Ever since I had my professional augurer decapitated by my professional metalsmith’s headchopper (try predicting my assassination now, traitor), I can no longer look to the flight patterns of birds to predict my future. The only augury I remember from my days as a student is that seeing a lone goose means a friend will soon punch you in a sensitive area.
So I have taken to writing down my dreams, in an effort to understand my fate. Here are last night’s feverish impressions.
THE DREAM:
I am jogging, which is immediately suspicious, as I normally I pay Sextus, a slave boy, seedless grapes to exercise for me. Nonetheless, there I am, sweat streaming into my…am I wearing a sports bra? Good god. I take a moment to study the road I’m following. Paved, with lush greenery on all sides.
Suddenly I realize I’m a graduate student at the University of Florida. I’ve never been there, so who knows how these images spawned that conclusion. I pass a big abandoned-looking building, crossing a bare, weedy plot of land lined with decrepit dumpsters. I desperately want to look at the filth inside, but my body carries me further. Fuck that, am I right?
My uninformed dream-version of the University of Florida proves surprisingly accurate
Now I’m walking up to an academic building, maybe for a class. In fact, yes! I’m there for an art lecture, The Body In Pain (1990-Present). I could practically weep with sadistic joy. Then I’m paralyzed by the fact that I don’t know any of the tan people streaming up the steps and into the building. Where am I even going? A beautiful blonde approaches me and introduces herself, as though I’m even going to remember what her name is! She’s impressed at my class list, and inevitably, flashes of experimental torture consume my thought. She points me in the right direction and trots off. I will find her again, I promise myself.
Just as she leaves an old southern professor comes up and explains, since it’s abundantly clear I’m unfamiliar with local custom, that now I’m obligated to ask this girl to tonight’s “Big Dance Formal,” or some such generic hootenanny. I roundhouse kick the professor, drag his body to the dumpsters I passed earlier, and heave him into one. I jump into the dumpster after him. Only when I’m inside, it’s the Colosseum, empty except for some garbage, used condoms, and the unconscious southern professor. I sit on his chest and wonder what was covered in the art lecture I skipped.
And then I woke up.
ANALYSIS:
Our education is never complete.
Recent Comments