portrait by alice neel
actually, i like to forget this kind of disturbing identity dream as fast as i can. oh, i've read tons of freud, jung, and their followers, an interesting thing to do, yet i've decided most of our dreams merely practical. they integrate the trials and tribulations of the day into whatever makes up our 'self'. usually, they start pretty nasty, calming down as the night goes on.
unfortunately, i ate very sugary cookies last night and this means disaster. yes, scrooge was right, a bit of undone potato can undo you. anyway, i spent the last couple hours in andy warhol's apartment, the dump filled with drug-besotted hangers-on. andy himself drove me crazy, friendly one minute, honoring my opinions, and scathing, ironic, damaging my self-image the next. finally, i decided, after failing to be able to take a shower or find my shoes, 'i'm getting the hell out of here.'
one item disturbed me most, a young theater director who recently lost his job part of the retinue. i attempted to convince him this a bad scene. alas, all he could do was imitate warhol, even deciding he was gay and celebrating the fact. when i started to take off my clothes, all these guys stood around me salivating, eager to see my tally-whacker.. needless to say, i became very self-conscious. what was i, one of these or somebody else? down in the street, i at first simply wanted to return to that hell. then i realized my pack back and my loafers on my feet and i walked with a firm gait. ah, a dream, i knew it.
maybe it's the holidays too. yesterday at the cafe, i felt disconnected, other people unreal. not until i picked up a manga story and read a bit did i feel myself returning to this world, certainly a contradiction. oh, hell, as whitman said, 'i contradict myself, therefore i contradict myself. i contain worlds.' if only he would come to me when i need him!
these ipad drawings related: http://www.pbase.com/wwp/nf
ps. once sat behind andy warhol at the theater. white hair. faded denim. a ghost-like aura. pretty freaky.