SELF-PORTRAIT IN THE FORM OF A DREAM NARRATIVE

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I woke up out of a dream at 3 this morning, and decided to write down what I remembered of it. The story line is not all that fascinating, but since I remembered so much of it, I figured it must mean something. It's not populated with princesses holding magic chalices or anything similarly momentous. Running bare-assed through the neighborhood would certainly have been momentous if it had really happened, but not as something my brain just chose to think about. What is it with brains, anyway? Are they all sick and twisted, or is it just me? So anyway, I thought this would be an interesting stand-in for a self-portrait, since it includes all the major themes of my life: haplessness, tardiness, flung pork, wine-soaked shoes. I make no excuses for the writing style, since it was 3 am, and a large part of my consciousness was still wherever it hangs out when I'm sleeping. Probably at a mental bowling alley somewhere, knocking back sloe gin fizzes and zoning out on the wonderful repetitive sounds.