BREAK THE SCRIPT
Dreamed 1993/6/19 by Chris Wayan
I'm watching a TV show on the Paris cafe scene circa 1900, with Picasso, Rousseau and so on. Just before I go to sleep, my friend Fred from dance class calls. We get to talking about dating, and he says "Just because there's no word for your sexual difference from other men, you think it's in your head, and if you just learned some little social skill you'd be ordinary. You won't. You're psychologically and sexually different, and I bet you were from childhood. Accept it. You have no choice."
Walk up the hill to the top... a sort of conveyer belt carries people on from here. I sit on it and let it carry me up across a terrace with a low wall where people stare out at the view. Nice, but not stunning--we can see southern San Francisco, from City College to the Blue Tower in McLaren Park.
Behind us is a small rocky cone, the hill's summit. Usually it's snow-capped but the heat wave melted it: Mt. Everest! Wow, if it's bare, everything probably is. I feel disppointed: this is the highest mountain on Earth, so this is the most spectacular view, as high as it gets...
Giselle from dance class (who I have a crush on) spots me and walks alongside the belt. She asks "How are you--still hiding from people?"
"Yes." I say, sadly and uncomfortably. And let the belt carry me on away from her... away from here. The hurt grows inside as I realize how true my answer was. I can't seem to change...
NOTES NEXT MORNING
Dusk. A warm night. We're riding through junkyards on a railroad flatcar: me, two strange women, and my friend Mark. San Francisco is lit up weirdly: sulfury yellow glows around Civic Center, the Haight, one other district. A big carnival... Between the lit-up districts, a huge building stands... wrapped in gold paper! Notice how much fine architecture there is in the SF skyline. And how just a few big cheap boxes can spoil it! If they were lower than the elevated freeway so they didn't block the view, even they'd be tolerable. They're scattered through the city, not in one place. I wonder now if this IS the City; it's not on the Bay, but straddling a big river in a wide valley. Could this really be Portland?
Mark retreats into the dusk at the far end of the car--he wants to sit alone with the view. It's just me and the two women. They explain they're androids! Prove it too. The black-haired one won't talk much but she effortlessly lifts me like a doll, though I'm bigger than she is. The other, a wild-haired blonde in beat-up cut-off Levis, is definitely the leader. They're both sexy, intelligent, and horny.
They share me. I have no trouble fucking them both, in fact after three orgasms I'm still excited, not tired at all. Surprised at such stamina, but grateful for it.
The main difference I see between them and organic women is their matter-of-fact attitude--HUMOR about being robotic. Humans are so squeamish about the racial issue! One teases me about their strength: I ask "how come you're leaning out so far, off the flatcar?" I couldn't even do it. She snickers "Lookin' ahead for a place to throw you off." Doesn't. But could! That strong.
Train goes south to...? My parents' house? Unsure. We have a script and it says we soon must part: our mad affair was doomed to be brief. I meet the blonde, kiss her one last time... and we can't stop, our attraction's too strong, despite the script. I pet her and she me, already I'm hard again, as we rub legs, entwined... and we fuck again, standing up. Nibble on her. Mmmmm, just can't quit. Screw the script!
I'm writing and drawing all this. Her last words of advice to me before I wake are particularly heartening... I try to write them down, but find it's red cloth not white paper. I've been cartooning dreams! Look for a pen or marker bold enough to show on the deep red, but only find pale green and yellow--and they're washable. I need indelible, for (as she warned me) "As you wake, the cloth will go through the Brain Wash, so the traces'll fade... unless you use indelible black!"
The Brain Wash = dream amnesia. I keep getting good advice in my dreams but when I wake it fades in the face of my brainwashing... It may not be biochemistry that causes dreamnesia--this dream hints our habitual programming MAKES us forget, to censor subversive ideas and images... and flat-out advice.
Much of the digital art on this site really was done in Deluxepaint, now an out-of-date, orphaned, but still ergonomic program designed by an artist. Its pages just don't look like Photoshop work. I urge all serious digital artists: master SOME program other than Photoshop (or customize it heavily)--or your stuff will look like everyone else's! Programs decide what's easy and what's hard, and that unconsciously shapes your art more than you know.
You need to notice the script to break the script.
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