8.06.06, The Trumpet and the Penis

[Franky Scale for Aug 7th somewhere in the high 6s; much better with no chemo drugs, more appetite too: also, met with old high school friend M.M. who seemed to find it hard to believe I'm as "sick" as I am, which I'm taking as a good sign. -Mr. J]

[Let me forewarn you about this post: First, it's an old dream, not recent. Second, it might be rated R, or by today’s rating system it might only be a PG-13, but if graphics were included I would qualify for NC-17. Among other things, it has “mature content” and the actual word “penis” occurs several times. And to think I’m going to post it on a Sunday. I figure it such a classic anxiety-cum-fear-of-castration dream that it really cannot but be shared in a public forum; also, the blog needs some levity before we all turn to stone, so here it is. Geographically disparate groves of stone trolls, grin-less, squatting, brooding over how inappropriate cancer is. Rrghh.

Franky Scale: Blah, kind of a 5 to 6, never really got going today, until I found the Penis Dream, that is.]


“Trumpet and Penis Dream”

First, I find myself in rural Utah, in farmland, in as much as some parts of Southern Utah can be called that despite how they differ from traditional farms. At a small high school in this place, about to go on stage and play the trumpet (which I do not play) — part of a larger musical number. Not just to play but I had to play with gloves on, these old black-and white cross-country ski gloves I have. — While I’m waiting to go on stage and play the trumpet, standing behind a low dividing wall that backed itself on the last row of seats, I looked to my right and my father was standing there — he didn’t even speak to me, though he must’ve driven for several hours at least to get there, to see me playing, presumably, the trumpet with gloves on.

Another place in the countryside now, five or six hours from my “home” — this term, just an index — no idea where, & I, someone else and I, a male friend . . . a . . . — no, it was R.P. [female]. The two of us had traveled here by hot air balloon. I go into the bathroom to pee and R. comes in, looks at what I’m doing, looks at my penis, kind of laughs at the oddity of the situation, but in a nice, playful way, and then I commence peeing. To my chagrin, however, my penis then tears off.

Seems it was attached not lower but where my belly button is, no where my belly button usually is, so I have a hole in my stomach at my belly button, painful as fuck and bleeding. I look down into my hand and can see the inside of the base of my cock — it’s torn off, right — the erectile tissue (apparently I was semi-erect when it tore off) looks like shell pasta that’s been overcooked. To say the least, this freaks me out — so I put it back, against the hole in my lower abdomen, trying to line up the torn areas of skin just right. Round peg, square hole; oval peg . . . Then I leave this place, kind of a rest-stop-type of bathroom, and head to a small broken-down off-white one-room store, in a two- or three-room building. I say nothing because I figured when the plane would come, this had been arranged apparently, to pull our air-balloon cage back into the air (we needed a pull-start, like starting a manual-transmission car on a slope) I would keep holding my penis there, stuck on, then go to a hospital in Salt Lake perhaps.

Nothing worked out in the store so I went back outside with R. to the barnyard area below the rest-room where we were “parked.” We’d have to sleep outside in the bitter cold, and because I didn’t want to bother anyone, I’m still holding my penis on, bleeding to death, losing my mind, and freezing to boot. What a night.

In the night, somehow, I found myself downstairs in what I thought was the one-room store place. Also there were a father and son who were playing with a video camera and speaking to each other in Russian. The father was filming the son, and I was seated behind the boy. From there I could see a bookshelf, inset, full of Russian books behind the boy the camera and the father.

A call came for me, from a Korean. So in the end, I’m standing in the store looking out a window onto a sort of farmyard, speaking Korean with someone on the phone, and my dick is probably lost forever. Then I began to write.