My dream world continues to gather energy and produce manifold weirdnesses.
Like this bit of freaky cool stuff. First, read this news story about what gay rights activist Michaelangelo Signorile did when he and his boyfriend got some verbal abuse from a random homophobe.
Basically, this asshole saw Signorile and his boyfriend share a peck-on-the-cheek goodbye kiss and said it was “disgusting”. So what Signorile and associates did was point at the guy and shout “Homophobe!” and “Bigot!” and draw attention to what an asshole the guy was, and chased him out of the neighborhood with his tail between his legs.
Oh, and this all happened in the New York City neighborhood of Chelsea, which is apparently super gay. So this reprehensible person called a very chaste male-male kiss disgusting in what is basically Gay City, New York.
Obviously, I totally love this. This is exactly how we all should deal with this kind of thing now, both us fags and our straight allies. When someone shouts something homophobic, just point at them and scream “BIGOT” and bring the powerful force of public shame down on their heads.
And we can totally do this now. The tipping point is long past. We have historical momentum on our side. People are way more embarrassed by being thought to be a bigot than we are of being queer. We have the power and I think we should use it to hasten the marginalization of these people.
Chase them into the closet. Then lock the goddamned door.
Okay, so that is the setup. Learn it, love it, then keep it in mind as I explain a dream I had last night.
In the dream, I was on a city bus, in that sort of in-between mode I sometimes lapse into when I am on transit where I am thinking about nothing, when I noticed that nearby were seated, on the same bench, two guy who were obviously a couple and three young smartass types.
They were seated like this, with G for Gay Guy and S for Smartass.
(G1) (G2) (S1) (S2) (S3)
As I watch, S1 starts making fun of G1 and G2, and starts punching G2 on the shoulder and saying something like “You faggots, huh? You a couple of queers? Answer me, you gay piece of shit!”
Hearing this, I silently rise from my seat and glide over to the scene of the abuse. I have not even consciously decided to intervene, but the protective urge has risen in me and its powerful chemistry is making my blood start to boil.
When S1 sees me coming, he falls silent and turns white. He’s just a small guy, and I am… not. And I am told I am pretty scary when in this state of mind.
Plus, you know, fuck it, it’s a dream and I’m the star.
I am not one hundred percent sure what happened next, but I know I said, softly but firmly, in a voice of velvet backed by iron, “Is there a problem here?”. And I was looking right at S1, the ringleader, when I said it. He looked uncomfortable.
Then, some lost time. But after that, I remember I was addressing everyone in the bus, asking them if they had any problem with the two gentlemen in question, to which the answer was a resounding NO!
And then I looked at S1 the ringleader and told him to “sit down and SHUT the FUCK UP. ” And the other bus passengers all cheered, and I went back to my seat.
See the similarity? And I dreamed all this before I read a single line of the Signorile story. Was I surfing the waves of the zeitgeist, somehow picking up the emanations of this story from the collective unconscious while I shared the ocean with all the other dreamers of the world?
Or was it just an interesting but ultimately meaningless coincidence? I don’t know. My faith in coincidence has never been all that strong.
Oh, and not that this is relevant to the more mystical aspect of this whole thing, but last night, before sleeping, I watched the movie Sid and Nancy with my dear friend, that quintessence of beauty and grace, the darling Miss Felicity Walker.
In that movie, a great deal of the end of the film takes place at the cheap hotel room where Sid and Nancy lived out their tragic final days.
The name of the hotel? The Chelsea.
Where did the Sognorile story take place? Chelsea.
Freaky stuff, huh? I make no claims of mystical connection or magical abilities. How could I? I don’t believe in either mysticism or magic.
But I do believe in the collective unconscious, although I am not at all sure what its actual physical mechanism might be. Pheromones, maybe? We understand so little of what they transmit.
I also believe that what seems like premonition might just be extremely advanced pattern recognition operating on such a deep level that the conscious mind can’t encompass its operation and so all the conscious mind gets is the results.
After all, adults seem like they have precognitive powers to children, when they simply have more knowledge, intelligence, and understanding of the world. Who says that stops in adulthood? Maybe some adults have an intuitive grasp of the world that is as far above the average as an adult’s is above that of a child.
Also, I have to note that when I had my dream, the events in the Signorile story had already happened. I just did not know about them yet.
So it is not so much “precognition” so much as “knowledge acquired by unusual means”.
All very mysterious. Oh well, maybe this article published today on Cracked.com about weird things that influence your dreams has the answer.
Coincidence? Yeah, probably. None of those seem to apply to my situation, after all.
But still, I do wonder what this brain of mine is plugged into sometimes.
The ways of wizards are strange indeed.