let's hope he's a good climber

DREAM DIARY...

Myself, Byron, Snaz and some others are in the downstairs foyer of a High School. We are not students, but not visitors either. Possibly we are staff members.

Kevin Rudd arrives. He is the new Year 11 English teacher. His first ever class is about to begin; the students are all waiting in a classroom upstairs. Kevin wants to make a memorable entrance that will leave a lasting impression on the kids. He decides to climb the large tree that stands next to the school building, and enter through the upstairs window.

He begins to clamber up the tree, but as he nears the window he falters and falls roughly onto the ground. My friends and I look at each other. This is not an auspicious beginning for a new English teacher!

Will he fall on his arse, or will determination get him to the top in the end?

Dusting himself off, Kevin gets up and tries again. This time he takes hold of a drainpipe which runs up the building, alongside the window. Almost defying gravity, he scrambles effortlessly up the pipe, shuffles along the ledge and steps into the classroom through the window, pleased as punch. The students are suitably impressed.

dream diary

MindlessMunkey is known to be a rather slothful creature. This past week or so though, after being ill, I have been even sleepier than usual. Last night when I got home from work I was quite exhausted, so I went for a late-afternoon nap. I woke up at 5.30am. That means I passed out for about 12 hours. My subconscious took advantage of this unusually lengthy sleep to have some quite bizarre adventures...

~~~~~~~

I have travelled to Perth, with the intention of marrying a 15-year-old girl. I think I met her on the internet. Clearly this is not a love-match. I can't remember the exact reason why it's essential we get married. When we meet, I am disappointed by her immaturity, and wonder whether this can work, even as a marriage of convenience. I am having trouble with a map. I have a huge map, the size of a double-bed, and but her house seems to be just outside its borders.

~~~~~~~

With Snaz, Canoe and Shorty, I am staying in a large and beautiful hotel/mansion. There are a myriad different classy bars and cafés set up in different rooms of the building, and there are people everywhere. I receive a text from Mr Ryan. He wants to meet for a drink and talk. I avoid him. My friends and I are in a particularly crowded and lavish art-deco bar, when Mr Ryan comes in. He has long, oily hair (a la Dylan on Neighbours). It is gross and I laugh. I know immediately that Ryan is going to fall in love with Shorty and get his heart broken.

There is some kind of school-formal/prom type event happening this evening, in the garden of the hotel. I have to go and change into my suit. The changing area is big and crowded. Each person is allocated a "changeroom" which is literally the size of a large school-locker. There is no way I can get changed in there. So I just start getting changed in the corridor.

~~~~~~~

In an Alice-In-Wonderland-esque sudden change of surroundings, I am now getting changed in my old bedroom at patermunkey's house. I am putting on a costume for some kind of show or play. The costume has two layers: underneath is a shiny black tux with a red tie, and a retro lurid green and blue suit is over the top. The outer layer is designed to be pulled off suddenly for a showy on-stage costume change. I go out into the loungeroom and demonstrate the trick to matermunkey and Grandmas Ashton & Miller who are sitting there. They are impressed.

Now, suddenly, we are getting ready for Grandma Miller's funeral. My parents are having a huge fight. My mother screams that she doesn't give a shit about any of us, and never wants to see us again. She leaves. Patermunkey and I are in shock, but we have to get ready for the funeral. We are late. We desperately hurry to get ElectroBoy and Ms Cait into suitable funeral clothes. It seems to take forever - and we are growing later and later for the funeral - before we finally have the two kids dressed in cobbled-together formal attire.

Uncle P is driving us to the funeral. He drives very fast, because we are so late. We pull into a parking complex and Uncle P pays the man in the booth. After paying though, he doesn't park the car. He pushes a button on the dashboard and we all hurry out as the car shrinks like a deflating rubber boat. Soon it is the size of a Matchbox car, and Uncle P slips it into his breast-pocket. I wonder why he paid for parking.

The funeral seems to be held in the Food Court of a large shopping centre. My family are all sitting around chatting, including Grandma Miller - a little odd considering it's meant to be her funeral. Matermunkey is socialising with her side of the family, and does not even acknowledge her husband or kids when we arrive.

~~~~~~~

I am in a classroom, about to sit an exam for which I am fiendishly unprepared. It is a text-study exam on the latest Harry Potter book, which I haven't even read. The teacher hands around the exam-sheets for reading time. I read the exam several times and I don't understand anything - it is like a different language. Something about truth serum and Dumbledor and Voldemort's curse. There doesn't even seem to be a question. I look up and realise that I am not doing an exam about Harry Potter's world, I am doing an exam in Harry Potter's world. The teacher is Ms McGonagall (played by Maggie Smith) and the kids (including Mr Byron, who is at the desk next to me) are all in Hogwarts uniforms. I'm not 100% sure, but I think I may actually be Mr Potter himself.

But I am still none the wiser on how to complete this exam, as Maggie signals that reading time is finished and it's time to begin. With that sick hopeless feeling in my belly, I surreptitiously watch what the other kids are doing. They each have a small glass goblet of stuff that looks a bit like thick smooth peanut butter, and a smaller glass dish of a sticky liquid resembling dark caramel or golden syrup. Using two little wooden utensils, they are carefully adding tiny amounts of the syrup to the thicker stuff in the goblet, and swriling it through in what seem to be very specific patterns. Byron in paritcular seems to know exactly what he's doing.

So I copy. I play with the syruppy stuff and the peanut-buttery stuff and mix them together and make pretty patterns in my goblet, having no idea why or what it means, let alone how it relates to the life-threatening issues of Good and Evil as described on the exam-sheet. Finally the test is finished. McGonagall now, with a clever twinkle in her eye, announces that because what we have just performed is some kind of Truth spell (which somehow relates to the whole Voldemort issue), we can in fact mark ourselves honestly. We all cover our concoction-filled glass goblets, and she goes round the room asking each of us how we went in the exam. The other kids are compelled by their own magic to answer truthfully. Most did okay, Byron did very well. When it's my turn, I realise that because I have completely failed to create any magic, I can still lie. "I could have done a bit better if I'd studied more, but I did okay." She believes me, and moves on to the next kid. But wait - maybe that is the truth. Maybe I fluked it, and I did magic myself into telling the truth - maybe I did do okay. I am confused. Music plays and credits roll.

~~~~~~~

Byron and I have just watched the latest Harry Potter movie, and he asks me what I think. "It was interesting, but seems a bit odd," I admit. "There's supposed to be this whole battle between Good and Evil going on, but the whole movie was just that one scene, in real time, about an exam in a classroom."

"But all that stuff in the classroom was about the battle between Good and Evil," he says. He is obviously disappointed that I failed to appreciate the movie. "Don't you get it?!"

I don't get it, and I feel bad.

big things crowing, big things falling

Last night I had a dream about a giant cock. (Bet that got your attention.) No, lovers and dreamers, get your minds out of your pants. I did not dream of an enormous penis, but a rather gargantuan male chicken. A rooster, if you will. My family and I were taking a tour of a farm. The rooster was bigger than a horse. None of us found this strange. When it crowed, it was almost deafening. The farmer was very proud of his cock.

Later there was a hail-storm. The hail-stones were also gigantic. The size of basket-balls. We sheltered under a tin roof, and hoped it wouldn't get destroyed by the falling boulders of ice.

"that mr hyde guy is kinda full-on"

~dream diary~

Life has become a movie! It is a horror movie. Snazzles, Moodles, Lilikens, Jelly and I are the players. We have to improvise, because there is no script. But we are great! We have flawless American accents. We assume complex, multi-dimensional characters. It becomes clear that my character and Jelly's are love-interests. We play the flirting scenes like experts.

We are going to college. There is a creepy, psycho lecturer named Mr Hyde. Oh, what a clever reference! My film-within-a-dream is postmodern! After class, I smile sheepishly at Jelly and say, "That Mr Hyde guy is kinda full-on." I am setting up Mr Hyde as the potential killer in our horror movie. It is a red-herring and an inter-textual reference at the same time! Now we are going camping...

Suddenly I am separated from the girls, and I realise that the film-plot has followed them. I am still in character, but I am not onscreen anymore. It dawns on me: I must be the killer! I have gone missing, and the girls assume I'm dead. Somewhere, they are running and being scared (and possibly getting topless and bloody, as girls in horror movies do, right?) So I realise I must prepare for the grand finalé where I suddenly reappear, reveal myself as the killer-all-along, scare the shit out of them, then probably get slaughtered in a bloodthirsty but open-ended way (to leave room for a sequel).

So I bide my time and wait for nightfall. Then I creep back towards where I know the girls are camping. On the way, I cross a park with a children's playground. In this playground, they are shooting an episode of Rome. It is a war-camp scene. Centurion Vorenus is stoically trying to maintain order among his legionaries, while Pullo sits atop the monkey-bars, receiving a blow-job from a slave girl. (Oh Pullo, you rascal!) I pass by trying to remain unseen as, for some reason, I know it's very important that the people making Rome don't see me making our movie.

Leaving the park, I see Tilda Swinton. She is also (inexplicably) part of the Rome production, but is currently waiting for her scene to be filmed. She is about to shoot a scene where she gets skinned alive. In her hands she holds the gruesome prop: a replica of her own disembodied skin. It is pink and warm and limp. I steal it from her and run! This will be perfect. For the climax of my horror movie, I will run up wearing Tilda Swinton's skin, and scare the living bejesus out of the girls! Oh, our horror movie is going to be GREAT!

As I approach their camp, I strip naked (it doesn't occur to me at the time that this is scarier than any horror movie could ever be) and drape Tilda's skin around me. I creep up to them and prepare my best maniacal horror-movie-villain laugh...

But they are not interested. They have got sick of being in the movie, and are cooking dinner. They know I'm not really a horror-movie slasher-guy. I'm just little-old munkey dressed in a fake human skin trying to scare some girls in a movie. And they don't even care.

What the fuck is going on in my subconscious?

~~~~~~~

terrorists 1 - mindlessmunkey 0

~dream diary~

We are at some sort of school camp. There is a huge dorm filled with bunks. It is night. Dame Snazzlepops and I are sleeping on two top-bunks, pushed right up together to make a double-bed. The other beds are occupied by various people - mostly young guys and girls I don't recognise - apart from the one nearest to Snaz and I, where Mr David Beekeeper is sitting chatting to us. The dorm is filled with rowdy activity, as the young campers talk loudly, run from bed to bed and make-out with their partners.

A teacher comes in to quiet us down. I respect him; he is a good teacher and a nice guy. He begins to walk around the dorm, giving out Bibles. He is disappointed with our rowdy behaviour, so he is giving everyone two thick black leather-bound volumes - The Old and New Testaments - for us to read and learn how to behave. All the kids accept the Bibles, though they clearly have no intention of reading them. The teacher gets to my bed and hands me copies of The Good Book. I don't want to cause trouble with this teacher, but I refuse to sit here and pretend. I push the Bibles from my bed. They fall from the top bunk to the floor with an echoing slap. Silence falls in the dorm.

The next morning, we have a final assembly in the camp hall. No-one else is aware, but Snazzles and I know that there is going to be a terrorist attack as soon as the assembly ends. Mexican Muslims (who else?!) are going to storm the premises, and kids are going to be shot. We this as if we've already seen it on the news; as if it's a movie whose ending we already know. When we are dismissed, and told to go back to our dorms to pack up, Snazzles lingers in the foyer - the place we know the attack will begin - to buy a newspaper from a kiosk. We have to get out of here! The terrorists will be here any second! Snazzles and I run from the foyer area, back towards our dorm, where we can hide. But we get separated. I become lost, wandering the richly-decorated halls of this huge place. Suddenly I realise that the hallway I'm in - decked out with red velvet drapery and dark mahogany furnishings - lies directly adjacent to the assembly hall. Panic seizes me. In trying to find a safe place to hide, I have inadvertantly stumbled into the very path of the gunmen.

Suddenly, as I attempt to hurry across a walkway, one of the Mexican Muslims appears before me. He is resplendantly dressed in black robes and a crimson head-scarf. He says some words (which I can't remember) and raises a large gun. As always, when facing death in a dream, I meet my end with quiet dignity and a perfectly relaxed mind. The gunman fires. I feel an explosive pain in my upper chest, travelling through to my shoulder-blade. He fires again and again.

I am dead, but I am still wandering; still watching. Though the attack is now over, the camp is in a state of shock and grief, as news spreads of the shootings. In my dorm, Snazzles is numbly weeping as she struggles to pack up my belongings. I want to help her, but I can't.

~~~~~~~

mindlessmunkey vs the poison phallus - a continuing saga

~dream diary~

Here we all are, sitting on the back porch of Ms Penny and Ms Virginia's place at Jamieson, like we used to all through my childhood. We are having a cuppa and chatting as usual. Suddenly, a huge brown snake shoots out from between a gap in the floor, throwing our casual party into panic. Everybody leaps up and tries to get away from the angry, writhing serpent. It hurls itself at ElectroBoy, who somehow manages tro catch and hold it right behind its head, the way professional snake-handlers do. "Hold it like that! Don't let go or move!" I cry to him. But the snake gets away from him. Penny cries out for Virginia to get her shotgun (this echoes a real-life occurrence many years ago, when Penny tried to shoot a snake. Kind of ridiculous, since Penny - bless her heart - could barely shoot a stationary fox, let alone a moving snake. She ended up coming much closer to shooting my Dad. True story).

Meanwhile back in the dream, patermunkey has got hold of a shovel and a strange two-pronged pitchfork. Now out on the grass, he manages to pin the beastie with the fork and begins to try and chop off its head with the shovel. This all happens terribly fast, and there is a lot of confusion as the snake lashes out at him. I vividly remember seeing the inside of its fanged, fleshy mouth stretching out and gaping in its attempt to bite. After a few blows from Dad's trusty spade, the snake's head is separate from its body and the ground is caked with dark blood. But patermunkey has been bitten on the foot and the hand. Penny & Virginia (both nurses) quickly apply first aid and get Dad laying down in an old mini-bus, to rush him to Hospital. Everyone piles into cars to accompany them, but by the time I rush to get my socks and boots on, almost everyone has already left. The only car with room for me is a four-wheel-drive driven by Kevin Harrington / David Bishop from Neighbours. I don't know when he turned up, but I hate him.

He drives interminably slowly, and takes a ridiculously long way through town. There is a young lady with us also (I can't remember who) who insists we stop for a drink and a meal on the outskirts of Jamieson. She and David/Kevin assure me Dad will be fine, and there's nothing I can do to help anyway (which is true) so I grudgingly agree. There at the café, all the townsfolk are celebrating, because a local has just won the Brownlow Medal. The particularly odd part is that this Brownlow winner is a lively, rather pudgy teenage girl, who laughs and admits she only started playing football this season, and still doesn't know all the rules.

We spend so long at the café that the others all return, with Patermunkey bandaged-up, pumped full of anti-venom and out of danger. Relieved, we all begin to head home.

~~~~~~~

I'm sure Freud could go to town on these snake dreams, and what they may seem to suggest about my ambivalent relationship with certain serpentine imagery (after all, when you're Freud, what is a snake but a big, biting, blood-sucking COCK?).

It's also no-doubt quite interesting to all the armchair psychoanalatheralogatrists out there that, when I was being hurt by Ryan, I had a dream about being bitten by a snake, and protected by my family... and now that Ryan has ripped-off patermunkey, I have a dream about him being bitten. But I think the important thing to focus on is that in both dreams, the bite-victim gets help in time and ends up safe and well. And in this latest one, the nasssty ssserpent got itsss HEAD HACKED OFF. Too phucken right.


Stand back! The abject is attacking!

~~~~~~~

i think my subconscious is very sad

~dream diary~

The munkey family has bought a new house. It is in the bush. I spend some time exploring what will be my "room" - in fact a few rooms in a downstairs section, including my own bathroom and study area. I am very happy with our new living arrangement.

Patermunkey and I wander outside, exploring our very large property. Dad tells me about the plans he and matermunkey have for the garden here: which trees they're going to remove, what trees they're going to plant. It will be beautiful.

Suddenly, just ahead of us, the ground is writhing and squirming. Several snakes and lizards wriggle together among the grass and undergrowth of the forest. Two extremely large brown reptillians are of concern, but I can see that they have legs, so are harmless. But among them are definitely several snakes as well. Patermunkey and I freak out but remain collected, turn and head back in the direction we have come. As we walk away, I feel a vague stinging feeling in my left heel, inside my sneaker. But I think nothing of it and we carefully walk home.

Later, back at our house, I remove my shoe and freeze. There is no blood, but there are two deep, clean puncture marks in the back of my achilles. I have been bitten by a snake - right through my shoe - and didn't even realise it. I have walked around and no doubt spread the poison throughout my body. This is very, very bad.

I can see the terror and grief behind my parents' masks of calm, as they quickly apply first aid and prepare to rush me to hospital. I am so scared. I start sobbing. I don't want to die. My parents are crying too. Patermunkey gets me to a doctor. But is it too late? I become unconscious...

When I come to, I am back at our house. I am alive. There is a small, straight scar in the back of my foot, where the doctor has removed the flesh that came into contact with the snake's fangs. On the side of my calf there is a puncture mark where the anti-venom has been pumped into my leg via a drip. My parents are with me, holding me close and weeping with joy that I am ok.

~~~~~~~

ollie, the boobie-tree, water from a pipe, a train, wasps, water from a pond

~dream diary~

Turin Brakes are singing. It's kind of live, and kind of on TV at the same time (you know how it is, with dreams). Ollie is cute, and the other one is being wacky. (EDIT: Gale! That's the other one's name, now I remember. Ollie and Gale. Of course. Bless 'em.) Someone is with me, and can't remember which one it is that I think is hot. I tell them "Ollie, of course!" and point him out.

I am driving with Mr Ryan, Ms Snazzles and Ms Lili. Mr Ryan and I are in one car, the gals in another. It is night. We have stopped at that spot just outside of Mansfield where there is a tree with breast-like bumps on the trunk, that someone has spray-painted with a fluoro pink bikini (this boobie-tree, and the graffiti-bikini are real, by the way). We are wandering in the forest just behind that tree, looking for something (I can't remember what now). There is a multi-track railway lane crossing the highway at this point. There is also a huge, rusty water-main pipe which runs through the forest at ground level, and has cracked so that the water spills out and flows around the pipe (neither the railway-line nor the water conduit exist in the real world). The noise of the water running along the rusty metal is loud, clear and beautiful.

The car Ryan and I have been driving is parked over one of the railway tracks. As we clamber back up the hill and get into our cars, a train is coming. But there is no fear. The train clicks onto another track at an interchange just before it reaches us, and speeds past on one of the other tracks, missing our car by mere inches. But we were never in doubt.

I am in my family house. patermunkey isn't here, but Ms Cait is around somewhere. There are four European wasps buzzing menacingly in the family room. I have flyspray. It's difficult to spray them, as they are flying around quite erratically, but eventually I manage to get them all. As they begin to slow and die, I realise there are another four wasps in the front room. I attack them with the fly-spray as well - again, it isn't easy to get a clear shot at them. By the time I've sprayed them all, the room stinks of fly-spray.

The four in the family room have fallen to the ground now, but are still squirming. I know you shouldn't let dead wasps lie around inside, because they exude a pheremone which calls the rest of the nest to their whereabouts. So I carefully pick up the dying insects in a thick piece of paper-towel, and take them to the toilet, where I flush them away.

There, in the bathroom, Ms Cait (or, rather, it is either a much older version of Cait, or a cross between her and Snazzles) is standing in the bath. On the vanity bench at one end of the bath, she is examining a large sample of green pond-water under an ingenius microscope set-up of her own design. This Cait/Snazzles young woman (who quite possibly contains elements of matermunkey as well) is telling me about all the natural wonders to be found in the microscopic, underwater world.

~~~~~~~

a very merry unbirthday to me!

~ dream diary ~

We are living in my old house ~ my childhood home where I lived until I was 12.

Matermunkey is throwing me a birthday party!

There is much to be done, baking cake, decorating the house... I help matermunkey prepare the goodies and games.

The party guests include Mr Kenny, DrDaveGoo and Mr DavidBeekeeper.

My! It's going to be such fun!

...although it's a little strange that we're all in our 20s.

~~~~~~~

the beast, the ice, a plait, a chase

~dream diary~

an alarm clock almost falls in the bath.

it is hot. this place is filthy. we are sick.

a trip to see "Beauty And The Beast - On Ice!" at the Myer Music Bowl.

not just the stage, but the entire floor of the auditorium is ice. we slip.

a young girl is trying to hang herself... with a noose of her own long, plaited hair... from a stop sign in the middle of the street.

she has been sexually assaulted.

i know who did it. i help her down and take care of her.

i am only in my pyjamas and bathrobe, but i will take her to the police station anyway.

we are driving. he is following. i must get her to the police station. the road seems to go on forever...

~~~~~~~

These were just a few of the key moments and images. My first very clearly-remembered, coherent dream in ages, and it has to be totally damned screwed-up. In fact it was pretty genuinely upsetting. I'm not going to write the rest, the connecting details, etc.

~~~~~~~

karmageddon

~ dream diary ~

I am driving in a city. Everywhere there are huge billboards advertising Star Wars Ep III: The Revenge Of The Sith. I am disgusted. As I pass one such billboard, with Hayden Christensen looking particularly pretty and effeminate, I scream bitterly to anyone within earshot, "Revenge Of The Sith?! More like: Return Of The SHIT!!!" I drive further. I am going to meet Snazzles. I listen to the radio about the War. America has declared all-out War on the entire Middle-East, on all of Islam. Cities throught America will be under retaliatory attack within hours.

I arrive at my destination. It is a little strange that the car-park is used as a Vet's surgery, but I like the clean, antiseptic smell. I meet Snazzles. We discuss the War. A TV is on. New York City is being carpet-bombed. All of America's allies are under attack, including Australia. There is a special episode of Oprah on, discussing the War, being broadcast from an underground studio. You can hear the explosions and the city of Chicago collapsing above Oprah's studio. This is what it feels like to be in a War. Not just watching it on a screen, happening somewhere far beyond reach. This is real. Myself, my friends and my family are all in direct, immediate danger. How in the Hell is this going to end, now that it has been started? I ask Snazzles. Bush is going to nuke all of the Middle East: Jews and Muslims, terrorists and pacifists. And once this War becomes nuclear, there will be no turning back. I am almost in tears. "I'm really fucking scared," I say to Snazzles.

My father is here. My boss, and family friend, Mr Warren is here. Other people from my work are here. Snazzles is gone. We are in a small office building, surrounded by fields containing numerous electricity terminal stations. I can hear explosions. "It's thunder," says patermunkey. But it's not. Electricity stations are infrastructure targets in any War. I can see planes in the distance, and bombs falling from their bellies. The furthest of the terminals disappear in belching flames and smoke. The ground rumbles. More planes swoop by, and the terminals in the middle distance explode. This is like waiting on the beach, watching the approach of a wave that will sweep you away.

Mr Warren is jovial. "Leanne will be shitting herself now," he jokes about his wife, who is at home, and knows that we are here. He is confident that only the terminals will be bombed, while the civilian building we are in will be safe. I am not so sure. The last remaining electricity terminal is only about 100 metres from the wall of windows through which we are watching. The planes swoop overhead. The bomb comes tumbling from their underside, like a giant, spiralling Nurofen capsule, falling in a straight line down towards the irregular metal structures of the terminal, just a stone's throw from where we stand.

"Get down!" shouts patermunkey. I am a step ahead of him. I am moving in real time, while the rest of the world lurches into ultra-slow-motion, like a Radiohead film clip. I am as far from the window as possible, in the foetal position, face down on the floor. I hear the bomb hit and explode. I feel the glass shatter and fly around me. The noise is incredible, and my eyes are closed. I do not know if the building will hold up. I do not know if there will be more bombs - a direct hit on this building. The noise continues, and I consciously relax my entire body, breathing deeply and gently. This might very well be the moment of my death, and there is nothing I can do about it. No use despairing or panicking, it is beyond my control - if this is the last feeling I will ever know, I want to know it with peaceful calm.

The noise dies away. I am still here. Covered in dust and smoke and shattered glass, but alive. Patermunkey is alive. My sister Cait is running around, scared but okay. My brother is dead. We lost him. My mother isn't here, but she's somewhere, and she's safe. I know this. The planes have left, for now. But the War will go on. Our stupid, short-sighted, conservative governments have condemned us to this fate. The corpse of my only brother lies somewhere among the ash and destruction. This meaningless hatred will claim us all, sooner or later.



~~~~~~~

subconscious sinema with blatant vaginal imagery

~ dream diary ~

I ~ Friday night, Feb 25th

In the local shopping certre, a stall has been set up. But this is not your average kiddies-painting-plaster-of-paris-figurines type deal. This stall is selling shooting practice. As I walk past, the proprietor, dressed in army fatigues, hands a squarish metal "practice gun" which looks home-made and deadly, to a middle-aged patron. The patron takes aim at his target: a cardboard cut-out of an old man in a bright red shirt, which stands about ten metres down the concourse. The patron fires several times and gets the picture of the old man right in the head. The cardboard cut-out goes tumbling away along the arcade. As I turn away in idealogical disgust (yet without even contemplating the H&S/Public-liability nightmare of a gun being fired in a crowded shopping centre), the proprietor of the stall begins pitching the benefits and fun of gun-practice directly to me. I turn on him in a fearsome rage, and a brutal verbal brawl ensues between myself and this right-wing freak, who is trying to spread the joys of gunplay to the masses of Melbourne's South East. I might get thrown out by security for this, but it's worth it.

Later, I am involved in a filmshoot which is taking place in the grubby depot of my place of work. The film being made has been written by my beloved Ms Snazzles, and she is playing the main role. The film is some kind of GosfordPark-esque character drama set amongst the servant/served relationships in an early 20th Century manor. Sarah is playing a lonely servant-girl. I have the honour of being an extra (right next to Snazzles, the main character) in a scene where we meet The President Of The United States. We are to act overwhemed and excited, then perform a dance for him. I think it is rather inappropriate to be shooting this among the excavators and bobcats, in front of red-brick 1950s industrial buildings. But the director - who is cameoing as the President - assures us that the backgrounds can all be digitally changed to fit the film's setting, in post-production. I can't find my shirt and I'm not certain I know the steps for this dance, but I'm pretty sure I can wing it.

II ~ Saturday afternoon, Feb 26th

I am running alongside a huge highway. I have just crossed the border between WA and Victoria. (and yes, now that I'm awake, I know there isn't one.) I cross a bridge. Beneath it is a tunnel. I enter. It is an old train tunnel, three tracks wide, but now blocked by a mass of pipes and large metal bars. This is the first tunnel. I have done this before. Beyond the first tunnel, more running. Plants and moist earth and darkness. There is soil and it has been raining. The second tunnel is just like the first, but blocked with a maze of plastic obstructions the colour of safety witches-hats. One of the three tracks in this tunnel is still active, and a train could come at any moment. I have to be very careful. Now I am outside. In the farm-house is a white step-ladder. I am in front! It is a race. I am ahead of that other guy who is trying to beat me to the prize, which we all know is in the third tunnel. I know how this works. This is a film. I am in a film about me racing to navigate these tunnels. I am watching the film and I am the main character, at the same time. The third tunnel is a cave, with electric lights, metal doors and hidden secrets. I am almost at the end. I am about to win! I am going to get arrested. They grab me.

My movie is finished. It is going to be screened for the first time, in front of the rest of my film-making class, in a couple of hours. I watch Mr Michael B (my friend from Uni, and essentially the first boy who ever crushed my heart) screen his film now. In Mr Michael's film, he is in a barn, struggling to repair the hugely prolapsed uterus of an enormous black cow. His rubber gloves are not nearly adequate. He manages to push the abject-pink mass back inside the cow, but it slips out again. Michael realises the reason the reproductive organs won't stay inside the cow, is because there is something tangled among the flesh: a strange black glove, puffy like a ski-glove and now wet with bovine-juice. He pulls it out, puts the cow's organs back in place, and storms from the barn with the glove, to confront three young guys sitting in deck-chairs. They all wear similar gloves, in different colours, but the biggest and meanest-looking of the three is only wearing one: a black one. He is a cruel bully. He guffaws at Michael, who holds his other glove, still dripping. Before long they are chasing Michael around the farmyard, throwing their gloves at him like grid-iron balls.

Michael and I watch this - the short-film he has made - from the balcony of the farm-house, as the three bullies chase the film-Michael around below us. "I hate that guy," the real Michael says of the actor playing the biggest bully, "He's such an asshole". "Then why get him to be in your movie?" I enquire. "Sean Penn," he replies. I know exactly what he means.
Sometimes assholes are fantastic actors.

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a dip into the unconscious ...with a messiah

~dream diary~

So there was a public pool within walking distance of my house, that I had never known about before. So I joined! It was an outdoor arrangement, with an Olympic size pool open to the air, the lockers, change-rooms, showers etc inside a small building, and a smaller, shallower pool under cover of a large verandah.

I arrived in the late afternoon, and it took me AGES to get organised... two separate people showed me around, and explained the rules (the first a tall thin man, the second a large woman) before they would even give me a locker. By the time I was ready and allowed to go in the water, night had fallen and the place was illuminated by hanging lamps. A large crowd had gathered around the shallowest end of the smaller, undercover pool. The large lady who was very strictly showing me around, suddenly began to sound eerily like a Cult disciple / recruitment-officer, and announced that I was very lucky because He was here today.

She explained in reverent tones how He was an incredibly wise and gifted prophet, healer, etc etc and that I would have to begin coming regularly to receive the benefits of his presence. I was my usual openly disrespectful and rebellious self (which only comes to the fore in dreams, unfortunately) and dismissed this as a load of wank. I gently pushed my way through the masses and found myself on the edge of the pool, where He was holding counsel from the water.
He was a boy of about 12 or 13, Indian or South Asian. there was indeed a faint glow of golden light around him, and he was not so much standing ON the surface of the pool, but just below it, so his feet were submerged, but the rest of him stood up out of the water like a tree. He wasn't saying or doing anything, just staring with great concentration up towards the lamps which hung around the pool. But the people around me were watching and listening to him reverently, as if he were delivering a profound sermon.

None of this swayed my unimpressed-ness, and I simply marched into the pool and began swimming past Him. I was half expecting the cult-members to leap in, drag me from the water and beat me senseless, but when I felt a body approach me, it was Him. He was no longer glowing, but had a huge smile on his face, and was swimming and splashing like any other teengae kid. I was overwhelmed by how relieved and relaxed he suddenly seemed, as if he had been waiting for this all his life, and we proceeded to swim and muck around in the water together like carefree children. I'm not sure what became of the people at the edge of the pool... they had ceased to matter, to either of us.

~~~~~~~

are you sitting comfortably? ...then I'll begin

Tuesday evening was spent with the Delightful Mr Daniel J (and yes bois, he IS extremely hot; the response since i put his pic on my blog has been quite overwheliming! *smugmunkey*) indulging in various cinematic delights such as The Dark Crystal and Sleepy Hollow (mmm Johhny Depp with 18th Century tight pants and SUCH cute hair!). The following day involved many episodes of Futurama and a viewing of Who Framed Roger Rabbit? (hence my inspiration for 'munkey's-eye view') ...as well as pie, pizza, chocolate and litres of lemon-lime-&-bitters. What more could one ask for? *ahem*

And then, of course, Friday was THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE BIRTH OF MS SNAZZLES! Hurrah! Happy 1/4 of a century, my dearest.

The evening was kicked off with a quick visit to the home of the birthday-girl... where munkey lavished his spirit-sister with "The Art Of The Return Of The King" (Big Surprise, since I gave her the same book of the previous two Lord Of The Rings films the last two years running *predictable munkey*. But you gotta honour such traditions!) as well as a double CD of that brassy behemoth of the blues, Bessie Smith. Hope you like 'em Snazzles m'dear. : )

Then it was off to Hanover Court, to join with the Royal Couple, Ms Lili and Mistress Corrie, before heading to Mao's for a fine meal and wine with Madame Mu, Mother Gomati and Mr Mikey. And for the love of all things sacred: Why has no-one ever told me how damn good Deep Fried Icecream is before! My life has changed forever!

On to Bimbo Deluxe and a meeting with too many people to name, including the housemates of Snazzles, the ex-schoolmates of Snazzles and the fellow-screenwriting-étudiants of Snazzles. Mr Chris Mac also dropped in for a drink, a "tab" (not LSD, but Scot-speak for a cigarette, so I have learned) and a chin-wag.

As predicted, Bimbo's turned evil... we were thrown out of our lovley courtyard plonking-place, and forced into the depths of the establishment, where the offensive music plays, and the offensive people wear offensive clothes and dance the night away *snob munkey*. (and yes, there is a special place in the DEPTHS OF HELL reserved for thee, Mister Bimbo's Bouncer! You know who you are.) So... it was on to a much classier joint in the guise of Polly. Hurrah for Polly with its uber-posh decor and tantalising cocktails!

Of course, as the night/early morning wore on, even Polly began to play dodgy musak, and so it was clearly time to drag our tired bones home *designated-driver munkey*. I hope you had a wonderful birthday, my pet, and here's to many more together over the centuries to come! Schlaagen !

~dream diary~
A few interesting clouds of dream-smoke have remained with me this morning, mostly to do with a return to my highschool at the Castle-On-The-Hill. There was a big assembly, for which me and my classmates (comprising boys and girls ranging from very small children) were on stage, supposedly to sing "Land Of Hope And Glory", but none of us knew the words. My late, great principal Mr Willis (r.i.p. Ray) was there, looking extremely jovial, and i was very pleased to see him looking so well *sigh*. However, he was no longer principal; that role was now filled by Madonna. (who else? ...and strange that for a woman who I scarecely EVER think about, she has popped up in my dreams twice in the last month. curious, no?) Only thing I remember about her was that she told off a girl for spitting her chewy out on the floor ("How DARE you?! This is the Memorial Hall!!" she cried) and that I wasn't sure whether to call her Ms Madonna, or just Madonna.

I also remember one "class", which also took place on the stage of Mem Hall. Not sure what subject it was, but it was taught by a VERY creepy Eastern European man, who presented each student with a kitten, then announced that we were going to be killing the kittens as part of the lesson. All the kids were horrified, but no-one seemed willing to take a stand against this. I remember being particularly dissapointed in one Mr Tom Rogers, who was always quite a rebel (what that face from the dim distant past was doing returning to my subconscious I really don't know). So finally, just as Mr Teacher was describing how we were to mash the kitties' heads with the heel of our boot, I dropped my feline gently out the nearest window and announced this was a disgrace and I would not be taking part. All the other kids were following suit as I marched from the Hall... wondering which subject I would pick-up to replace this animal-killing one, so that I could still pass high-school. Psychology perhaps?

I think it's time for another appointment with Dr Snazzlepops!

~~~~~~~

who needs freud when you have dr snazzlepops?

Well my beloved Ms Snazzles has delved into her sublime knowledge of the subconscious (based largely on personal experience I may add) and come up with this remarkably apt interpretation of my mental wanderings. Enjoy!

~~~~~~~

Dr Snazzlepops' dream interpretation:

The Nazi represents Prince Harry (who, you might recall, has got himself into a bit of bother recently after being photographed wearing a swastika at a drunken costume party). Since Harry is a public figure who represents the universal human conflict (both internal and external) between authority/discipline/repression (the monarchy) and youthfulness/hedonism/pleasure-seeking (normal adolescence), I am not at all surprised that he figures in your subconscious.

Somehow the attractive young Prince H (in his undeniably aesthetically pleasing Nazi uniform) has also become associated in your mind with a desire to repeatedly explore underground tunnels and lick faces. This sounds like it falls into the hedonism/pleasure-seeking category(and I'm not at all sure I blame you).

The dog's bad breath and your uncertainty about the geography of your home city probably stem from an abject discomfort with your very natural attraction to Harry. These symbols represent your tendency to self-censure any hedonistic urges and err towards the side of restraint and responsibility. Are you afraid, MindlessMunkey, that if you were to give in to your party-boy instincts, someone might take a photo of you and splash it all over the papers?

The doll with the 'kitsch' fashion sense (a clear symbol of childhood wearing attire from the decade of your youth) only serves to reiterate the fact that your dream is all about 'growing up' and sorting out the conflict between 'id' and 'super ego', or (if you will) 'Ernie' and'Bert'.

It was a marvellous dream, if you don't mind me saying so. Quite fitting, really, that your paternal authority figure should approach you after this dream and offer you an object that perfectly represents the delights of youth and recreation – the humble ice-cream.Pleasure-seeking ain't always such a bad thing, Munkey-boy…

~~~~~~~

Since I hadn't heard the news snippet about the (undenaibly appealing) Prince H's escapades when I had the dream, I was clearly tapping into a collective unconscious type deal here... quite exciting!

And thank you Ms Snazzles for your encouragement of my pleasure-seeking... however I usually end up hanging around, waiting for the pleasure to come to me! Maybe that's my problem... *questioning own motives munkey*

~~~~~~~

paging dr freud!

~dream diary~

After the 35 degree day and three days in a row of pretending to work, I fell asleep on my bed as soon as I got home this evening. Woke up from a very strange dream... most of which, as usual, has disappeared from my head.

The parts I do remember are driving into an underground tunnel (twice), arguing with my cousin Ms Nicole about the whereabouts of a certain Melbourne suburb, tracking down and hiding from a Nazi War Criminal, being at a house-party playing with an extremely kitsch 80s doll dressed in purple, and getting licked in the face by a large St Bernard with a huge tongue & bad breath. How the narrative tied all these elements together, I really can't fathom.

Any suggestions?

p.s. after I woke up, my Dad bought me an icecream when he went to the shops. awww!

~~~~~~~

up, up and away!

Greetings! and welcome to the first edition of my blog.

Where to begin? ...Today I decided to begin a blog. *pointing-out-the-obvious munkey*

Last night was extremely hot, and I had trouble sleeping. *tired munkey* Perhaps that was also partly because I had slept in till 11.30 yesterday morning. I think my body-clock is still recovering from the pounding I gave it on the weekend. I stayed up till 6am on Saturday night/Sunday morning ~ after watching DVDs with Mr Daniel J till the wee small hours ~ and loaded up on caffiene to ensure i would make the drive safely home.

I have had a technological revolution today. Apart from beginning this here record of my doings and thinkings, I also changed over my email account to the wonderful gmail, as introduced to me by my darling Ms Snazzles, and I also upgraded my msn to the new Beta 7 version (whatever the fuck that means). Alas, my cute little custom emoticons have all been left behind on verion 6.2, so I will need to go back and remake them. *grumpy munkey*

~dream diary~
Despite the small amount of sleep I was able to grasp last night, I do remember one small dream segment. I returned to work at Coles; not that I was starting a job there again, I think I was just there to visit someone, or join a celebration. The upstairs staff area had been completely renovated and was looking quite swanky, and there was quite a feast laid out. Not sure what the occasion was, but it was certainly much better fare than the usual Coles afternoon tea. There were fine cheeses and sandwitch meats laid out with wonderful breads and dips and all that sort of yummy finger food. The only people present were Brenna (a girl who indeed used to work with me at Coles, and was quite a psychopath to boot) and a certain Mr Nick Verso. What the Hell he was doing there I have no idea... but in the dream my only surprise was that he was back at Coles, as I thought he had resigned several months ago. Wish I could remember more, as I'm sure all the psychologically important material has been filtered from my memory. Ah well it makes a change from my recent slew of dreams where I totally crack the sads and scream at someone (usually my Dad).

Well that was a somewhat inauspicious beginning to my career as a blogger, but I promise news will be noted here as it comes to hand.

Keep tuning in kids: same munkey-time, same munkey-station.

~~~~~~~