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Berry Dance

Dreamed 2009/12/17 by Wayan


I pick up my sister Althea at the airport and take her to my mom's. Feel the tension between them; I leave as soon as I can. Go home drained.

Gordon B, a dream-contributor to the World Dream Bank, emails me about my furry orientation. He thinks it's a perverse obsession; thinks San Francisco numbs one to immorality. Startles me. I'd put it just the other way round. Big cities teach you tolerance about your own obsessive phases as well as others'. So you get over them faster--or learn they're you.

Write to an acquaintance at Somarts Gallery, asking her advice about showing my dream art. My housemate Cory comes up and pushes me: "Quit rewriting it and hit the SEND button!" I do, then shower off the smell of fear. I've lost my shyness when I'm helping others, but it's back full strength when I ask for me, whether it's about sex, money, career advice... Still, I asked.

Dusk. Thai dinner with my housemates Cory and Lily, and our visiting friends Beth (art teacher) and Winifred (artist). Loud hilarity. A curious aftertalk with Cory, mulling over the difference between shamans--all about encounter--and wizards, scientists and priests, all of whom work by rules and are about control.


Ask my dreams for advice. Now that I've asked a pro about placing my art, what to do next? Tall thin painting of a dream by Chris Wayan. In a ruined city, my kidnapper says 'Sorry, kid, but here, it's crime or minimum wage.' The dreaded golden arches are in the distance. But I slide down the Berry Chute into the secret strawberry juicing plant. In the Juice Room, girl engineers dance and slide giant strawberries up their go-go dresses. Might as well join them.


A depressed slummy town crawling with gangs, mostly black.. One day, a sheltered white boy about 5 years old strays out onto the street. His well-meaning parents taught him not to fear or prejudge young black men; but in this town, his lack of racial paranoia endangers him! Goes right up to a gang on the corner--and is promptly taken.

I join the hunt for him, but soon the gang takes me too, and one or two others. A few gangsters have semiautomatics. A rival gang appears. Shots fired, though maybe in the air; no one falls, at least. Lots of verbal threats. The leader of our kidnappers says "I haven't decided yet if we'll kill this batch, rape 'em, or see how much they're worth."

I engineer a distraction, and the boy, now seeming older, 8-10, runs through a door-frame into a park and somehow vanishes! The gang follows-the leader orders us all to look for a treasure the boy had; he may have tossed it as he fled. The park has little underbrush so hiding it seems unlikely. But it's all ridges and hollows--whole areas hidden unless you fan out and search. They do, despite the risk of losing more of us hostages. Even the gangsters' faces are visibly relieved their volatile, dangerous leader is focused on a treasure hunt now, not violence. So he often turns it on them, does he?

We reach a strange hollow where a clear tarp covers lumps in a grid. Fruit? Yes. They're a kind of unripe strawberry. End of the season. But left under a tarp to sun, they can ripen.

Here I slip underground, down the berry chute...

... into the strawberry processing plant! It's all automated. Clear plastic tubes and conveyerbelts pull nearly-ripe berries into a blender. A twentyish girl is the plant's sole technician. She has a heart-shape face (dare I say strawberry-shaped?), a tiny full-lipped berry of a mouth, a huge shaggy mop of hair (no, not strawberry blonde: chestnut brown), and a screaming strawberry sixties-style minidress. She's like a Junko Mizuno cartoon come to life.

As the strawbs pour down, she joyfully dances the Strawberry Dance, whirling around and pulling up her skirt and rubbing her strawberry-red cunt with, of course, a huge red berry. The plant's round Mod control room glows go-go pink and I get turned on despite the silliness. I hear happy moans and turn to see other women in theater seats watching, wiggling, playing with their pussies. Big strawberries slide in and out. I lose all shyness about masturbating now. As long as it's the proper thing. Stick a giant strawberry on the end of it. Just call me Hieronymus Bosch!

But will any of these girls like sex WITH me, not just AROUND me? Well, one step at a time! At least I'm out of Guy Land. That place was grim.


Close-up of painting of a dream by Chris Wayan. In a ruined city, my kidnapper says 'Sorry, kid, but here, it's crime or minimum wage.' In the distance, the dreaded golden arches. Close-up of painting of a dream by Chris Wayan. In the Juice Room, girl engineers dance and slide giant strawberries up their go-go dresses. Click to enlarge.

Painting by Wayan; acrylic on wood, 52" by 16" (135 x 41 cm)

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