Dreams and summers

This morning I dreamt that I was married and living in the suburbs. My wife was this gorgeous, serious redhead and we had a little boy. One morning he looked out the window and he said something was falling. I looked around, and it was a semi truck, but it wasn't falling, it was flying toward the house.

Next thing I knew, I was holed up with my wife, no son, in a luxury hotel. We were being pursued, or persecuted, in a surrealized society. I knew who was after us after looking them in the eyes, and they knew me the same way. While about to engage in some sauna sex, someone barged in, then another person, and I knew they were about to cart us away. So I pulled out my Luger and I squeezed off two shots, and they were dead.

Later, in a squatter's camp, we were talking to some people, avoiding eye contact, and a small dog's foot was scampering about. Just the foot. There was a man there who said he found it and it followed him home. The foot came up to ours, and then to another foot. It seemed to be talking or sniffing the "real foot." I stepped on it, and we ran away again.

Being pursued by surrealism describes my summer not at all. If anything, banality has pursued me. Forced to confront actual work, and people who have nothing but their pride, and yes, the occasional small dog, that's been my summer. And the fact that I have no gorgeous redhead for a wife, no wife at all. Nobody to run away with, and nothing to run away from. It's like being settled down, but without the benefits.

My workplace of years past will be gone in two months. I am busily setting up ambitious photography projects and yet not doing any post-production on photos. No surrealism there, not if I can help it. And yet, all construction of reality is surrealism. There is no banality without spin, lest ye die.

I may be pushing 40, but I'm not about to die. So, I may run, I may kill to protect what I love (whatever that turns out to be), but the mortality around me is only able to touch me, not kill me.