If I want to write about looking for a girlfriend or wife, or how I once had love and lost it, I’ll write about it. If I want to write about the size of mouse testicles or the existence of baby pigeons, I’ll write about it. I’ve been censoring myself too much lately and I’m not sure why. I think I’ve been worried about what certain people might think. That’s the worst form of self censorship.
So enough of that crap, I’m getting back to writing about what means something to me. And now, I give you my dream.
I recently wrote a poem about those devilish squirrels chewing a hole in my air conditioner. I curse those squirrels and their incessant gnawing and foraging. They must have been on my brain as I slept because during a very pleasant dream in which I won the Powerball lottery I heard a noise. Now here’s where things get strange, I went to investigate the noise, expecting a squirrel to lunge out from behind the couch, brandishing a knife or a chainsaw, wearing a little hockey mask or a mask made from the pelts of other squirrels (Ahhh! Peltface!). But my dream self found nothing in my dreamy living room.
I looked down to my left and there it was; a god damn Pigeon strutting around my apartment. My immediate thought was, “You mother fucker. How the fuck did you get in here”. To which the pigeon only cooed. Apparently I swear quite a lot in my fucking dreams. I was very angry about this pigeon. I had forgotten about the whole squirrel invasion thing and was focused and furious with the appearance of the pigeon. I grabbed it by the neck and tried to strangle the hell out of it. But to my amazement, the pigeon started fighting back and was biting the hell out of my hand with his beak. I couldn’t get the right grasp on him and he continued to slash away at the exposed skin of my left hand.
I woke up and checked my hand. Thankfully all my fingers were intact. I looked at the clock on the dresser and it was nearly 2:00 in the morning. There were no maniacal cooing sounds coming from the front room, no purrs of a tiny chainsaw. I then remember that I had won the lottery in my dream and I was having a nice time of it and was annoyed I let the pigeon ruin it for me. I’m not sure why my robot monkey butler didn’t take care of the pigeon for me. That thing is headed for the dreamland scrap heap unless he starts performing up to snuff.
So it wasn’t until I got to work that I realized it was squirrels I hated, not pigeons. Not that I’m all that fond of pigeons, they are the New Yorkers of birds I think. They won’t get out of your way, they crap on everything and would eat you if they could. (I think that was a play in Central Park once.)
So back to censorship, I won’t be stopping my brain from these types of flights of fancy anymore. I’m going to try and just let the words flow out of me like drool from the corners of a Yak’s mouth. (See…. You imagined that and shuddered a bit.)
Mouse testicles? Maybe a little censorship is okay.