Morning of July 16, 2015. Thursday.
There is a residual sound, somewhat like an echo; a layered but pure vocalization that is somewhat nostalgic and defining; a single note that resounds from nowhere in particular, a group of young females vocalizing once, somewhat like the first vocalized note of David Essex’s “For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her” but with a younger chorus. It “hangs” in the air like a simple single statement on life and time, like a little cloud. It is the moment of my consciousness coming into existence for the first time.
Grandfather Clock on the “Captain Kangaroo” set is tipped over and destroyed by a dog-sized griffin of primarily orange coloring. A clock cannot bleed (even a minimally anthropomorphic clock), but the glass flies into my arms and elbows in the semi-dark “Captain Kangaroo” set - the Treasure House. I pull the glass out nonchalantly perhaps reverting back to age two when wounded near-fatally with large pieces of glass cutting into my left wrist. I do not care that much; I am lucid, though I just watch the mayhem with a slight twitching of my sleep paralyzed legs followed by a wave of bliss, like a “splash” that grows more pleasurable and quickly rises from my toes to my stomach. It is macabre but somehow amusing in its surreality as well as its overwhelming honesty. The griffin is likely of the proclivity of mainstream humanity to habitually move towards the wrong way of thinking at almost every opportunity; as a griffin, or in fact, any mythological or imaginary animal (especially a destructive one), not being real, not being of the world even in spirit, is wrongful focus, nonexistence of logic, mean-spiritedness, sarcasm, misconception and misperception, of no use to a life-oriented path or developed persona, when strangers, even cashiers, can only utter pointlessly intrusive concepts that make no sense…people who allow themselves to be dominated by entertainment and trivial pursuits to the point where little of themselves is left.
I reflect on this, though not with malice. Flashback to reality: Conversations I do not want with the endlessly annoying locals who use terms they do not know the meaning of and saying little that makes any sense. I push an empty baby stroller to the NightOwl Convenience Store as I always do (for several years in fact) when needing a couple things heavy enough to warrant aid, though later at night. The (never-seen-before) cashier looks worried as I come in, unpredictably shouting “where’s your child?” and then seemingly assumes that I left them home on their own, something “normal” people apparently do from time to time (though I have no idea why an adult would ever leave a young child on their own - perhaps a “glitch” in the minds of some of today’s unlearned and desensitized populace). I guess the concept of “with my wife” is not a realistic scenario in the “minds” of the characters of this region.
As I begin to explain (even though there is no reason to have to explain yourself to a random member of the public) how my daughter is home with my wife, another female interrupts by commenting to the cashier - “he sold his child on the black market…I saw it on eBay”. Of course, even though I am a stranger, she is pointlessly “joking” (albeit in extremely poor taste) as they continue to make other references that make no sense to me. When one addresses me briefly as I am getting the items I need, I simply look back and nonchalantly say “I have no idea what you are talking about. I never have any idea what anyone around here is talking about.”
As I leave the store in this real but surreal setting, one of the females tells me to make sure I wrap my child up when I take them out on a “cold” night so that they do not get windburned. I am not sure if she is joking or somehow serious, though I am so nonplussed by her untimely misuse of the word and previous bizarre commentary (especially in walking on a completely windless not-that-cold night - and without a child in the stroller) that I just look at her for a very short time and utter “no idea” and go on my way. Sometimes, as here, real life could be deemed as stranger than some dreams.
Back in my dream’s setting, the griffin scratches and pecks at what remains of larger glass and wood pieces in Grandfather Clock’s “chest”. The griffin again, being mythical and not real - probably represents my view of society and their surreal way of thinking and acting. A clock sometimes represents a need for patience or is patience itself (as in waiting for something or waiting for time to pass and maintaining patience as such). On the other hand, maybe it just represents my concern with the passage of time and mortality, and eventual death.
“That’s enough,” I say rather loudly to the griffin, getting tired of pulling glass and wood slivers out of my arms (especially elbows) and face. Puzzled by my apparent audacity, the griffin turns its head towards me and transforms into a Doberman Pinscher, becoming a bit thinner, running away with its tail between its legs, and shrinking and becoming a mouse, leaving the Captain’s Treasure House.