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Sunday Bloody Bleedin Sunday
It was a chilly Sunday morning in the park. I had woken up at 7.30 f87king aye arhm to go jogging with the wife. Afterwhich, I went right back to bed and slept from 9am till 3pm. My slumber was burdened with a strange dream.
In my forsaken dream, I was on a business trip with some white dude in Tokyo. Our hotel was some business-class filing cabinet next to a shopping mall. The morning after we arrived, we had an intense man-quarrel over who got to use the bathroom first. After donning our suits, we emerged from the entrance of the hotel and were shocked to discover that everybody had been transformed into hypnotized zombies walking hand-in-hand in pairs all over the place. We pretended to be zombies and wandered around with them. Later the white dude and I get back to our hotel suite where he breaks down and cries. It wasn’t so much that the entire population (except us) had been turned into zombies that triggered his torrent of tears, but rather the fact that we would miss our business meeting thereby dooming him to corporate scorn.
It’s probably my exhaustion from work that is giving me all this stange shite to dream about. The zombies in my dream are probably a metaphor for the other folk in my company who simply go though the motions of working without actually getting any work done. And the white dude is probably a metaphor for the people I work with, that somehow fail to notice the zombies. So Tokyo (the geographic setting of the dream, though I have never been there) must represent my life - a bubble of intense zombiric activity that never sleeps.
Don’t get me wrong, I do not hate my life. In fact, I don’t think I’ve evar been happier. It’s just a dream, and dreams don’t mean jack shite. Anyway, all that sleep really did me a world of good, because after I woke up, I picked up a copy of “The Best of Benny Hill” and went to visit my parents for dinner.
Over dinner, my mother told us about how her hairdressers (a pair of sisters) had moved their shop next to a pub with dark tinted windows. In the pub, were ladies of the night. Apparently, the hairdressing sisters were a bit scared about the fact that they were next to a pub, but their business started picking up because the ladies of the night started patronizing them (proximity is big factor) instead. And these ladies of the night, start telling the hairdressing sisters the tale of howidecidedtosuckcocksforalivinginapub because when your hair is being washed, it’s like some kind of truth drug. Sordid stories of single mothers, divorced young women and abandoned girlfriends galore.
I need to start writing my novel again. It’s called Tricycle Nights, and it’s five years in the making now. Maybe I need to go get my hair washed to pick up some material.
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