CHELSEA AND THE PRESIDENTIAL COMPLEX
Dreamed 1999/12/25 by Chris Wayan
At my gym in central San Francisco, the hot tub is outdoors in an old parking lot, a pocket wilderness of cracked asphalt, fennel seven feet high, and pigeons. One day, I'm sitting in the tub with my sister Miriel and a skinny boy with a twisted body and a bad leg. A thin birdlike girl with long black hair climbs in with us. She's cute. We get to talking. Her name's Yuki. At last, she and I get out, wrap ourselves in towels, and walk east together along a narrow, chainlink-fenced lane to a courtyard with a security gate. President Clinton walks out and smiles at me in passing. It's the Presidential Complex!
An attractive young Asian woman's on duty at the gate; she's not just polite but warm. Asks apologetically for my ID card, but shows me hers to make up for it. My card says I'm Chelsea Clinton! I can't believe this is right, and expect her to arrest me, but she looks at my face, smiles, and waves me through. I look down at myself, bewildered. This must be pretty good drag make-up. Only it isn't. My skinny arms are thicker, and my skin is sleeker, my hips are wider. My hair is long and curly. I peek into the towel. I have breasts. I AM Chelsea! Or her twin. And I feel comfortable being Chelsea, happier inside my skin than in my usual body. Feel sexy, centered, and right.
Now I recall that I've been going to UC Berkeley not Stanford, and recently I ran for city council. I lost to a football-playing frat boy! I couldn't believe that Berkeleyans would choose him over me. I wonder if my dad's sex scandals dragged me down. Negative coattails! I intend to try again. And again. Till I get it right. I AM a Clinton. We don't give up and roll over!
I talk with someone who tells me "the girl washing bottles has the best intuition." As a political kid, I know the bottles refer to that incident years ago when Beijing students threw little bottles out their dorm windows to show what they thought should be done to leader Deng Xiaoping (xiao ping = "little bottle.") The bottle washer's in the yard here in the presidential compound yard, at a big concrete sink, up to her elbows in suds, washing out the bottles. Of what? For what? She says it involves long reels of tape--erasing Nixon tapes? Who knows? I tell my friend "That bottle business reminds me of the early Nazis, when they were recruiting via the Hitler Youth. Looks as innocent as Boy Scouts, but look where it led."
I "wake" and want to draw the hot tub scene, but changed, jammed with ALL the cute women in the dream, including that nice gate-guard, and of course me as Chelsea, and of course the mysterious Bottle-Washer. But without thinking about it, I plan to insert this scene right in the middle of a dream I've already drawn, called, Bonk Veronica--and to make room for the hot tub picture, I'll remove the scenes set in Anorexic Boot Camp! The core of the dream! I'm casually planning to eviscerate my own story!
Sexy or not, this image doesn't belong in that dream-story. I could ruin it. What am I doing?
Then I wake again. My dream was warning me I may misuse the dream if I draw it!
So I only write it...
and stare at it, confused.
Bottles? Hot tubs? Negative coattails? Now what?
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