Dream 431: Bad Education
01.30.2016 § Leave a comment
A T-Rex is chasing me up the stairs of my condo building. At the roofdeck entrance, I must make a split-second decision whether it is faster to go around the little glass barrier in through the door, or to jump over it to dive inside. If I dive, I risk not being graceful enough to aim properly and ending it right there, but if I go around I risk that extra millisecond resulting in getting caught in the jaws of death. Also, if I dive, there’s no telling whether I’ll be able to catch myself once inside or if I’ll tumble down the stairs right on the other side and break my neck or crack my skull open, a much less glamorous death. I decide to dive, and escape by the skin of my teeth.
We’re on an island, a cross between the Village from the 60’s British spy TV series The Prisoner, modern-day San Francisco, Hong Kong amidst protests, early 90’s Taiwan a la Rebels of the Neon God, and the Patch Adams Gesundheit Institute where I had Xenharmonic Praxis Summer Camp. The island is shaped like a ramp. It’s basically a 7×7 mile square, sloping up toward one of the four sides, at which point it drops off suddenly as a cliff. The taller buildings are all on the higher side; the land slopes up linearly but the skyline slopes up exponentially atop it. This must have been a nightmare to get the subway system right.
I’ve attempted escape with some comrades. We’re floating on an inner tube out to freedom. But I spy a shark’s fin on the horizon. I figure we can angle the inflation pin away from the direction the shark is coming at us from, but my comrades think that’s not enough — we have to turn back and make landfall. When we get back we’re immediately apprehended, and learn there has been a crackdown on organized protests. The dirty hippie girl from P.E. class was outed as our leader.
I’m hiding out in the rickety old decaying grey wood outhouse. There’s no sink, but there is a counter with a “moose oil candle” on it, with a clever limerick on it about a woman who one day needed to zhuzh her hair but had no water, but she did have a brush and a moose oil candle, so she just crumbled up some of the candle and brushed it in and it worked like gel. This bathroom also has no mirror but I take a long hard look in the non-mirror. There’s a pamphlet in here for the “Director’s Series,” some course here modeled after the San Francisco Symphony’s American Mavericks series, but is apparently about filmmaker songwriters. I have boycotted this class.
No matter what I do, I cannot type “Taiwan” into my smartphone. The authorities have suppressed that word entirely.