(Entered in paper journal at 9:05 AM at the Tea Lounge on Union Street and 7th Avenue in Brooklyn.)
Dream 1
I was at a restaurant, probably an all-you-can-eat buffet, with two "friends," a man and a woman who looked like my friend KB's lesbian lover AN. We sat together at a booth table. The two "friends" sat across the table from me. The interior of the place was brown, woody, and leathery.
I asked the woman some question that might have put her in a position to let go of some secret she didn't want to let go of.
Now the friends were finished eating. I got so much to eat that I still wasn't done. I had one more bowl. They headed out. I figured I had enough time while they looked for the car and then brought it here that I could eat my last bowl of food.
But now I was sitting at a line of table booths that were all pushed together so a group of older folks could sit there. I was being pushed out. I hadn't finished my food. I thought I would really quickly make a sundae, then, and eat it out on the sidewalk for my friends.
I poured some not great-looking soft-serve ice cream and put on some toppings I wasn't really pleased with. Then I put on some watery, mucky chocolate syrup. I realized this syrup wasn't what I wanted, that I always make this mistake when I go to buffets. I get chocolate syrup when what I really want it hot fudge. So I looked around the ice cream buffet (which was right by one of the restaurant's yellow-stained-glass front windows) for a hot fudge dispenser.
There was something way up high, but it wasn't right somehow. I pulled my dish back down. It was momentarily a clear, Tupperware jug in which were lumps of ice cream leaning against a glass (?) bottle of some Italian syrup, the name of which was like DeCecco.
I walked along all the buffets, looking for hot fudge. I found one buffet where there were a few containers that looked like they were for hot fudge. I took my dish up there. Some of them definitely looked like they didn't work. Others were empty. I tried another, the nozzle of which was over a tub of what looked like old hot fudge diluted by melting ice cubes.
A few pretty, black waitresses stood around me, talking among themselves. I pressed down the button of the dispenser. A bunch of watery, gross stuff sprayed out of the nozzle. I moved my ice cream out of the way just in time not to get it sprayed, except possibly a tiny bit. The girls all laughed at me. I couldn't tell whether they hated me.
I shyly said, "Uh, I knew that was a XXXXX container. I'm just frustrated I can't find any hot fudge."
One of the girls may have pointed me toward another buffet. I walked toward the buffet, which was closer to the front door. I could see out the front door.
I realized now that I was too late to meet up with my friends, and all because I was obsessed with making a good sundae.
I was now in a frenzy, panicked to get out the door to catch up with my friends, even though I likely wouldn't be able to. Nevertheless, I paused a moment, not really concerned with eating, or staying in the restaurant, but rather with slowing myself down enough so that I could reflect on what feeling it is, what satisfaction I get from hot fudge, that makes ice cream seem less inconvenient to eat, and why I was so obsessed with finding that feeling.
Showing posts with label ice cream sundae. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ice cream sundae. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 1, 2017
Monday, February 11, 2013
(9/21/07) mick jagger: ice cream bully
(Entered in paper journal at 7:30 AM at Starbucks on 56th Street and Sixth Avenue in Manhattan.)
Dream #1
I may have been standing out on a lawn with a group of people. We'd finished working on some long project, which had apparently been physical, but which I then remembered as having been something like preparing for a court trial. It was like we were a jury and we had been preparing for the trial by finding the evidence ourselves.
Now either the trial was over or the evidence finding part of the trial was over and the trial was beginning. we were all relieved. This had been one of the longest times it had ever taken to find evidence. But one of us said, "Isn't there a group on the other side of the earth that has taken an even longer time?"
Our leader, a woman, said, "There is." I saw, for a moment, a photo of a group of Latin American people, mostly men, mostly wearing soccer jerseys, like soccer fans, on a sunny day out on a field like ours. The woman continued, "I'm planning on giving the people on the other side of the earth a congratulatory call and see how their trial is going right now."
We were all in a room. In the next room our trial was getting ready. The next room was dark wood, with some kind of a counter like a breakfast bar and then a kitchen area behind that. In front of the bar was the place where the jury sat. It was like a rubber doormat on a heavy, yellow, metal or plastic platform that shifted left to right as if it were on ball bearings. We could lay on the platform and watch the proceedings (in the kitchen area) as if we were watching TV.
The trial was about the murder of a little girl. The murderers might have been the little girl's parents. But at some point the trial became just a discussion of some industry, and we were all waiting around to hear one particular data point about the industry.
At some point I got bored. I walked out. I came back in just a second or two later, but the data point had already been said. My co-worker CJ had gotten it.
I now sat with a group of women right before the bar. A man who looked like Mick Jagger saw in the kitchen area. He kept handing us ice cream, sundaes, and hot fudge. The girls would eat the stuff. I kept thinking about eating it, but I didn't want to eat right now because I was scheduled to eat somewhere else shortly.
I thought, Perhaps when I go out to eat, I can by myself a sundae, maybe even a Peanut Buster Parfait. But I thought I probably wouldn't do that because that would be too many calories.
But now Mick Jagger became a lot more bullying. He insisted that I eat some of the ice cream. He even put a bowl of hot fudge in front of me and told me to eat that. He then sang a song about how I was in deep trouble if I didn't do everything he told me.
Dream #1
I may have been standing out on a lawn with a group of people. We'd finished working on some long project, which had apparently been physical, but which I then remembered as having been something like preparing for a court trial. It was like we were a jury and we had been preparing for the trial by finding the evidence ourselves.
Now either the trial was over or the evidence finding part of the trial was over and the trial was beginning. we were all relieved. This had been one of the longest times it had ever taken to find evidence. But one of us said, "Isn't there a group on the other side of the earth that has taken an even longer time?"
Our leader, a woman, said, "There is." I saw, for a moment, a photo of a group of Latin American people, mostly men, mostly wearing soccer jerseys, like soccer fans, on a sunny day out on a field like ours. The woman continued, "I'm planning on giving the people on the other side of the earth a congratulatory call and see how their trial is going right now."
We were all in a room. In the next room our trial was getting ready. The next room was dark wood, with some kind of a counter like a breakfast bar and then a kitchen area behind that. In front of the bar was the place where the jury sat. It was like a rubber doormat on a heavy, yellow, metal or plastic platform that shifted left to right as if it were on ball bearings. We could lay on the platform and watch the proceedings (in the kitchen area) as if we were watching TV.
The trial was about the murder of a little girl. The murderers might have been the little girl's parents. But at some point the trial became just a discussion of some industry, and we were all waiting around to hear one particular data point about the industry.
At some point I got bored. I walked out. I came back in just a second or two later, but the data point had already been said. My co-worker CJ had gotten it.
I now sat with a group of women right before the bar. A man who looked like Mick Jagger saw in the kitchen area. He kept handing us ice cream, sundaes, and hot fudge. The girls would eat the stuff. I kept thinking about eating it, but I didn't want to eat right now because I was scheduled to eat somewhere else shortly.
I thought, Perhaps when I go out to eat, I can by myself a sundae, maybe even a Peanut Buster Parfait. But I thought I probably wouldn't do that because that would be too many calories.
But now Mick Jagger became a lot more bullying. He insisted that I eat some of the ice cream. He even put a bowl of hot fudge in front of me and told me to eat that. He then sang a song about how I was in deep trouble if I didn't do everything he told me.
Monday, November 12, 2012
(10/18/09) a mcdonald's sundae; corpse chute
(Entered in paper journal at 7:43 AM at Sit & Wonder cafe in Brooklyn.)
Dream #1
I was either in a plane or in a car that drove on a high overpass over the industrial area of a city like Denver. My old boss BS was driving the plane/car. One other person was in the plane/car, possibly my younger brother. I sat in the backseat, on the driver's side. The other person was possibly in the front, passenger seat.
BS was taking us somewhere, as if we had to be with him, not as prisoner, but as wards of some kind. BS told us, after one of us had expressed some misgivings about our well-being, that he would give us everything we needed, and even everything we wanted. That seemed fine to me, although I felt like it might be going a little overboard to give me everything I wanted.
BS saw a McDonald's down below. He exited the overpass. Our movement was steep, just like we'd been flying and were now descending sharply through the air, as well as driving down a highway exit ramp.
We were now in the drive-thru for the McDonald's. BS ordered one ice cream cone, for himself. The other person in the car acted happy, as if we, too, were going to get ice cream cones. But BS said he had stopped here to get an ice cream cone only for himself. That was fine with me, as we had, I remembered, just eaten a big meal. The other person was disappointed.
But BS realized what he had just done. He wasn't giving us everything we needed and wanted. He said, "Well, actually, I can get you guys each a sundae. Would you like that? A sundae?" I imagined a McDonald's hot fudge sundae, in a clear plastic sundae cup. I thought that a sundae was really too much.
Dream #2
I stood down in a weird place, like some area in an industrial warehouse. There were a lot of chutes like gigantic air shafts, which sloped down to the floor, forming walls for a small room. The gigantic shafts all had flaps at their ends. The floor of this "room" had boxes, packing materials, styrofoam, plastic, and paper scattered all over the place. And beyond the shafts, piles of the same refuse could be seen, as if this were part of a large trash heap or garbage dump.
I stood with a few other people, co-workers, but younger than I by a few years. One of the people may have stood at a podium with something like a computer which recorded the items we retrieved from the shafts, as if the shafts were chutes for sending or receiving packages or other items.
But now women somewhere were being killed, and the bodies were being sent down the shafts. We received a few of the bodies. We tried to figure whether we could do anything to stop the person who was killing these women. That may have been why we were receiving the bodies: to figure out the mystery and stop the deaths. Or perhaps the killer was personally sending us the bodies, to taunt us.
Now we received a particularly grotesquely mutilated body. It lay in the chute. Either I or a woman who was like my mother (or, perhaps, I myself as a woman who was like my mother) opened the flap of the shaft just enough to see the body. I or the woman quickly closed the flap again.
Everybody asked if we were going to take the body out. But either I or the woman decided the body was in too repulsive a state for everybody else to see. Either I or the woman sharply said, "No. Keep this door closed. I'll take care of this one when everybody else is gone."
Dream #1
I was either in a plane or in a car that drove on a high overpass over the industrial area of a city like Denver. My old boss BS was driving the plane/car. One other person was in the plane/car, possibly my younger brother. I sat in the backseat, on the driver's side. The other person was possibly in the front, passenger seat.
BS was taking us somewhere, as if we had to be with him, not as prisoner, but as wards of some kind. BS told us, after one of us had expressed some misgivings about our well-being, that he would give us everything we needed, and even everything we wanted. That seemed fine to me, although I felt like it might be going a little overboard to give me everything I wanted.
BS saw a McDonald's down below. He exited the overpass. Our movement was steep, just like we'd been flying and were now descending sharply through the air, as well as driving down a highway exit ramp.
We were now in the drive-thru for the McDonald's. BS ordered one ice cream cone, for himself. The other person in the car acted happy, as if we, too, were going to get ice cream cones. But BS said he had stopped here to get an ice cream cone only for himself. That was fine with me, as we had, I remembered, just eaten a big meal. The other person was disappointed.
But BS realized what he had just done. He wasn't giving us everything we needed and wanted. He said, "Well, actually, I can get you guys each a sundae. Would you like that? A sundae?" I imagined a McDonald's hot fudge sundae, in a clear plastic sundae cup. I thought that a sundae was really too much.
Dream #2
I stood down in a weird place, like some area in an industrial warehouse. There were a lot of chutes like gigantic air shafts, which sloped down to the floor, forming walls for a small room. The gigantic shafts all had flaps at their ends. The floor of this "room" had boxes, packing materials, styrofoam, plastic, and paper scattered all over the place. And beyond the shafts, piles of the same refuse could be seen, as if this were part of a large trash heap or garbage dump.
I stood with a few other people, co-workers, but younger than I by a few years. One of the people may have stood at a podium with something like a computer which recorded the items we retrieved from the shafts, as if the shafts were chutes for sending or receiving packages or other items.
But now women somewhere were being killed, and the bodies were being sent down the shafts. We received a few of the bodies. We tried to figure whether we could do anything to stop the person who was killing these women. That may have been why we were receiving the bodies: to figure out the mystery and stop the deaths. Or perhaps the killer was personally sending us the bodies, to taunt us.
Now we received a particularly grotesquely mutilated body. It lay in the chute. Either I or a woman who was like my mother (or, perhaps, I myself as a woman who was like my mother) opened the flap of the shaft just enough to see the body. I or the woman quickly closed the flap again.
Everybody asked if we were going to take the body out. But either I or the woman decided the body was in too repulsive a state for everybody else to see. Either I or the woman sharply said, "No. Keep this door closed. I'll take care of this one when everybody else is gone."
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