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Dreamed 2007/5/29 by Catshall


Allergies have been blitzing me out for weeks so I'm no good in the afternoons. I stagger from room to room, my muscles weak, barely able to keep my eyes open, and in the mornings I'm restless and tense. Tired of housecleaning (more thought than deed), tired of sitting at the computer, I tumble out the door and drift like tumbleweed to a restaurant or a cafe, telling myself that I'll take a walk later on or focus on a meaningful task, but it doesn't happen.

Dead time. Dead souls. (The word 'dead' occupies my brain.) I'm dying. I'm no good anymore. I'm old, used up, washed up, and wasted. Even the wash seems too heavy to lift as I stagger downstairs to put it in the machine. More often than not, I feel too weak (or bored) to transfer it over to the dryer when the cycle's finished. Endless errands, endless cycles of tedium.

Even creative pursuits lose their luster and I fall, frail and frustrated, into bed at night, or more likely stay up late, my eyes dry and burning as I play solitaire or do crosswords at the computer, pondering my ponderous existence.

When I don't have anything to read before I go to bed, I panic. I usually grab a cookbook and read recipes, but last night imaginary meals didn't satisfy me so I grabbed a book of poems instead. I read one just before I went to sleep, and it was a recipe for dreams:


Two or more men showed up, all men I've loved--my husband Bob, and Bill, and Starfire, and even transsexual Wendy. One of them proposed marriage, and then clumsily tied me up (spread-eagled on the bed) with red nylon cord while more expert others watched. I was a little worried at his beginner's technique, but then I thought "It doesn't matter how we do it, just that we are doing it", and I liked the sensation of my wrists and ankles being tied with silky red ropes.

Then the dream changed and I was feeding a large, flat coin into a slot machine, a silver dollar, only it was as large as a pancake and worth much more than a dollar. The men were still watching, Bob silently critical because I was throwing away good money. But I took the risk anyhow, expecting nothing, because nothing is what I usually get.

Imagine my astonishment when a shower of coins came cascading out over my hands, mostly small ones, and then the machine stopped. Then one large one emerged, another gigantic 'silver dollar' and I thought, "Well, that's it. I guess they have it rigged so that you'll win just a little more than you put in," but then it started up again and more coins came flooding out.

"You've hit the jackpot!" someone cried over my shoulder.

"No, not the jackpot," I thought, coolly calculating my winnings. "But maybe a thousand dollars or so. It seems like a lot, but it's not nearly enough."

I realized there would never be enough to fill that money-hungry hole...

... and I woke up then, rediscovering lust. It felt as marvelous as my dream, so I crawled into Bob's bed to do something about it. We've been having difficulties with sex lately, what with his physical ailments and our mutual anxiety, but I tricked us both, pulling us with the silky, red ropes of my dreams beneath the nervous radar to the jackpot below. Sepia sketch by Wayan of Catshall, writer of JACKPOT, as a fur, at her literary salon, 2005.



Wow. It all fuses here. Money, sex, creativity... it's all in one big jackpot, it seems. In dreams.

Or more than dreams.

--Chris Wayan

LISTS AND LINKS: allergies and environmental illness - dream sex - trios - bondage - weird dream weddings - money dreams - initiative - dream puns - dream humor - more Catshall - Wayan dreams of a Jade Jackpot

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