Blogagaard Sleeps 13 hours in One Day, Dreams of Enormous Gingerbread House, Among Other Things
Yesterday I slept from 3:30 A.M. until 1:30 in the afternoon, and then, as if that wasn't enough, I slept from 10:30 P.M. until 12:30 A.M. Past midnight last night I woke up, decided I wouldn't be falling asleep anytime soon, and did a load of laundry and read more Tolstoy. Surreal sleeping patterns, even for me. The upside of this craziness is that I got to dream of a huge gingerbread house. I was climbing up this long gumdrop stairway when a little boy, who was coming down the stairway, blocked my way. I was worried about passing him because we were very high up, and there was no rail on the stairway at all, so I sat down and started eating this huge marshmallow torch I was carrying.
Needless to say, it was all good after that.
Blogagaard Loves to Ponder
About Me
- David Oppegaard
- St. Paul, Minnesota
- I am the author of And the Hills Opened Up, The Suicide Collectors, and Wormwood, Nevada.
AddThis
27 comments:
That Gingerbread house thing is just like Tolstoy-meets-Kafka-meets-Grimm-with-a-little-bit-of-Marquez-thrown-in-for-good-measure.
And you said you couldn't hang with the big boys!
Oh my god, thank you for moving on from the Tolstoy. I thought I was going to have watch some reality television to feel like an American again.
Instead, dreams. Better. Better. A place of peace.
Give me a moment and I will interpet.
What an awesoem dream it was, App. Mrs. Ash has sent me her analysis via e-mail, chosing to keep it secret because it reveals my dark soul. We here at Blogagaard want everyone to be able to sleep at night!
You people want crazy, I posted my cousin Steve's poem today on Relative Poetry. Now that is a crazy hamster.
Last night I dreamed that there was a bomb in the bushes in front the house where my family was living. At first my mom told me she put it there, then I realized that she was lying. I put it there, and she was just trying to protect me. Later, I drove my children to a different neighborhood in order to save them from the bomb, which I had planted, and we found an outdoor shower. I decided to take a shower. The curtain was really low, so everyone who drove by on the street could see me topless, showering, and I didn't care.
Tonight, let's all try to dream of the most whacked out shit imaginable. I will dream about Bush Jr sincerely appologizing to anyone, for anything. He won't even look a little smug.
I dreamed of an apartment that was in a converted factory, so that walk-in coolers had been made over into communal bathrooms and kitchens, but with the walk-in cooler door still on. It was dark in there, and I didn't like it much. But the apartments themselves were very nice.
Almost 3 A.M. The coast is clear!
Dear Blogagaard, I woke up from a dream just a moment ago in which I was falling... falling and then I landed and it didn't hurt, but I was on this pig farm, a huge one, and all the pigs were escaping from confinement only to run directly into the manure lagoon those operations have and then me and the farmer were saving them with huge fishing nets (they were very calm, those pigs in the shit) and then a tremendous gust of wind broke some glass thing at the neighbor's house (that happened for real because it woke me up). What do you make of it? Or should I ask voix, who is now an advice columnist?
Captain, I'm no good at giving meanings to dreams, but I can tell you this. My friend Mike's parents own a hog farm, a small one, and when you eat bacon at there it is amazing, thick and chewy and tasty.
Thank you. That is very helpful.
I had a dream last night that I was undercover in Iran, and I was going to meet the Ayatollah with a group of specially selected Americans.
I got separated from the group in a major urban area, and was stumbling around, terrified, in the slums of Tehran. Finally, I saw a face I recognized. That face? Simon Cowell.
Simon Cowell was really depressed, but wouldn't say why. He offered to help me, anyway, and took me to a tiny flat where I had to crawl over a dead man's bed in order to get to the telephone. I was in Iran, with Simon Cowell leading me into a tiny, windowless room, but I was mostly afraid of a ghost.
What does this mean, Bloggo?
The answer is obvious. You are truly haunted by a failed singing career, perhaps in opera, which you gave up to have an affair with a Lebanese woman. Undercover=unfamous.
Captain, after further thought, I think maybe you need to eat more bacon.
I read something about how pigs mean I feel dirty and selfish and perhaps my attempts to save them from their own liquid shit, is my attempt to save myself from my own shitty self.
I don't buy it. What does the internet know about anything?
Bacon is crunchy murder.
Better a crispy death than a flaccid death.
Fish-netted pigs saved
Bacon is crunchy murder
Flaccid or crunchy
"Crispy." Goddamn it, I meant "crispy." Perfectly good haiku, spoilt.
Kelly, or should i say fake Basho, it sounds like what you need is some bacon.
I did have a sort of ominous dream last night, as per your request. But I don't really remember it, there was something, and another thing. There were people in a place and something very unexpected happened!
Amazing, Sd. I think I'd that same exact dream once. Also, two nights ago I again had an apocalyptic dream. This one, for some reason, dealt with an abandoned Earth.
You can make mock apple pie with Ritz and cream of tartar. In case, you know, you can't afford apples or something.
I just dreamed (during my nap) that the Captain and I were housesitting for my aunt and we were going to listen to crates and crates of records and eat pizza. I woke up drooling like a mutherfucker.
How, may I ask, do motherfuckers drool?
Sorry, you can't ask.
Cracker Pie: sounds very Alabama. And horrible.
"Revolting," I think.
Post a Comment