I’m often plagued by visions magnifique, thematic elements that haunt me even when I wake.

I’ve noticed that recently, the way I remember my dreams has changed.

Usually I remember whole chunks, stories or acts. Event A led to Event B, which initiated Event C. I can see why things unfolded as they did. Though medical doctors have stated in many reputable studies that one can dream up to a dozen times in a single eight hour session, we only tend to remember the last few before we wake. Fairly normal, across the board sort of occurrences. However my dreams have been cutting in and out, as I seem remember as little as a line of dialogue, or as much as a single scene. It’s as if I’m flipping channels and catching bits and pieces of an old movie on cable.

Something must have happened to cause this shift in recollection… the questions is what?

I’ve not suffered a panic attack in ages. No serious injuries to the brain. As best I can tell I am still alive and everything around me is not a series of illusions, nor am I dead and walking among the living.  I cannot prove the latter two, but we’ll just have to assume for scientific purposes.

Why is the satellite dish inside my brain dropping the signal?  I imagine trying to solve this problem is fruitless

I leave to you, my loyal readers (bobandandrew.com-munists, I’ve taken to calling the lot of you), the most recent fragmented recalling of a slumber. I hope someone can shed light, fill in the gaps, or merely direct me to a discreet pharmacist that can write me a “prescription” for diazepam.

Dream Begin

Often times my dreams begin in a field, usually at the crest of a hill. Trees in the distance- maybe a forest- freshly cut grass and the odd flower. The sky is clear and sun shines, but it’s not too hot. A brisk breeze ruffles my cummerbund. Oh, right. I’m wearing a jet black tuxedo with tails, top hat and cane. The suit is two sizes too small, and I have trouble moving my arms.

I’m in grade school. I have a friend who looks just like Kurt Cobain. We jest as friends that age would, until he insults me and I am very much hurt. We wrestle, and I punch him in the face repeatedly.

A few years later, I run into Kurt again. He’s not well- shaggy, quiet, depressed. I suggest he start a band.

I’m binge drinking alone in a bar, again in my suit. A beautiful young girl is dancing by the jukebox. Liquid courage beaming, I shimmy over and put a dollar in the machine. I forget what played, but due to the suit’s size, I am only able to dance the robot. The woman laughs at me, and I go back to drinking.

I’m at the altar with the bar girl. I’m about thirty five. There’s a photo of Kurt on a casket. I guess we’re trying to save money and have the world’s first wedding/funeral bicentennial. The priest asks if I take this woman. I shout “No!” in her face and take off running.

Bob gives me a bottle of whiskey and we purchase matching revolvers. We are assassins for hire, and have only one rule: if one of us dies, the other has to avenge him.

I’m an old man… suit fits better now. Bob quit a long time ago. I’m sent on an ordinary job- or so I think- to kill a man who skipped on child support. Turns out the man is Bob Woolsey.

Back in the field. Young again. Big pile of a money right beside me. A tiger appears. He speaks but only in REM lyrics. We can barely communicate and he keeps calling me Kenneth and asking about the frequency. I tell him to kindly fuck off. He mauls me.

I’m in the bar again. Bob is with me. He tells me to go say something to that girl by the jukebox. I walk up to her and try some horrible pick-up: she jumps on me like I’m the last train to the coast. Bob gives me a thumbs up.

The last thing I can remember, is that I’m on set of some horrendous TV movie with Jamie Lee Curtis. She’s demanding coffee and ridiculous things from me. When I tell her I am the director, she laughs in my face. Seemingly unfazed, I call to Simba, and my magic tiger appears. He murders Jamie Lee.

I wake up.