Last night I dreamed I was soldier. I was embedded in a unit with friends from various social groups from every time in my life. Both men and woman whom looked exactly as I remembered them from when I knew them: high school chums I haven’t seen since, classmates from film school, all sorts of coworkers, and even some of my current, long-distance pals**. Though many have neither crossed paths nor even have been be aware of the others’ existence, we were a tight-knit group out on a mission***.
Of course the super-ego left me in charge: I led my troops through an eastern-European village of rolling hills, quaint chateaus and buxom townswomen who welcomed Anglo intervention. If we’re using Inception logic- and there’s no reason not to- I’ll blame this on a recent viewing of Saving Private Ryan. The troops marched on while smoking cigarettes, chatting about whatever was waiting for them back home. Suddenly, the guy that I worked with at McDonalds ten years ago- the one who loved Rammstein, smoked pot before, during and after his shift, and made the absolutely best custom chicken sandwiches****- stops dead in his tracks. There’s a red dot, a sniper’s marker on his chest. We all freeze and watch as the dot dances around his chest- and down to the crotch- finally resting right between his eyes. A bullhorn sounded and suddently his head evaporated like burst balloons filled with maraschino cherry juice. Someone yelled “Sweet sassy molassee!”
I charged forward, jamming my rifle-shank into the jaws of the enemy. Grenades soar overhead and we swing our muzzles like Jose Conseco. Flashbangs land at my feet but I bend it like Beckham and send those fuckers right back towards the evil bastards’ (with no discerning nationality) foxholes. Things are happening with the fluidity of pressing X in Call of Duty. We have to avenge Jason*****!
Dreams are odd little hallucinations, aren’t they? Every night we create/inhabit/destroy an entire universe inside of our mind, shaped and formed by what our brain takes in while we’re awake; Memories of such can be fleeting, but when we can grasp on a thought or feeling experienced only while hanging out alone in your mindchamber******, extrapolating what went into the images can be confusing and (most of the time) frivolous.
The next thing I remember after waging war next to people I was cordial with fifteen years ago was being in a middle-eastern sheik’s palace, pitching the possibly-pseudo-mock-dock “Exit Through the Gift Shop” to him and his brother as something we should watch on DVD. I remember what I said:
“Banksy is pretty cool. He tagged the wall along the West Bank, in Israel–”
“We know where the fucking West Bank wall is, you fat asshole.”
The Sheik was kind of a jerk, but then again I’m the one wearing sweatpants while condescendingly scanning his movie collection, suggesting films he doesn’t own and uttering disapproving thoughts.
“Ugh, who the fuck buys Mission Impossible 2 on DVD and Blu-ray?!”
** Grimace was there too. I never worked with Grimace.
*** “A stolen car mission, had a small problem with the transmission. Three on the tree in the middle of the night; I have this steak on my head ’cause I got into a fist fight. Life comes in phases take the good with the bad; you bought the coins on the street and you know you got had because it’s all high spirit, you know you got to hear it. Don’t touch the mic baby! Don’t come near it!
**** I think his name was Jason. Or Jeff. Maybe Tyler. It doesn’t fucking matter and you probably wasted time looking this annotation up.
***** Maybe you didn’t waste your time looking up that last annotation.
****** Your brain.