John Denver’s War on Terror

In which I’m at a bookstore and see John Denver. He seems to be employed there. He’s packing boxes or sticking price tags or something. I walk up to him directly and we greet each other like we’re old friends. I have a memory of hanging out with him in Sun Valley and this is the first time in years since I’ve seen him. We chat a bit and he’s glad to see me too but there’s a sadness behind his otherwise cheery expression. He sets a book down in front of me.

“Here, I want you to have one. Signed it for you.”

It’s a hiking guide to the hills of Berkeley by John Denver.

He sighs. “It’s not selling well at all.”

His attempt to appear upbeat has now completely faded. John Denver looks so sad. I didn’t know that he had a book out, but I feign that I did so he doesn’t feel bad. I open it. I don’t read anything in particular but notice it’s printed on that sort of confetti paper with all those big colored squares scattered about. As discreetly as I can, I explain to him that I’m sure the guide is great, but maybe it’s not selling because it’s difficult to read on top of confetti. He takes the book and examines it closely.

“Damn, you're right.”

We talk about how he needs to have a serious talk with his publisher or designer or whoever.

[ SCENE 2 - one of those dream scene changes in which there is no transition, just cut to new setting ]

I've joined John Denver at his place and I'm sitting around a dinner table with him and his friends. We joke and chat. They are all very funny, kind people about his age (late 50s-60s), 3-4 men and a woman who seems sort of like the matriarchal member of the group though she is also the same age.

[ SCENE 3 ]

All the people from the table and myself are now on the beach. It’s the “Berkeley beach”. Completely different from the marina as it is in reality. To the East are the hills, then downtown, then it slopes directly to the water as if West Berkeley didn’t exist. It’s also an actual beach with sand and warm and no bay — direct to ocean.

Looking to the North I notice that one of the mountains a few miles up the coast (much taller and steeper in this world than real life) is smoking. It’s a volcano. Just as I’m asking myself if it always smokes like that or is it actually erupting, it erupts. Huge explosion and some shaking. Giant billow of smoke comes out the top. The beach is crowded and everyone rushes for their cameras. They are surprised, but not that scared, as if this is a common occurrence or they expected this volcano to go off soon. I get my camera and take some shots of the scene and the people reacting. I am smiling about how fantastic the photos will be.

I look around to see if there is any major damage from the eruption. The water is pretty rough and boats are tossing about. Some buildings have broken windows and the like. But overall it seems nothing tragic has happened. People are not in panic. They are only crowding to spots where there is a good view of the mountain which is still spewing dark smoke.

Looking to the East I see Lawrence Livermore Lab (or at least what I perceive to be it. in any case it seems a very important government installation). Middle-aged men in hazmat suits (or maybe they are clean suits) are running out of the building carrying equipment, boxes, computers. They look like scientists. Many of them have signs attached to their fronts or backs that say things like “DO NOT APPROACH ME” and “CARRYING IMPORTANT MATERIALS”. I take some photos of the men. They don’t seem pleased about it, but they are far too concerned about saving the equipment to stop me. “I can’t wait to get these pics on Flickr,” I think. (Yes, really.) Suddenly we hear deep rumbling in the West.

Looking to the West I am shocked to find amphibious military vehicles rising out of the ocean. They are clearly US troops. Tanks start appearing on the scene. Now the situation is clearly more serious. What was once merely an observation of an amazing natural phenomenon is now nearing pandemonium. John Denver and his pals, who are still with me, wonder aloud whether the authorities are trying to secure certain sites from another eruption. We don’t see any reason for armed conflict, but we fear it in the backs of our minds. Does the government actually imagine a scenario in which Al Qaeda set off the volcano? We do not put it past them.

Looking to the South I see a rocket on its launching pad. I can’t decide if it’s a standard satellite rocket or a missile. It launches! Someone on the beach is blaring patriotic music as it lifts off the ground. I am very scared now, but the crowds around us are cheering and shouting. We watch the missile fly up not very far and then it falls, straight down into the ocean a few hundred feet from us. Now everyone is frightened. A soldier grabs me and I wake.

My friend looks at me and asks, "What is this tattoo that you have around
your left wrist?"

I look down, so that I can explain it to him. In fancy script writing,
going around the bony perimeter of my wrist it says, "It is only my _____
that will destroy me."

There was a word in the blank, but it was fuzzy and I couldn't make it out.
What was the word that was in the blank? I'm still trying to figure it out.

Dream somehow went from looking at some Montgomery Burns picture as a
monster on the side of a cereal box to watching a film about a live-action
boy skipping on a precipice with a lake on one side only a foot down-
sunny day, and this huge claymation friendly flying beast nearly drowning,
all the while with the theme song, "Don't Kill The Monsters!" playing
along.

I couldn't sleep last night after at least two travel anxiety dreams-I forgot my passport and discovered it was almost illegible after having been washed; the train I stole went off the tracks and down a street where it was hijacked by a(nother) psychopath who eventually took the train to the airport ... that sort of thing. Wide awake, I couldn't go back to sleep until I spent what seemed like an hour imagining I was sleeping on a bed of marshmallows. And even that didn't work: I woke up with sugar-sticky hands. The rest of the day promises further misery.

(Later there were minor peanut butter burns.)

My boyfriend, friend and I were wandering around an old New Orleans type of red light district, with cobblestone streets and old brick buildings, wooden shutters, peddlars on the corners, hocking their wares, a tiny bit seedy but not really pornographic enough to be lewd. We reached our communal home and were approached by a film crew who asked us if we wanted to participate in a "Haunted Night Sleepover" reality show and the prize was a brand new house. I jumped at the thought but with knowing reservation of what it would entail. Unlike so many of these 'disbeliever-screamers' who plague these types of shows with their mindless chatter and crocodile tears once they hear a bump in the darkness, I have seen and felt ghosts before. It is real and when you invite the haunting, you never know what you will get.

The Haunted Night was to take place in Knotts Berry Farm, or some amusement park similar to it. It was the Mandonna crew mainly, but I distinctly remember Hugh, Mark and myself doing it. Mark was to sleep in a field where some bloody battle took place, Hugh was to sleep in the mechanical room where all the rides are operated from, and I was to sleep in the Roaring 20's Pavillion, resplendid in its faded and torn, red velvet drapes, historic photos all dangling crookedly from the walls, with dark and narrow corridoors and maze-like rooms. Part of the deal was that I had to clean the pavillion first, because it was very old and musty and hadn't been used in a long time.

We were supposed to be preparing for the night by getting our provisions together and meditating so that a protective shield came over us, but when the camera panned to the boys, they were in the midst of some Burning Man type of bonfire, dancing around like drunken goons and then, we were all put on the back of a flatbed truck and driven to the Haunted Site. I watched us standing there like 3 lone silhouettes heading into the sunset as the truck we were standing on rolled away. It had begun. I, for one, was not ready.

When I arrived at the Pavillion, Hugh was already there cleaning the bathroom. It was a stark white bathroom with a very long row of toilet stalls. I was grateful Hugh had done this part of the cleaning and I think he rather enjoyed doing it, being close to all these men. I knew then, as if in a vision, that the Pavillion had been the fraternity house of many men, "Dandies" from the Roaring 20's with their hair slicked back, in fine tuxedos and shiny black patent leather shoes. I checked the stalls, one by one, sensing "them" behind the doors. Some of the toilets spat up and gurgled. I expected it and told "them" to calm down, that we were just trying to clean things up a bit and make their home nicer. I wandered around a bit in the musty rooms and found one girl's room, painted in pink. I found 2 halves of a broken, plastic doll house and it reminded me of why I was there, to win a house of my own. I heard "them" whispering and felt them moving about ever so slowly. My hair on my neck was standing up, I rushed out to the main lobby to breathe. It was not even dark yet and I knew it was going to be a long night.

Mark and a couple others came in then and we hugged. He was headed out to the Battle Field but seemed unconcerned. Hugh was already on his way to the Mechanic's Room. I told them that this place really was haunted and that I was being followed already. I began meditating/praying for protection and decided to sleep in the conservatory-looking lobby where I could see outside and others could see me. I did not want to go back through the red velvet drapes dripping with golden tassles but was intrigued that suddenly, though initially tattered and faded, were now bright, new and deeply rich looking. I guess I was "drawn" back in, because I was in the humidor lounge, wiping the tables, bussing away ashtrays and drinking glasses that had magically appeared, with bourbon stained ice still melting in the glass. I was talking to "them," thanking them for being so patient with us. They seemed to joke tenderly with me. I was "shown" back to the one girl's room I had found before and to my surprise it was also new looking, the bed was made with fresh linens, the dollhouse was fixed and there were billowy curtains and fresh flowers waiting for me. I layed down in the bed and was almost lulled to sleep, but I thought better of it and decided to leave the room before I could not find my way back anymore. I felt much easier in the Pavillion that I had before, more normal. I wandered into the kitchen and saw that it was still old and run down. I could still hear their voices but it seemed more conversational now. They were telling me a story about the beautiful woman that used to live here, it was about me... That I was spoken for, but fell inlove with another man, one of the Dandies here, maybe several of them.

I was washing dishes, trying to focus on the task to keep from being freaked out, reminding myself to just be calm. They were in the kitchen with me, but I must have heard a strikingly familiar voice, because as if suddenly frozen in time and then re-animated, I slowly turned my head over my left shoulder to look behind me. As I did so, my face and hair sublety morphed into "her." I had a cupie-doll face, khol-rimmed eyes, red lipstick, pin-waved blonde hair in a bob at my chin and a beaded choker around my throat. I sashayed into the humidor lounge again where old-timie music was playing on the Victrola and though I professed to not know how to dance, I began wildly dancing the Charleston like a puppeted rag doll, my long pearl necklace flying about. I was throwing back shots of bourbon and laughing, dancing, singing cabaret style. I was "Belle", or as the Dandies called her, "Belle of the Ball" and I knew I used to be the famous cabaret starlett who lived and performed at the Pavillion and who had numerous love affairs with the Dandies. They were all there now, I could see them clearly, some sitting, some standing, some twirling me about. Wild dancing turned into bodies draping on each other and steamy kissing... The next thing I knew I was lying naked on the banquette while tuxedoed Dandies swarmed my body, kissing me, licking, me, fucking me. It was pure heaven and I was orgasming again and again. I wondered what the cameras were filming... could they see them too? Or did they just see me dancing by myself in the silent darkness and masterbating on the banquette? All the while the music and good times roared on until it sounded like a freight train fading into the distance and the glare of the morning light warmed my body and slowly woke me up... it was all groggy still though and the music was fading to silence. I wondered if I was dead because I knew they had struggled with wanting me to stay with them forever, to have their precious Belle back. But the good of the order decided against taking me before my time. They had set me free to win my house which is what Belle had always dreamed of but never achieved before she died, hence the dollhouse in her room. They whispered, 'Good bye Love" and "We'll miss you" as the white noise of the morning washed in and washed them out. The film crew was arriving, I woke up, wanting more.

First there was a looong adventure, and I wound up doing some serious
ninja driving (which I'm quite good at in real life) northbound on the 5
going through L.A., when all of a sudden, there was a stopping gate
spanning the freeway, with a huge sign which said, "Venus Fly-Trap
crossing". Cars screeched to a collective halt. And then I had a quantum
dream moment, where I could see what the result would have been had I been
going 120mph, trying to stop all of a sudden with my car skidding sideways
through the multilane fwy, taking out at least twenty other cars. But in
dream 'reality', that wasn't the case. I was amazed with my passenger, as
we looked to the sign supports on either side of the northbound causeway--
there were GIANT venus fly-trap plants, just growing as calmly and
mightilty as you please, and I thought how difficult it must be to take
rear those plants from small seedlings, and have them grow up to be so
big. Somehow I knew that, although a large dog could fit in the traps'
mouths, they feasted only on insects.