Dream I had last night: My boyfriend introduces me to a friend of his, an East Village artist named "Jason" or "Jazz" or something like that. My b.f. disappears from the dream after that. I hang with this E.Vil artist, who has all these opinions, and I'm thinking "Ah, to be twentysomething again. Ugh." (No offense to the twentysomethings out there--just that my twenties suc-c-c-c-ckkhnted!! As they probably were supposed to.) This artist was o-so pereniallly disgusted and discontented. We were walking on the west side of Manhattan, on 8th Avenue right after Greenwich and Hudson merge into 8th, toward 14th Street. We were going to catch a bus to E.Vil. (It wasn't referred to that in the dream, just that I like to use it with affection for the place I used to live, a la Soho, Nolita, WeHo, LoDo, etc.)
Anyway, we walk through a patch of broken glass as I'm listening to Jazz/Jason/Jazzon talk a blue streak when I can't walk any further. I'm like, what gives, and I look down and there's this huge piece of glass sticking out of my right calf. I have this big gash there, but I don't feel any pain, that is until I looked down and realize "I'm fucking bleeding. A lot!" And Jazzon looks at me with this glass sticking out of me and asks me "Did you do that on purpose man?" I'm rather horrified and perplexed at this self-interested statement, as I pull the glass out of me and the blood throbs out of me. Sort of reminds me of fecal matter of a diarrhetic nature, the pulsing and the gaping of the hole like an anal-mouth from a William S. Burroughs novel.
I look up, see what I think is a bus and start toward it, bad leg and all. Jazzon has at least the presence of mind to question this move, and pipes up that I need some medical attention. The vehicle turns out to be a semi with those lights atop the car of the vehicle. And a couple of passenger buses heading to Port Authority pass by as well. Then I woke up.
Last night I went to a meeting of a salon of filmmakers and screenwriters in Troy. It was a good thing for me, though I found myself inside an internal struggle that this dream summarizes fairly well. I need to marinate in the mystery of the thing. The preoccupations I had when I was in the writing before my abstinence (anniversary tomorrow--3 years clean of sugar and flour, h'ray for me!) are way different now. I'm actually thinking of using my skill at crafting dramatic materials to point toward a way out of the megalomanic megalopolitan mega-mistake we all live in. The anger is still there, and the 'hipness" factor is still there, though the self-obsession seems to be in transition. There's a lot more thought to put into this, however.
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