whipped cream punk girl
Last night I dreamed that I was lying asleep in a comfy bed pushed up against the wall in a dark room. This punk girl sneaks up to me. She has a pie crust and a tin of whipped cream. She’s going to play a trick on me; she’s going to put the whipped cream in the pie crust, and right when I wake up she’s going to throw a pie in my face. But I’m too clever for her; I’m sleeping with one eye open, and I can see what she’s going to do. Before she has time to assemble the pie (and she’s really taking her time about it for some reason) I quick grab the whipped cream and throw it in her face. Hu-ha! Take that, punk girl!
Then the scene switches directly to the other side of the wall, which is outside on the top of a grassy hill. Me and her re-enact the same scene over, only she is more prepared this time, and she gets me a little bit, though I get her worse. The whipped cream feels warm, soft, and tickly.
Now, I know where the girl came from; she was a political punk from Minneapolis, who I never really knew personally, but who I shared a lot of common acquaintances with. She taught at a private school called Second Foundation whose philosophy was that students get to do whatever they want. It was mostly attended by young punks who wanted to drop out of school, but who were too young to do so legally. I had already dropped out of school illegally, and had already paid the legal price (8 hours of community service and a short class about…drugs? The importance of school? I don’t even know) so I had no use for the school. But I had acquaintances who went there. They told me the punk teacher had taken them to some botanical garden, and had told them that the beauty of flowers were proof that nature had intended humans to have psychedelic experiences, or something like that. Later on, when I was in my early 20’s, I was taking a high school level math class at the local community college, and the punk girl was enrolled in the same class. I found that odd, and amusing, but I wasn’t actually surprised.
I know where the pie came from too; that came from a story that my sister had told me the other day. On Halloween she had dressed up as an Evil Klown, and while she was walking home Halloween night from a dance club she ran into another Evil Klown, a male one. That Evil Klown invited her to a party, at which there was nothing but Evil Klowns, all in a big warehouse. I guess the guy who was throwing the party did it every year. He was obsessed with clowns. He even runs a clown-porn website, knottyklown.com (which actually is really bad). At the party they had a female clown stripper. While she stripped, they threw cream pies at her. They had hundreds of pies crusts, and hundreds of cans of whipped cream, and you had to assemble the pies yourself. When you threw them at the stripper, you had to be sure to take them out of pie tin, ‘cause that could hurt her.
That’s the way it was going to be done in my dream too; she was gonna assemble the pie, remove it from the tin, and then throw it at me. So does this make me a stripper of some kind? But I threw it at her…is she some kind of metaphorical stripper? And I was sleeping. It reminds me of something someone had once told me: “Minneapolis is sleeping”, referring to that city’s lack of political and social consciousness. Now that I live in Columbus, I think “Columbus is sleeping”. In actuality, all of America is sleeping. And in my dream, I was sleeping. So maybe I was getting a wake up call. But some kind of sexual wake up call? And by a punk? So some kind of political-sexual wake up call. But then I threw it back at her…am I avoiding being sexually and politically responsible by projecting the wake-up-call to others, pretending that it is them who need the wake-up-call, not me? And why was I only pretending to sleep? I’m not as unconscious as I pretend to be, I’m just casting a farce so to be free from blame. But in fact, I have more of a political consciousness then I admit to myself or others. Really, I’m just afraid of taking responsibility.
That was interesting. Very cathartic.
Then the scene switches directly to the other side of the wall, which is outside on the top of a grassy hill. Me and her re-enact the same scene over, only she is more prepared this time, and she gets me a little bit, though I get her worse. The whipped cream feels warm, soft, and tickly.
Now, I know where the girl came from; she was a political punk from Minneapolis, who I never really knew personally, but who I shared a lot of common acquaintances with. She taught at a private school called Second Foundation whose philosophy was that students get to do whatever they want. It was mostly attended by young punks who wanted to drop out of school, but who were too young to do so legally. I had already dropped out of school illegally, and had already paid the legal price (8 hours of community service and a short class about…drugs? The importance of school? I don’t even know) so I had no use for the school. But I had acquaintances who went there. They told me the punk teacher had taken them to some botanical garden, and had told them that the beauty of flowers were proof that nature had intended humans to have psychedelic experiences, or something like that. Later on, when I was in my early 20’s, I was taking a high school level math class at the local community college, and the punk girl was enrolled in the same class. I found that odd, and amusing, but I wasn’t actually surprised.
I know where the pie came from too; that came from a story that my sister had told me the other day. On Halloween she had dressed up as an Evil Klown, and while she was walking home Halloween night from a dance club she ran into another Evil Klown, a male one. That Evil Klown invited her to a party, at which there was nothing but Evil Klowns, all in a big warehouse. I guess the guy who was throwing the party did it every year. He was obsessed with clowns. He even runs a clown-porn website, knottyklown.com (which actually is really bad). At the party they had a female clown stripper. While she stripped, they threw cream pies at her. They had hundreds of pies crusts, and hundreds of cans of whipped cream, and you had to assemble the pies yourself. When you threw them at the stripper, you had to be sure to take them out of pie tin, ‘cause that could hurt her.
That’s the way it was going to be done in my dream too; she was gonna assemble the pie, remove it from the tin, and then throw it at me. So does this make me a stripper of some kind? But I threw it at her…is she some kind of metaphorical stripper? And I was sleeping. It reminds me of something someone had once told me: “Minneapolis is sleeping”, referring to that city’s lack of political and social consciousness. Now that I live in Columbus, I think “Columbus is sleeping”. In actuality, all of America is sleeping. And in my dream, I was sleeping. So maybe I was getting a wake up call. But some kind of sexual wake up call? And by a punk? So some kind of political-sexual wake up call. But then I threw it back at her…am I avoiding being sexually and politically responsible by projecting the wake-up-call to others, pretending that it is them who need the wake-up-call, not me? And why was I only pretending to sleep? I’m not as unconscious as I pretend to be, I’m just casting a farce so to be free from blame. But in fact, I have more of a political consciousness then I admit to myself or others. Really, I’m just afraid of taking responsibility.
That was interesting. Very cathartic.
posted by nearfalse | 1:36 PM
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