READING the William Burroughs’ book referenced below, I notice most of his dreams are about inept travel. And I remember most of my dreams are about inept travel. Why not note them, on this blog I’ve otherwise abandoned?
Last night: A modern train or light rail system, part BART and part Disneyland monorail. Train cars are massive, empty, and of course I wind up somewhere I didn’t intend to go. It’s Vancouver, apparently the very end of the line, many miles from the city center and the water. I note the red billowing “lobster scales” around the station’s white concrete exterior. This is apparently a popular design touch, and also somehow “sustainable.” Maybe they are stylized solar panels. I take a series of escalators. It is quiet and almost pleasant—but, as always, there is a sense of unease and impending disaster.
We are in control, but I point out that this is precisely the most dangerous moment, since we can expect massive counterattacks from many quarters—CIA, KGB, Mafia, Vatican, Islam, Corporate Capitalism, the English, the Moral Majority. I propose myself as Director of Police and Counterintelligence, which will operate under one central command … no splitting into criminal, espionage, all that cross-purpose and confusion.
So this friend of mine just got a good job offer, hooray for that, and I say to him, “Good benefits and sex robots, etc.?” And he replies that the offer is a good one, but “sex robots TK,” which is editor code for “to come,” meaning, “not yet.” And so I’m wondering what kind of low-grade sex robots are offered in today’s post-worker economy and according to the Internet the answer is, “Really low-end sex robots.”
Really, the biggest obstacle to overcome here—aside from every single obligation you have to your friends, family, job, and financial future—is you.
In America the career almost invariably becomes an obsession. The ‘get-ahead’ principle, carried to such extreme, inspires our writers to enormous efforts. A new book must come out every year. Otherwise they get panicky, and the first thing you know they belong to Alcoholics Anonymous or have embraced religion or plunged headlong into some political activity with nothing but an inchoate emotionalism to bring to it or to be derived from it. I think that this stems from a misconception of what it means to be a writer or any kind of creative artist. They feel it is something to adopt in the place of actual living, without understanding that art is a by-product of existence.