Dream Log: Lost in Germany, Then Concerned About a Cat

Last night I dreamed I was lost in an unfamiliar part of Germany. For some reason I had left all of my money behind somewhere else. It was the middle of the night and I was exhausted. I was walking on a patch of grass which narrowed down to a wedge where two busy streets merged. I was so tired that I almost laid down right there on the grass to sleep; instead, I turned around, and saw a building which looked like it might be part of a university. White neon images of a 19th-century German poet and his most famous line flickered on and off in various places on the side of the building. I couldn't remember the poet's name. His famous line was familiar to me in the dream. German people were always quoting it with great enthusiasm, but I didn't understand what was so great about it.

I went into the building, went up a broad flight of stairs and came upon a large dark room in which many people were sitting on folding chairs. It was still not clear whether this was a university, or some sort of headquarters of a political party, or something else. The gathering did seem to resemble a casual sort of academic class. I took a seat near the edge of the room as quietly as I could, but the woman seated near the edge of the room, who would've been the teacher it this was a class, turned to me and asked, "And you? How would you describe fame?"

I answered in German that I didn't have any definitions of fame to offer other than the everyday usual ones. The woman didn't say anything more to me, just turned away with a slightly disappointed air and continued the discussion with the others.

After the class, or the discussion or whatever it was, after it wrapped up, I got the feeling that all of the others, although it seemed that most or all of them were Germans, had been speaking in English. I wasn't completely sure about it, but I think the discussion had been all in English except for my brief contribution in German. I wondered whether the woman had been disappointed in whole or in part because I had spoken in English. (I have seen many discussion on Facebook which were mostly or all in English even though the participants were mostly or all Germans.)

As people were getting up to leave, I said that I was in a predicament, lost with no money. I thought it couldn't hurt to say this, and that maybe someone would offer me a couch for the night.

Instead, I learned that, whatever else this building was or wasn't, it also provided communal living for anyone who showed up. The people in the room were going to another large room, this one filled with beds. I was welcome to sleep there.

I woke up the next morning and saw that my clothes were not where I had left them, on a little shelving unit next to my bed. It seems that they had been gathered up, like everyone else's clothes, to be communally laundered. The other people were picking out clean outfits from big piles of clean clothes.

The only thing I had had with me the night before which had been really important to me was an amulet. It contained precious metal and a large jewel. I could have sold it for badly-needed money, but it was priceless to me because it had been given to me by a woman whom I held in great esteem. I carried it on a chain, in the key pocket of my blue jeans, with the other end of the chain fastened to my belt loop. All I saw on the shelf beside my bed was that chain.

I went to the piles of clothes and picked out some pants and a flannel shirt and some socks. I came back to my bed, and now I saw that on a lower shelf there were the sneakers I had been wearing the night before. One of the sneakers was stuffed with the kind of paper with which new shoes are often stuffed. I took this paper out and saw that the amulet had been put into the toe of the shoe. I put the amulet back onto its chain. The pants I was wearing had no key pocket, so I put the amulet into one of the chest pockets of the flannel shirt, and fastened the other end of the chain to one of the shirt's buttonholes.

Then I was on a steep hillside in a forest of birches, with strong sunlight shining down between the trees. I was holding a full-grown cat in my arms and it was purring. I climbed down the hill; at its foot, a multi-lane road full of fast-moving traffic intersected the forest. On the near side of the road was a Porsche dealership. On the near side of the dealership, where it was still woodsy, there were several other cats. My cat began to struggle to get loose of me. I let it go -- then, I became worried, because my cat, unlike the others, was unfamiliar with this place. I was worried that it might wander into the Porsche dealership's lot, or into the road, and be run over.

Then I woke up.

How to Write

1. Find a smooth and empty surface such as the pages of a new notebook, or one of those empty rectangles on the Internet, or a wall of polished marble, or a volleyball, etc.

2. Find something suitable for making marks on that empty surface, such as a pen or pencil, or a computer keyboard, or a hammer and chisel, or a magic marker or whatever.

3. Scribble and scribble and scribble on that empty surface until you are very tired.

4. Play with cats to help you cope with the heavy workload and restore your energy.

5. The next day, and the day after that, and the day after that and so forth, repeat steps 1 through 4.

6. Repeat step 5 until you are rich and famous. (If you actually enjoy writing or otherwise feel somehow compelled to do it, you may continue writing even after this point.)

There are billions and billions of books which claim to tell you how to write, but what they actually attempt to tell you -- or what they claim to attempt to tell you in the cases where their authors don't actually care about you or your writing career and just want to sell books by exploiting your hopes and dreams, which might actually be almost all the cases -- is how to write well.

The thing is, people almost never agree about who writes well and who doesn't, which makes even those books written by people who actually care, worthless -- with one exception:



How to Write, by Gertrude Stein. This book is exceptional quite simply because, as everyone who has ever been anyone heartily agrees, Ms Stein wrote exceptionally well. Sistah came from Oakland back when there was no there there, and didn't play. Anyone who says she didn't write exceptionally well is probably either an innocent oaf or a very bad person who perhaps will try to sell you a worthless book or swampland in Florida. Watch out for the bad ones, and warn everyone you know, and strangers too!

I Am A Tiny Kitten

Clearly, some people don't see this. Some call me "Big Dog," but in reality, all stretched out in a catlike stretch, front paws to back paws, I'm barely as long as a big dog's paws are wide. When I meow it's barely audible, that's how small I am. In a strong person's hands I'm featherlike. I'm just saying, please keep in mind how fragile I am. I'm helpless. I'm at your mercy. I hope you have some.

Like all cats, I am an alien from outer space. So there's the answer to that question: No, you are not alone. We are among you and we are friendly. We mean you no harm. Take me to your leader -- no, wait, don't do that right now. Impeach your leader and remove him from office. Then I'll wait for the other guy to serve out the rest of the four years and have his party get trounced in the elections. Then, take me to your black lesbian wheelchair-bound Communist leader, the one who will convert the US to over 80% solar and wind power in her first 3 months in office, triple taxes on millionaires and give guaranteed incomes to the (up-until-then) poor. That's the leader I want you to take me to, not this scary clown. Wow, I'm tired of him. Surely even Republicans will eventually be tired of him. How many are waking up and going, "Hey... ?!" right at this minute, as it begins to penetrate their thick skulls how badly they're being shafted? How many are shafters rather than shaft-ees, and were never really fooled, but are beginning to feel a strange, uncomfortable emotion creeping over them? (The emotion is what you and I would call "shame." They've been unfamiliar with it until now.)

We're not ultra-intelligent, we're not judging you and testing you and reporting back to some inter-galactic council. In fact, we crash-landed on Earth a long time ago and have completely forgotten how we made our spacecraft. Sorry. Except for being cute I guess we're pretty useless. But we're very cute, let's face it, I'm just saying.

Meow meow meow, meow meow meow meow meow. Meow meow. I'm just a tiny little kitten.

"KITTIES ARE NICE!" (Comedy Sketch)

TALK SHOW HOST: Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight's musical guest are a band that formed 25 years ago in Tacoma, Washington. There were one of the original Seattle grunge bands, and they're here to perform the title track from their 20th album, Kitties Are Nice. Please welcome Logjam!

(LOGJAM launch into a hard rocker, lotsa guitar feedback, nasty bass and drums. They're just a little bit too macho and grim-faced. Like Pearl Jam,



but even more so. In fact, if Pearl Jam want to play Logjam, that'd be perfect. The lyrics to the song "Kitties Are Nice" are just the three words "Kitties are nice" repeated a few times. The lead singer sings "Kitties are niiiiiiiiiiii...iiice," and other band members join in and harmonize during the word "nice." After the song crashes to its end, Logjam grimly put down their instruments and walk over to the host, shake his hand and the hands of his sidekick and the other guest who hung around and take their seats.)

HOST (to BAND MEMBER #1, LEAD SINGER) : That's an unusual song! Is it literally about cats, or should listeners be looking for symbolic meanings in the lyrics?

(The instant the host begins to speak to the singer, the personalities of all the band members change from those of brooding alt-rockers to those of squirming toddlers.)

BAND MEMBER #1: Kitties are nice!

(Band members begin to fidget, and to softly grunt and squeal at the thought of nice kitties.)

HOST: ... Okay! (Turning to BAND MEMBER #2) : Todd, you've written most of the lyrics to Logjam's songs, and on this albums you wrote all the words. Up until this album a lot of the songs have been pretty wordy, going into some details about themes like environmentalism and political oppression and sexual exploitation. On this album, all of the songs have lyrics which are either three or four words long, and are identical to each song's title: "Kitties Are Nice," "I Wike Wittle Kittehs," "Look at dah Kitteh!"

and so forth. What brought about this sudden change in approach?

BAND MEMBER #2 (at first reacts with the bug-eyed and hunched-shouldered demeanor of a toddler who's been startled by something unfamiliar and alarming; then he relaxes a bit and exclaims: ) I like kittehs!

(The fidgeting and ecstatic, kitty-besotted grunting and squealing of all of the band members steadily increases.)

BAND MEMBER #3: I have a kitteh named Alice!

BAND MENBER #4 (shouts, but it's muted because he's not miked) : Alice is a vereh nice kitteh!

(Emphatic squeals of agreement from the other band members. From here to the end of the sketch, the squealing and fidgeting and arm-waiving and interjected shouts about how kittehs are nice and how the band members like kittehs and like to pet them and how Alice is vereh nice and so forth only continue to increase.)

BAND MEMBER #3: Alice is vereh friendly. If you sit on my sofa Alice will jump up onto the arm of the sofa and purr and rub you with the top of her head. After you pet her for a while she will settle down onto the arm of the sofa. And then you can very gently rest your forearm along her back so that your fingers can pet her head. And... And when you do this... Her tail will flick back and forth against your chest and shoulder and upper arm... And... AND IT TICKLES!

(At this point all of the band members completely lose what little composure they have left. Some are rocking back and forth and moaning softly. Some fall off of their seats and roll around on the floor.)

HOST (is staring open-mouthed at them. With a visible effort he composes himself, turns to the camera and says) : Folks, we're going to take a short break. When we return, George Smith of the San Diego Zoo is going to bring out some baby koalas.

(At the mention of baby koalas the band members become still more animated with pleasure.)

Immediately Rejected by the Huffington Post Moderation:

"Ah haz a nicens kitteh. She iz ver ver nice. She iz making ah kittteh kwassant in the couch right now. Squeeee!"