Dream 330: Dirigibles of Self-Deprecation

12.07.2013 § Leave a comment

Karin and I have an ant problem. We do the proper research and find the cheapest trap which we’re sure enough will be completely effective. It’s like a little stretchy black square with entrances on the midpoints of each side; the tunnels cross in the middle and stick out in relief mostly on the top of the square, as if you were entering from any side through a circular hole in a Jurassic Park symbol. Our ants, we’ve identified, are the Burj Al-Khalid ant, the queen of which has legs with only a single joint at the thorax, and which are giant slender cones with smoothed edges, as if stretched candy corns but with tighter coloration patterns as if an uncurled candy cane, of off-white, cornflower, and pale goldenrod. The ants are already coming, and the queen herself is third in line! Dumbly I leave my finger plugged in the hole opposite the one the ants are all heading toward (and thus they’d all probably try to exit through mine). Though physically incomprehensible, since her legs are so big and unwieldy, the queen just walks right in. When I feel her tapping my finger ~

Oliver and I have met coming off a dirigible ride which we hadn’t realized we’d been sharing. He invites me over to his flat. I didn’t realize he was so destitute. He smokes me out. I can feel now that I can’t shut up. He’s got somewhere to be so he motions to adjourn. On the way down his lobby stairs I realize that I’ve forgotten my socks — no wonder my shoes feel so uncomfortable. Obviously frustrated, he lets me back in to get them. I turn out to have a harder time finding them than I expected I would. Conversation about losing socks gets away from us and soon Oliver finds himself plopped back down in his big chair, grumpily listening to me prattle on. Perhaps he’s missed the next dirigible and has nothing better to do between now and the next one than stew me in my guilt or the absence thereof. We head out again but this time I realize I’ve forgotten the weed he’s sold me. “You know what,” Oliver says, “Here’s the key to my apartment. Take your time, stay as long as you want, but I’ve got to go. Good luck.” And he’s off.

Getting off another dirigible later, I notice that, having apparently slept with my arm pressed against one of the ads for Al Pacino’s rum, I’ve now got an imprint on my forearm of its first five letters. To cover for my embarrassment, I make a show of amusement at it, shouting across the off-ramp crowd at Linus about it. He says at least it was tasty. I say really I didn’t like it. He said at least it wasn’t as bad as James Earl Jones’s cognac. I say hey I liked that one! In an attempt to seem wealthy and cultured I dispute whether Linus even likes cognac in the first place, however, I’m pronouncing cognac “cog-nyack” so joke’s on me.


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