September 24, 2004 - 9:33 amTHE 26th DIMESION IS MERELY FROSTING ON THE CAKE OF STRING THEORY
I had another crazy dream earlier this week. Actually, I had several, but Iím going to spare you the details of the one where the world ends in a fiery inferno of molten lava. You donít want to know more. Trust me. I have a very vivid and detailed imagination, and itís brave enough to go where you donít want to be. So how about I just pass along the one with show tunes instead?
I was walking through downtown Atlanta, but not just in a two dimensional way. The city landscape was leading me up outdoor escalators, through glass atria (or Ďatriumsí for those of us not versed in pluralizing dead-language nouns), over cat walks and balconies. It was like Times Square rendered in the style of Blade Runner with huge neon signs and building-sized billboard ads. I was pushing a shopping cart, and somehow I ended up in one of those urban rape zones (you women know what Iím talking about Ė those under-the-concrete-stairs type places with swirling eddies of cigarette butts and newspapers and the smell of urine).
While trying to figure out how I had gotten there and how I was going to get out, I noticed more and more bums surrounding me Ė old bums, men and women with overcoats, all really old, dirty people. They seemed to take my presence as an intrusion and then started to congregate into a menacing mass of decrepitude, like the zombies in the Thriller video, moving in closer and closer. They began to yell at me to get out of their space because they were retired and had a right to be there; and besides, they were getting ready to do a show and I was in the way.
Yes, an old man said, a Christmas pageant in front of the flashing Broadway sign, if you must know.
Off with the overcoats and on with the show! All at once, they were costumed and dancing and singing like Liza Minnelli out on this elaborate multi-leveled outdoor set made of thousands of those little Broadway lights exploding behind them as cars and people below honked and cheered. I was suddenly aware how conspicuously and precariously I was perched WITH MY SHOPPING CART on one of those little dance platforms high above the streets below with old homeless people performing in Santa suits all around me.
And then, out of nowhere, my friend Julie and I started making out with each other and then with Erik...Oh, wait. That was Erikís dream. Scratch that last bit.
And thatís when I woke up.
Iím not sure what it means, or if it even has a meaning. But if I had to guess, Iíd say it could have to do with keeping this diary. When I told John about this site he called me an exhibitionist. I never really thought about it that way; but, I suppose itís possible that, although consciously Iím fine with everything I write here, my unconscious mind may have issues with strangers knowing my business.
But what do I know? If youíre looking for better answers to bigger questions, this is your guy. I find his writing somehow comforting and reassuring in a there-are-larger-issues-than-fiery-molten-lava kind of way.
care to comment?