Andy Angel...No Angel

Ever since taking a cab in San Francisco with a cab driver who had Turets Syndrome (really... this is a true story), I have been hesitant to use cabs. I will go out of the way to walk whenever possible. In dreams unfortunatly you often don't always have a choice.

In my dream I was taking a cab in some ominous, unfamiliar city. The cab driver was the token East Indian, turban and all. He was very friendly and I must add; had very good manners. Across the street a large disheveled blond fellow was walking down the sidewalk. He had a twisted gait as if he was walking with stones in his shoes. His hair looked as if it had been styled with a razor blade ... in prison. I could tell right away that something about him was not quite right. In fact it was undeniably wrong.

My dreams are pretty consistent. If I look at someone in a dream, no matter how far away they are, they will undoubtedly turn around and look at me. I can rarely if ever, hide, remain invisible, or go even slightly unnoticed. Sure enough, as I knew he would, he came to an abrupt halt, and slowly twisted his head around to look at me over his shoulder. I quickly turned and stared forward but before I did, I could see that all his teeth were broken and his smile was menacing. Using my perifial vision I noticed him immediatly crossing the street. Apparently unaware of the cars that came screetching to a halt or swerved around him. He still wore that horrible smile.

I frantically started fumbling for the door locks while staring at the red light that seemed as though it had been red for hours now. I yelled for the cab driver to go but he didn't seem to hear me over his Bollywood soundtrack. He just smiled at me in the rear view mirror, as though I was sharing his enthusiam for the obnoxious sitar wailing through the speakers. I locked my door just as the limping ouf came up to the drivers side. Without any hesitation, he opened the drivers door, punched out my Indian cabbie, threw him out on the street, and got behind the wheel. This all happened in just a matter of seconds. He turned around to me as he sped through the still red light.

"My name is Andy Angel. I'm your cab driver chippie." He had a distinctive Australian accent that surprisingly could be heard over his mess of a mouth.

The dream took a distinctive dark turn at this point. He refused to stop at my required destination, which I had forgotten in all this madness and he proceeded to drive me to my home town of Paso Robles, California. Running over pedestrians and hitting cows along the way. An udder disaster.

"uhm, excuse me, Mr. Angel", I tried to keep my voice from wavering. "I'm really hungry. Can you stop at that Fast Food Joint up the way there?" I had no intention of eating anything at this point. If I could lock these doors then I could just as easily unlock them and run. Usually I can deceive the "monsters" in my dreams. Though they may sense me looking at them a mile away, I can usually trick them into doing what needs to be done to in order to secure my survival. I guess what their lacking for in brains they make up for in terror. No such luck this time.

"Oh no Chippie. This is my cab ride. And the bus doesn't stop here." He apparently thought this was a hilarious response and laughed so much he spit out a broken tooth.

I Have Visions...

I have visions. I dream of love and of being broken. I dream of tranquil waters and murky ponds. I dream of others' woes. I dream of a man whose heart is broken in a butcher shop only to be eternally haunted by the smell of blood and woman. I dream of being with child and living in a hole created by its proud father. In my dreams I fall in love again and again. I dream of my hands.

"They say that I'm a dreamer but I'm not the only one."
- John Lennon

Shopping in Marrakesh....Finally

For the first time in weeks I finally had a good, thoughtless, shallow, and materialistic dream. I'm sure everyone around me is relieved as well. Seems lately that as soon as I close my eyes all I see is blood and darkness. I love my food and shopping dreams. An excellent respite from being chased, attacked, or tortured. Food dreams usually start out with me at an all-you-can-eat buffet. I'm usually combining hideous food combinations like Belgian Waffles topped with stuffed mushrooms and sprinkled with caviar. I'm feeling guilty as I impatiently stuff my face vaguely knowing the dream could end at any minute. I awake feeling satiated and relieved. Its better then bulimea. The other is a shopping dream and usually goes along these same lines:
I find myself at a beautiful (and of course expensive) clothing store in Marrakesh. I hear the music of dervishes and I can almost smell the camel dung in the air. Another american woman helps me pick out beautiful caftans created from the finest moroccan cotton and egyptian silk. She picks up a beautiful aqua robe embroidered with an Islamic hamsa on the front. "This would be perfect when I have my own cult" I told her in all seriousness. It seemed to be perfectly reasonable to purchae the pricey garment for such a frivalous reason.
"I'm going to visit Jerry Garcia in Amsterdam" she explained as she held up her heavy mustard colored robe. It had angel sleeves that reached the ground. "I think it will be perfect." I decided not to mention that Jerry Garcia was dead and had been so for a number of years now. She seemed so excited.
I looked down at the tag and wondered how I was ever going to pay for this, yet knowing I had to have it. I had no purse or wallet on me so I dug in the pocket of my jeans and pulled out a slick new gold card. I winked at her. "Perfect!"

A Vicious Cat, a Gothic Isle, and Paris Hilton

I resided in a wicked house in my dreams last night. It emanated pure evil. Like many old haunted houses it was a very large, two story Victorian. Most of the rooms were empty and I looked down to see my bare feet padding across bare oak floors. The lighting was dim and almost dusty, as if I was looking through a filter. Every room pulsed with a heat so utterly evil that my heart pounded with fear and every hair on my body was standing up. I was ready for flight.

"Come on Lesley" my friend Darren whispered to me. "We have to leave here. Now." He persisted.
"I can't leave without my cat." I replied. I tiptoed across the large foyer, looking in all the dark corners. "Here kitty, kitty." I thought. I wouldn't dare say it aloud in this house. I was afraid to attract any unwanted attention.

Suddenly, something flew at me, claws tore my shirt asunder. Darren and I ran outside, blood coursed and flooded my bra. My t-shirt hung in shreds. "I can't leave without my cat!" I exclaimed. Darren carefully took the vicious animal by the nape of the neck and gently put it in the infant seat that resided in the back of the car. "See he's fine." I glanced into the back seat to see the cat seatbelted in. He was licking his bloody, black claws. Darren proclaimed that we needed to consult a psychic regarding this matter. "The best ones reside on an island located off the coast of Los Angeles."
"Let's go" I said. At this point I realized that he was in a better position to make the decisions. We reached an island off the LA coast line. The feline monster purred contentedly in the backseat. The island consisted of dark, gothic castle like architecture and the women strolling about wore the little gauzy caps of the Amish. I climbed the stairs of a dark tower and at the top looked over the side to the dark and patient ocean below. A photographer started snapping pictures of me, Paris Hilton stood at my side. "Do you always have to be in front?" I asked her.

"You want to go to a club with me? Lets get out of here." She said while walking away. I thought it was Paris Hilton but I had not yet seen her from the front. I looked down at my tattered, bloody shirt. "Your perfect, soon everybody will be wearing the same thing." She still hadn't turned around but must have guessed at my apprehension. I watched her short blond hair descend the stairs and I followed.