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The Chris Chandler Show

  • Dreams/ Ragpickers (9:01)

    Pocket Call From My Dreams
    by Chris Chandler

    I got a pocket call from my dreams.
    I hadn’t heard from them in a while - and clearly they didn’t mean to call.
    I said, "hello,"  and all I could hear was their muffled voices on the other end of the line - clearly talking to someone else.  It was hard to make out what they were saying, but then again my dreams have always been hard to interpret.

    I stepped into a quiet place where I could listen - I mean how often do you get to eavesdrop on your own dreams.
    They seemed to be in a bar - talking with the dreams of others.
    Who were these dreams MY dreams were hanging out with?

    It seemed to be one of those seedy bars packed with the questionable company of unfulfilled dreams, delusions, illusions of grandeur, and this one arrogant bastard, intoxicated off the smell of his own musk, brandishing a handgun, and calling himself the American Dream.

    All of whom were of course making fun of me…

    arguing with my subconscious…

    "Sure he likes to lie in an open field of soft grass while building castles in the clouds, but once he is done - he still feels like a serf staring up at his tower of dreams that he’ll never see the inside of."

    He doesn't respect us I tell ya…  He doesn’t take us seriously... He tries to restrict our individuality saying things like, "If we all had the SAME dream - then maybe our dreams would begin to become a realty -
    I mean what are we? Just because we’re dreams doesn't mean we aren't real.”

    Martin Luther King had a dream on the mountain.  Was he really on a mountain?  Did he really have a dream?
    Did that make it any less real?

    One of my dreams offered to buy this one hot little wet dream a drink - but when he reached for his wallet - it turns out he’d been pickpocketed. Someone pickpockets my fantasy! I must have been a very bad dream.

    But that sweet little wet dream didn’t miss a beat. She just smiled and said, "Don't worry, Baby if giving is better than receiving than wanting is better than having."

    Turns out, she was just another pipe dream,

    And with that she mounted the mighty mare of misconception and rode off.

    One man’s High Horse is another man’s Night Mare.

    At the end of the bar, there was this one dream, wretched, miserable and lonely.  Another lost dream lost in a tavern full of other lost dreams.  Naturally, my dreams sat down beside him for they have always gravitated towards lost causes.

    Turns out, he had once been a champion. A great dream. In fact a dreamer.

    But then he realized that the thing that sucks about having good ideas is that hard work will soon follow.
    And what self respecting dream desires mountains of hard work?

    Perhaps that is why he was suffering from Pre Traumatic Stress Disorder.

    My dreams descended down the bar,  a long smokey cavern -  lots of glittery lights, busty barkeeps, and really tired muzak.

    Yes, my dreams were in a casino.

    All of my lost dreams were there…They sometimes like to gamble.

    Your dreams gamble?
    Is nothing sacred?

    Sure, but if nothing is sacred - what does that make everything?

    My lost dreams were sitting in front of slot machines, cigarettes hanging out of their mouths – pissing away what little they have left into another discontented dream.

    Which is why when they pulled the one armed bandit of alternative realities… I hear this over the phone… the sound of an landslide of gold coins cascading into the tiny purses of little old ladies.

    I took some of the winnings and purchased a GPS for my lost dreams...

    Which just kept saying over and over “Recalculating. Recalculating. Recalculating.”
    Still... there were more bells...
    ... confetti rained from the sky... there was a balloon drop... trumpets herald their fortunes… bells… whistles alarms… buzzers… buzzers… buzzers…
    That’s no slot machine - its my alarm clock…! The dream is over …. unless…
    Well, what would you do?

    I have no choice… I throw it across the room and the alarm clock shatters into a million pieces.
    or maybe I just mashed the snooze button - I sometimes mistake my imagination for my memory.
    I pull the covers over my head, and as soon as I do…
    There are all my dreams dancing.. hands reaching up to an iridescent sky, chanting, calling down the Gods.. Their faces were painted blue – and they were naked
    (and believe me, MY seeing naked dreams is not a pretty sight)

    Yes, It was a nightmare…
    My dreams were…
    were… on a vision quest!

    They are singing in twelve part harmony…
    "In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight!"
    All I am thinking is. "If you people don't stop singing that Wemowah Crap you're gonna wake the lion up!"
    No, no! – That’s no vision quest… My alarm clock was set to radio – and one thing’s for sure…  
    I have to stop listening to NPR!

    I knew if I mashed the snooze button one more time I would be crossing the thin line between genius and insanity… only I wasn’t sure in which direction… and like I always say, “when in doubt… mash the snooze button.
    Afterall we dreamers are only happy when we are asleep.
    but as soon as I did.

    I found my dreams in prisoned. A crowd had gathered outside chanting, “Free the Dreams Free the Dreams.”
    They implored me to act - and I said, “Yes, great minds think alike.”

    But they chided back, “No, actually average minds think alike.”

    I said, “If I knew all the answers, I’d have a whole lotta questions.”

    With that the ground began to tremble... as if... a giant earthquake were tearing down the prison walls... or no... my cell phone was set to vibrate... I was waking up... I pick it up, and answer it.. It was a pocket call.

    I received a pocket call from my dreams.
    or perhaps, It was a wake up call.