monkeyplus1

I’ve had strange dreams the last couple nights.

Last night, I was an airline pilot, a first officer on my second flight.

I was late to the airport, and though I don’t remember how, I royally pissed off the senior flight attendant who was a short, old lady.  Old and grumpy.

In front of all the passengers, I stood in the fore cabin and publicly apologized to the old lady, then went and sat down in the cockpit.

The captain was distracted, seemed kind of nervous, and had already got things turned on. I was fumbling with preflight checklists, approach and departure diagrams, radio frequencies, and dropped some of them.

I was extremely harried, already beside myself when the captain unbuckled himself and stood up, “she’s all yours, take us up.”

“I think you should do it, this is only my second flight,” I replied.

“Uh, yeah, I usually spend my time back at the wet bar.” With that, he walked out and closed the cockpit door behind him.

For some reason, I had some some dry ramen noodles in my lap, which I also spilled.

We were pushed back from the gate, and then I slowly advanced the throttles until we started to roll forward. I taxied to an intersection and took a left, through a wide gate, and into a car parking lot.

“SHIT!”.  I was stuck. My wings were either going to hit the terminal on the left side, or some trucks on the right side, certainly no room to turn around or go forward.

Jets can’t go backwards (well, as far as I know, with the exception of the C-17 Globemaster III).

I was fucked, going to have to call ground control to get pushed back out.

– my alarm woke me at this point, relieved to come out of fitful sleep.

Dreamt I made a cat-skin rug.

Took a cat, think I suffocated it, then slit the belly, scooped the guts out.  Don’t remember how I preserved the insides, probably because I have no idea how.

The rug was supposed to be like those tiger skin rugs you see in movies, where the claws, tail and head are intact.

That’s not the weird part. Somehow, very slowly, the pupils in the cat-eyes would very slowly change dilate to changes in the light level.  I didn’t notice it at first, because they were so slow, but the eyes themselves would rotate to follow you around the room, though the cat was as dead as can be.

I was driving down a dark alley when I passed what appeared to be snowboard and skateboard decks left out for the taking. Doing a u-turn, I pulled up and got out to examine the decks, scattering a bunch of stickers that had been stashed under them.

“Come on in,” says a voice nearby. I’m standing in front of the entrance of an art gallery. There are huge paintings adorning the wall, in subdued colors and lines, which imply an obsessive infatuation with the geometries of aircraft and military machines, some kind of subtle, mechanistic war-porn.

An African woman is sitting on a table, as if she’s part of some exhibit, elbows propped up on her knees, legs spread wide. I start to look away, but realize that she’s intentionally posed like that to get people to look at her womanhood.

Near her is an Italian-looking woman, wearing some hippy-type shirt, but naked from the waist down. Her labia are distended 12 to 15 inches, like a glistening, pinkish-brown sea-creature. She is using it to cradle a baby. Her clitoris is also unusually large, protruding from under its hood, the size of an average penis, only without a pee-hole.  She is cooing the baby, while at the same time holding a conversation with a woman standing next to her, about it being as natural as breast-feeding, the stretching done slow and gradual.

“You smell your mommy? Yes, yes, that’s a good baby,” she says, “the smell of life”.  The musky, familiar aroma wafts past my nose.

I notice there are a few other women with similar displays, skirts parted at the front to show the fleshy curtains in various shades of color, some dry, some damp. I take it all in without thinking one thing or another, strange, but kind of weird, not that interesting.

I go back to looking at the paintings on the wall, finding them inspiring, and walking through the gallery where there are a variety of artifacts that look like weapons from some alternate reality. None of them appear to be functional, but have the menacing appearance of any firearm.

It’s strange, the juxtaposition of these two themes, the blanket-like vulvas and giant clits next to impotent, alien weaponry.