While I pondered, weak and weary, the equinoctal shift to Daylight Savings (from, perhaps, Daylight Wastings?), it occurred to me that my alarm clock was alerting me to more than just the call of rosy-fingered noon. As students of that edge of culture which is yet innocent of the concept of bleeding, my Authoritarian compatriots and I must ever seek new mediums of the media. But I was already engaged in one such–every night!
In pursuit of my own sub-Jungian auteur, I disabled my shrieking Timex via an application of Shaolin feng shui and dove headfirst back into the forest of slumber. The work I encountered there, I can only assume, is untitled.
The first scene opened in a Holiday Inn-brand Holidome. I was relaxing in my swimming trunks, naturally enough, and I could see from the window a river called–as some sort of violent warlord informed me–the “Alph.” It was at this point that I became aware that the river was underground. I must say that this was an unfortunate instant-retcon; my dream could have sustained more plausibility with a standard, supraterranean channel.
I left the dome by unclear means and performed a quick survey of the landscape. It seemed roughly ten square miles in area, entirely walled in–possibly a reference to my pending lease renegotiation? No doubt an interpretation book would relate it to my mother. At any rate, I came shortly to a deep canyon filled with cedar trees.
There was a woman at the bottom of the canyon, screaming a song which demanded the return of a vaguely infernal paramour. This was prevented by some sort of sacrosanct injunction on the valley–such an obvious plot contrivance! One must wonder why she didn’t simply walk out of it. Furthermore, the symbology that followed was of the most trite and obvious origin. An almost-literally orgasmic geyser surged from the floor of the canyon, throwing about blocks of stone in a violent and yawningly masculine display of aggression. What this says about the influence of recent CBC programming on my subconscious, I am loath to say.
I abruptly found myself back in the Holidome, before another woman in kitschy foreign attire. She played an unwieldy stringed instrument as she sang (why all the singing? An attempt to class up the story by hearkening to German opera?), and referred to a different location called Abora. Since that thread was never picked up again, I can only assume it was a poorly-done red herring.
I had a distinct impression after the song was finished that if I were able to accurately recite it, I would gain some sort of immense power–glowing eyes, the restoration of my hairline, dancers performing circuits around me, and cetera. The allusion to contemporary advertising is obvious.
I had hoped for a redeeming end to the story–perhaps connecting the odd place names, or commentary on the visio-cultural hegemony of pseudopostfuturist jumpcutphilia–but I was to be disappointed. A pestiferous telephone solicitor drew me from my reverie, and when I attempted to return, I found only fleeting imagery and fitful rest. Porlock Aluminum Siding’s marketing department has earned my lasting enmity.
Your humble reviewer has assembled what fragments of dream he could retain into this synopsis, and perhaps that will be enough. Or perhaps to dream is an impossible dream–and what dreams may come are the real consummation to be wished.
The dream I had receives two Awesome points, one Tank medallion, and a Boobie Rating of four.