Go On When I Close My Eyes

2006-10-09T10:58:00.000-04:00

I am flipping through channels. I stop on a Ween cartoon. There are lyrics on the screen. The words darken, as though it’s karaoke, as someone off screen sings the cartoon:

Thank you, thank you, for last week watching Ween

Even though all of you are from Philly or Eugene

2004-05-14T15:44:00.000-04:00

I visit Niki and Mark, who have three-month-old baby. It's the first time I've seen the baby -- he's the size of a 5 year old. He has a bowl haircut.

Niki says, in a frustrated way, "I don't know why he's so big. Patrice got a girl." Niki walks into the other room.

Mark picks up his baby, and mentions, "It's weird, you know, 'cause he's still a three-month-old boy, but since he looks like a 5 year old, I expect him to talk and, in gereal, act older."

Patrice shows up. She's happy. She holds a baby girl, still an infant, wrapped in a pink blanket, wearing a tiny winter cap. Niki whispers in my ear, "And her baby's older than our son!"

2004-05-05T16:34:00.000-04:00

Mom and I decide to go to Santa Monica. She's never been.

We're there.

Santa Monica is a golf course on a movie set. Not a movie set in the sense of behind-the-scenes wires and camera men and wooden planks propping up props; it's a movie set in that anything can happen.

Brad Pitt is shirtless and playing golf with RZA and four bodyguards. They're only a few yards from where Mom and I are standing. There is an extension chord coming out of my ass. The chord runs the length of the small island of Santa Monica, and it is exactly in the way of RZA and Brad's golf game.

They say to each other, "Just play through," as though my ass-chord is a sandtrap they are forced to navigate. I don't hear them say this, and thinking I am doing them a favor, I lift the chord just as RZA putts to the hole. He misses.

Brad is happy. RZA is pissed.

Something about RZA's black and white jeans scares me. I run 40 yards to the other side of Santa Monica, where the waves are crashing on both sides of the island. I see a man in a rain slicker, fighting the elements. He yells to me, "Don't stay here! The weather's like Pittsburgh!" And I run back.

2004-04-19T14:43:00.000-04:00

Robin Quivers is giving me boob-job advice. She says that after losing a lot of weight, she needed to get implants. I need them, too.

She cautions about getting a "good" job done. She tells me if I get a shoddy boob job, my boobs will look more like Oreos.

And that's what happens. My boob job turns out poorly.

I am so embarassed by the results that I run away to my safe haven, which happens to be the Philadelphia Real World house. No one has moved in yet. I have a key. I sit on the second floor of the empty house.

As I leave, I notice someone has opened the door to the first floor. It's filled with office chairs. This scares me and I run out of the front door, get on my bike, and ride at a quick clip through a traffic tunnel.

There is a median in the tunnel and there are flea market tables set up on it. The very last table is blocking the tunnel exit. Two girls are talking on their cell phones and not paying attention to me. I'm riding my bike too fast to stop quick enough. I crash into their table. I am unharmed but I am pissed off.

2004-04-15T18:05:00.000-04:00

I haven't been remembering my dreams. Those I remember are in little bits.

The end of the world is coming, but in a way we never expected. It was not zombie-ish or bloody. States explode cleanly, and break off at their distinct borders, like a perforated coupon.

I know that most of the US is gone -- all the fly-over states are history, except Michigan. California, New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania remain.

Jon and I are at my parents' old house, the house I grew up in, with a man I don't know. He is a scientist. We are standing in the driveway when the scientist tells me to look through his telescope. I can see California in it, and as I watch, California explodes with two pond-ripple blasts.

Only I see this. Only I know we're next.

Jon and the scientist are talking. I can feel myself being pulled up into the air by some awful force and I say, "Jon, I love you!" but he's not paying attention. I say, "Jon, I love you!" again and he hears me and I feel good about it all.

2004-03-30T12:04:00.000-05:00

We take the bridge to the shore that we always take in my dreams, the one that doesn't exist. It's quicker.

We're looking for a place to stay for the summer. Amy's there. She says she wants to put a deposit on a house and points to the house. It's four floors and on stilts.

I ask Amy, "Is the whole place ours?"

She says, "No, Just the second and fourth floors."

I ask, "How can that be? How can we have the second and fourth floors?" and she starts to get angry. I tell her to pipe down; I'm just curious how that can possibly be. But we decide to see for ourselves.

I enter the house and see it's almost empty. There are a few red, Tootsie Roll-like cushions on the ground. I am getting woozy because the house is on a tilt. I feel like I am going to slide out of the living room and on to the deck, right off the side of the house.

I can't live like this all summer. I'll suffer vertigo.

2004-03-25T11:04:00.000-05:00

This is one of those dreams that happens between slaps of the snooze button, yet it seemed so much longer.

I am at a bowling alley. I think it's a work function of some sort, but Todd's there. I don't recognize anyone else but they're all familiar in their facelessness.

Todd, being playful, grabs me by the ankles and starts dragging me across all the bowling lanes. The ground is shiny and slick and I glide across the floor effortlessly.

I'm laughing so hard, I try to tell him to stop but I can't get the words out of my mouth. I tell him, "I'm the only drunk one here!"

Now I am at the bowling alley's shoe counter. I'm no longer laughing. The girl behind the counter, who is in actuality a slag that works in my office buidling, is working at the counter. She asks my shoe size. I say, "One 6 and a half, the other 4 and three-sevenths."

She says, "That's very common," and hands me my shoes.

Then, as though I axed, she starts tell me her story. "I used to come here all the time in high school and now I work here. I never left this place. I've been in my hometown my whole life. I used to get Andy Capp Hot Fries from that same vending machine. I spent a lot of time in here when I was in high school and I don't regret it at all. A lot of time."

2004-03-22T12:20:00.000-05:00

I am at a wedding. It's taking place on a field, but I am across the field, through the water, by a marsh, with Jon. Together, we fill out the card for the bride and groom and hand it to someone.

In talking to this person, I find out that we're at the wrong wedding. At least, I addressed the card to the wrong happy couple. The person I think is getting married is someone I knew in high school. He wore a cape to school and would call me on the phone. While he was taking a bath.

The wedding is over and I am in a shopping mall, alone.

Now I am at Scott Rickard's house. He was one of those kids in the neighborhood who was never quite right. He was teased constantly. I don't know if his strangeness was a result of harassment, or if harassment was a result of his strangeness.

Suddenly, in his home, I understand why he was "different." He is the eldest son, by far. There are 12 little kids, that I can count, and I see a photo. He is in the middle. His hair is teased and he is smiling. There's sunlight behind only his head. He's Jesus? I don't know. In his family he is Jesus? I still don't know.

Scott Rickards and his family have no idea I'm in their house. I am on the second floor and I can see his mom in the kitchen. I want to say something to her, but I don't want to startle her. In my head I say, "Hi, do you remember me?"

She replies, "You're Jenny Oliver, Norm and Helene's daughter, Scott's age."

And when I tell her that yes, it's me, she asks, "Why didn't you ever help Scott? He never did anything to you."

I don't want this conversation to take place. How do you explain your actions -- or inactions -- as a child? Instead, I wake up.

2004-03-16T11:05:00.000-05:00

I am somewhere like a library, but it's not quiet. There are people there I know, but I don't know them too well.

Erin is there. She is quiet and smoking. Jon arrives. I am nervous. We broke up. Not divorced: broke up.

Erin rolls her eyes when he walks in. I am still in love with him. He has a new girlfriend who he is going to see, and in his hand he holds a semi-see-through bag from Rite Aid. I can see that, in the bag, is a box of tampons.

I start making a fuss, mostly because I am so nervous. "You bought your new girl tampons? We were together for so long and you would never buy me tampons!"

I am acting overly dramatic but not angry in the least. I love him and still want him to be my friend. The other people there, the perfect strangers, giggle. And we are more at ease.

I still can't believe he bought that whore tampons.

2004-03-16T10:42:00.000-05:00

Jon and I are auditioning for the next season of The Apprentice.

We're in a pavilion near a cabin by a lake. Only a few other people are there, and they are forgettable. Two of Trump's cronies, two old women, are "testing" us.

I am tested and I do ok. Now it's Jon's turn.

He is given a complex math and logistics puzzle to work on. It involves a map tacked to a wall. The women are amazed at the speed in which Jon finishes the puzzle. He is SO in.

The women wonder if Jon's fame will have a negative impact on our marriage, and I tell them they're silly.

I am watching him record his intro pose for the opening credits of the new seaon of The Apprentice. He is on the White House lawn, like Omarosa.

2004-03-08T14:46:00.000-05:00

Gehrett and Bridgette are sitting on a talk show stage, like The Merv Griffin Show’s set. Gehrett is wearing a black wig and Bridgette’s hair is all messed up, and the two of them are laughing uncontrollably.

I am watching from the audience, I assume, and I am so happy to see Gehrett cracking up.

Then, Gehrett and I are on a big ferris wheel at the shore. He's telling me about his life.

It is a happy dream.

2004-03-08T14:30:00.000-05:00

My mom, satnding with my older sister Rebecca, announces that she has to take Rebecca to the hospital -- either in California or Florida. I tell them California's much nicer. California has Fashion Island.

Then it dawns on me that she said hospital. As in sick. I ask her what's wrong. My mother says, "She has a very bad case of bed bugs. Or earwhigs." Then Mom pulls me aside and whispers, "It's ok, I checked your bed and it's clean."

There are lots of people in our house, the kind of people who visit when there's mourning to be had. I am crying. I am upset because no one ever tells me anything. I'm always the last to know. I am in the kitchen with my younger sister Amy. We are reaching for the same box of cereal. There's a man behind me, someone I work with who isn't particularly friendly. He asks, "Are my Reuben chips back there?" I look at him as if to say, can't you see I'm crying? Can't you see I'm upset? And he says, "My Reuben chips. They're potato chips that tastes like a Reuben sandwich. I'm pretty sure they're in that cabinet."

And sure enough, they are.

2004-02-27T11:52:00.000-05:00

It's a movie dream. It stars Gene Wilder as a dad of a chubby little boy soccer player. I think the boy came from an episode of "America's Funniest Home Videos" I watched before going to bed. A chubby boy was in the family pool, floating in a black innertube. When he got out of the pool, he couldn't get out of the innertube. His equally chubby brothers slathered him in butter and popped him out.

Gene watches his son play soccer and knows his boy will never be an athlete. There's a lot of sadness and no dialogue. Gene's not sad because his son sucks at soccer; he's sad for other reasons, reasons not known. Gene has such a sad face.

It's known now that Gene and his son are missing. Whoever is looking for him (family? police? Gilda?) can't find them.

I look around outside my high school, thinking I could help and maybe they're there. They're not. I wake up.

2004-02-25T15:08:00.000-05:00

I walk into a room that's lit as if it were an old barn -- cracks in the walls letting light through, a lunatic bird flapping its wings near the ceiling. I take a seat at an oval table draped in a light yellow tablecloth. All of my friends have already been seated.

You are there, and you are there.

I am handed decks of cards; each deck was familiar. The individual decks are held together by rubberbands. I am told to count the decks to make sure they have all their cards. "This one has 36 cards," I say. "This one has 85."

When we have enough complete decks, I explain the rules of Hearts. Some have played Hearts before, others haven't. I easily explain this very complex game; I am surprised how easy it is to explain. Everyone is quiet. We begin to play, and I wake up.

2004-02-20T15:17:00.000-05:00

I am commissioned by the Phila Inquirer to write a short article about Donal, an older gay man I met twice at Doobies. The article will also include Donal's famous chili recipe(?).

So, I invite Donal over to "my place," which really isn't "my place." I live with a bunch of roommates, but no one in particular. Donal comes over, drunk, and starts making his chili. When I see that he can barely stand up, I tell him to go lay down upstairs. He does. But he lights a cigarette before he falls asleep and starts a small fire.

I put the fire out but find that Donal has run away in shame. But I still don't know anything about Donal for my story, I don't have the chili recipe, and my article is due tomorrow. Somehow, I figure I'll be able to find him down at the Acme. That's where I assume he's run off to.

So I'm in the Acme looking for Donal. A woman comes up to me and asks where the "Bath Tea" is. I want to tell her, "Look, I don't work here anymore and I haven't worked here in years." Instead, I lead her to the tea. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Donal come into the Acme entrance. I am all the way in the back of the store, but I can see him down the aisle -- and he sees me, too, and makes a break for it. The woman I was helping says, "No, I need BATH TEA, not regular tea." I have no idea what she means.

Donal escapes. I'm afraid I'll never get to write for the Inquirer again. I wake up.