So, I’m dreaming, and I step into my hotel room and I’m greeted by a familiar voice. It’s Sarah. Standing quickly she fearlessly says, “Hello, Alan. Please take a seat, here in the middle.” I look around the room and it’s filled which characters from my books and then some. Sarah continues, “First, please understand that we all love you.” And as Sarah rambles on through a list of affirmations before she levels the hammer, I’m struck with the realization “Lord, these voices in my head are staging an intervention!!!” Sarah, who has a striking resemblance to Sanaa Lathan, ends with, “…we think you have a problem.” “Apparently! Y’all suppose to be on my team, but you’re here all up in my Kool-Aid. So, y’all think I have issues that require all of this?” They all look at one another for an instant, and then break out in a collective laugh. Sarah, who seldom laughs (she chuckles), shines her ever present smile (she could tell you that you’re going to hell, and you’d be pretty sure that it was good news), “We’re here to talk to you about this writing thing. It’s habitual and we’re concerned about you and what will become of you if you keep this up.” Puzzled I answer, “So, writing is bad for me?” Sweet Ruth Ann, pushes her glasses back onto her face before rising, “Well, yes. A lot of psychologists believe that creative writing is actually a form of mental illness. I’ve printed out some articles for you. Here.” Ruth Ann, the spitting image of Anika Noni Rose, hands me loose papers she printed for me. I say, “Thank you.” Only because it seems the right thing to say. Deborah, known for swinging moods and swinging fists, and looks a lot like Gabrielle Union (what? You don’t cast your imaginary friends?) chastises me, “You’re lucky we’re doing this here. I wanted to come up on your job for this!” “Okay, okay, I hear you. Let’s just get through this. But y’all do know that if I didn’t write, most of you wouldn’t be here.” I said to the lot of them. Sarah challenged me, “From the moment you laid pen to paper we existed, and nothing can change that now. We’re looking forward. You can’t go on like this.” “Like what?” I asked. Down home Darnell completed the context. “In this never ending angst, of writing, wanting to write, not being able to write, and writing again. It’s a cycle of angst that is never satisfied.” William, the man with no filter, “…and you know, you’ll never sell enough of these to live off of, right?” “Yes, I know. I wish I could, but I’m not planning on it.” I acknowledged. “And that’s your problem.” William accurately replied. I tried to explain, “Life gets in the way.” Oddly smiling, Sarah added. “Yes, and each week, you think the next will be better. You’ve been telling yourself this most of your life.” Just then I hear an electronic key card slide in and out of the door lock to my room. Slowly, the door opens, and a cat in a hat sticks its head in, “Checking out today?” “No, I will not be checking out today, could you please go away.” “Then would you like to extend your stay, today?” “No, I would not like to extend my stay, today, and who are you anyway?” “Just an hombre who’d like to know how long you plan to stay?” “No, hombre. I’m not extending my stay. And anyway, I ask, do you work for the hotel, if I may?” “Work? Why would anyone work, when they can play? Wait, this is not room seven twenty eight? I’m in the wrong dream it seems, so I’ll be on my way!” The door slams and we glance at one another, before picking up right where we left off. Deborah starts in on me, “So, what’s with this thing of you dying in your dreams. You know we don’t do that.” “What, Black folks don’t do that?” I ask. “No, no one does that!” Deborah answers. Going on she says, “Maybe if you’d shed a tear every now and then you wouldn’t either.” “Oh.” I reply. It’s then that I see the seven year old me hiding in the back, sitting in the shadows. He calls out, “Hey, how come you don’t let me say anything, anymore? I think that’s bullshit.” “And that’s a fine example of why I dont let you talk. You say whatever pops into your head.” “And that’s bad? Hey, you remember don’t you? Spitting fire left and right.” “Yes, and I wasn’t very nice sometimes.” “But you were a happy unfiltered seven year old, weren’t you? “Yes, if being oblivious to the needs of others is indeed bliss. But we don’t live such an existence, do we? We live in connection. Even here I can’t tell it all. Life only allows a certain level of transparency.” “Rhino Poop.” “Yes, rhino poop. But I am who you always wished to be.” “Was it worth it?” “Yes, I think the world is better, with a little less seven year old me.” The child calls me out my name as a parting shot before retaking his seat. William leans in towards the seven year old me and whispers, “You have to excuse him, he still believes.” I address William, “Just because you’ve given up, doesn’t mean that we all have. You have your walk, and I have mine. Meaning, that every transcendent journey is its own unique path.” In a quiet moment Darnell leans forward in his chair to ask me, “As you move from one level of existence to another, do you ever lose your place?” “Yes, it happens all the time…” I concede. In the next moment, the ceiling opens up to reveal a star filled sky. Then the entire room begins to levitate, to which Deborah exclaims, “He’s doing it again! Mister Etch a Skit at his finest.” Ruth replies, “I think you meant…” “No, I know, but I meant exactly what I said. Why does he do this?” Deborah shouted over the din of a grown whirlwind. Sarah smiles and concludes, “This is simply how he cries.” Why does it seem that all the characters in my dreams are such sad clowns? So, I’m dreaming. I’m sitting at my desk writing a short story about my dreams…
Posted on: Sun, 30 Nov 2014 16:53:23 +0000
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