prev : next : index SPEW

August 1, 1999: i don't dream about anyone

Sunday

The buildings belonging to the airline whose plane I was landing in had just collapsed when we landed.

When I got to the house of the friends I was staying with, one half of their house had fallen apart.

There was a bird with a memorably distinctive name (except I can't remember it now, but it was something like an idiomatic phrase, not a proper 'name'), and the bird was sick, and I put it in my pocket and took it with me.

I went somewhere else where I also had my own rooms. I didn't want the bird to die because there was another bird somewhere and the two were in love. (They were different kinds of birds too, but they made a cute couple.) So I wanted to put the bird somewhere safe, but it had disappeared.

I got an idea for a song: I could write a song about how I'm not Jimi Hendrix.

Me and this other guy went to a movie. Then it wasn't me anymore, it was a sort of amalgamation of all the Beatles into a Fab One, who wasn't quite a Beatle... people recognized him and were tempted to throng crazily around him but it never happened.

Then they were in the movie and the other guy had to leave for a minute, and while he was gone people came much closer to thronging crazily around this Fab dude. Some random person kissed him on the cheek.

But actually he was at a concert not a movie, there was a rock band playing. He wasn't very happy with how the concert was going.

He walked up on stage and I thought he was going to join the band for a song or something, which would have been cool, but instead he had his own microphone and it was between songs and he was doing some rabble rousing. "Don't just make music! Make music DO something!"

Then the other band must have gotten pissed off and left the stage or something, because the next thing you know, the guy who had left for a minute came back, but everything was winding down and he was disappointed.

Then he and I were walking back somewhere and fifty feet in front of us on the street a building's sixth story and up (a fifteen story building) suddenly tipped over and fell in the street in front of us.

"You know, I think this city is trying to kill me," I said. (I've forgotten the details one or two other similar episodes.)

We went back to the house where we were supposed to be staying. At some point on the way somebody mentioned the name of that bird whose name I can't remember anymore, but now it turned out that name didn't refer to a bird, it referred to a flower--a particular pet flower somebody had been growing. [Actually this occurred earlier, but I'm not sure when, and there was more sick/dead flower narrative, but I don't remember it, sadly.]

Back at the house, some people in the street said they had just seen the ghost of name-that-referred-to-the-bird-but-now-the-flower. They pointed up in the air to illustrate where they had seen it. "Oh, but don't worry about it, [name]'s a really nice ghost, doesn't mean any harm."


prev : next : month : index : : home
attribution dammit: William, It Was Really Nothing The Smiths