Pictured here please find the AV materials I made to accompany last night’s dream. It was one of the worst I’ve ever had.
I was stuck in the California desert in some sort of sprawling hotel-convenience store complex in which I was nonetheless expected to look and act camera-ready for a tv show for which I was about to get picked up though I had to walk six miles in the desert to meet the car. Also the show itself was morally bankrupt and as I was walking there I got attacked by a bunch of white teenaged male meth addicts with huge seeping herpes lesions on their faces and penises hanging out of their zippers like stunted third legs; naturally these young men were slinging huge guns over their shoulders. I got away by insulting their intelligence and the size of their organs–through humiliating them, essentially, which is how I have resisted most male sexual assault and harassment in my waking life–but I lost my way in the process. I was walking in circles having lost my phone computer clothing wallet and o my context; was bleeding and naked and dangerously deydrated and sunburnt; and was sorry but not shocked that the only response of the tv people, when they finally stumbled upon me, was annoyance that I was not more camera-ready.
When I woke it was President’s Day without a democratically elected president, and I made coffee without coffee beans and broke a glass just by picking it up. So, yeah, the state of the union is preventing regular programming. Fortunately there are all those clips going around of a white blonde lady butchering the National Anthem in the California desert with a self-satisfied grin. Resistance art? Whatever, man. It gave me the only laugh of this gloomy February day.