Last night I dreamt
Martin
little old man who is always drunk - is represented by an ornate doll,
made from wood and cloth, and can be seen sitting above bars and in
people's living rooms. He has a black moustache, a blue cloth hat and
kind of a menacing grin, and he slumps where he's sitting from over
indulgence. It was late, and the cobbled streets were echoey and
deserted. I turned a corner and saw him walking towards me, a little
unsteady on his feet, but making quite a pace. I walked quickly
towards a bar I knew, but they were closing up and wouldn't let me
in. Then I saw some people I recognised, but they had to get someone
home who was unwell and couldn't stop. I sat down on a bench and
tried to relax. Then a car pulled up. Just before the dream ended,
the doll appeared around a corner, with a knife in his hand. I made
an attempt to get up, and climb into the car, but was awake before I
could find out what happened. Does anybody here know?
really real
Pilgrim
The doll jumped on the bench and with a menacing look on it's drunken
face yelled "Summer days and summer nights are gone" at which point
the knife turned into a birthday cake with the words "Middle Age"
written on it.
Martin
> The Fart Troll strikes again
Is that what happens?
Babs
Yes. You jumped into the car and yelled from the window, as you sped
away, "Beware doll, you're bound to fall." When you got home, you
threw up in the garden.
Perfesser_dudley
> the doll appeared around a corner, with a knife in his hand. I made
> an attempt to get up, and climb into the car, but was awake before I
> could find out what happened. Does anybody here know?
The car you climbed into was a '73 Ford Crown Victoria livery service
car. You were in Stapleton, Staten Island, NY. The driver was a Hindoo
from Pakistan, or perhaps an Al Qaeda operative.
You drove past a road construction site, the opening equal in width
and breadth and depth to six cricket pitches. The only protection for
you and yr driver was along the edges, 4x8 plywood 1/2-inch. Somehow
yr driver navigated it safely.
The next obstacle was two times the previous excavation, and there was
no escaping disaster. At which the point The Crown Vickie began to
float down toward a tiny discarded biscuit tin, after which
successfully landing, you found yrSelf at a dingy bar. You paid yr
driver with a 17$US bill.
After which you were on a commuter train in a commuter bedroom
community. You stepped off for a smoke, but the train pulled away, you
yelling & banging on the door to be let back in. It may've been
raining, but not necessarily.
Somewhere in the midst of the dreamLogic, yuh receieved a package.
Opening it, you found an advance copy of Chronicles: Vol II. There are
two sections to the book, but dreamMemory is too hazy to recollect.
By now you may've woke, and gone back to an unReality or not, as in
Crazy Horse's "dreaming into the Real World".
You went to a small club. You're seated on the floor; others begin to
gather. Within three metres is Peter Stone Brown. Bob Dylan enters the
room and passes you. He nods to Peter.
SomeOne brings water.
Bob eventually is persuaded to perform. He plays on a small platform
(quite well); his instrument is BlueGrass Viol (distinct from fiddle).
That said, you see him performing in his skivvies, i.e. underWhere.
Hope this jogs yr Memory.
My ? to you is: boxers or briefs (p.s., i know the answer.)?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=15ImUBP9GeI
Yrs in all thnigs FartTroll,
dudley
The Hysterical Bride
Omg, I feel like sh*t.
I thought I totally made that up.
I just looked it up to find my post, and it's been there, done that, I
am completely unoriginal, including lusting after Bob Dylan.
I had no idea.
I'm probably not even the only hysterical bride.
I used to think that before. That Bob Dylan did this to lots of girls,
and they did EXACTLY what I did in the theatre, had the same seat, the
knocking, ran down the aisle, he said sing, they touched his butt, he
gave them a raspberry royale tea bag, etc...
What did I do to deserve this hell?
The Hysterical Bride
>
> - Show quoted text -
I am seriously sick to my stomach.
I am so humiliated.
I think I hate Bob Dylan.
He's evil.
I know he hates me. He's just using me.
This is all wrong, and I just can't be with anyone else.
Bob Dylan has totally destroyed my chances for true love, health, and
happiness.
He fucking STOLE me.
He thinks he's so perfect, that his art is so perfect, that he is the
messiah. He's just a user. (ok, maybe I am too, but I don't think I
destroy people's lives the way he does.)
I can't believe I love him.
I don't think I really do. Good. I never want to see him again.
I wish there were no RMD.
Good-bye.
Martin
> Yes. You jumped into the car and yelled from the window, as you sped
> away, "Beware doll, you're bound to fall." When you got home, you
> threw up in the garden
This is probably closest to the truth, although Pilgrim and Dudley are
pretty close too. Especially about Bob in his undies