Friday, December 3, 2010

The Snake Could Have Been Me

I Interpret The Snake Dream
I came up with somewhat of an interpretation of the dream that I had the previous night.
I was sitting in the Church Street Graveyard, meditating and clearing my mind the way Carlos Santana said that he does, in the songwriter's on Songwriting book, which I am in the middle of reading, when, along came Thomas.
This was cool, because he had already asked me for a cigarette, and hence knew that I had none. He still chose to be a true friend and sit with me for a while.
During our conversation, in which he divulged information about a certain lynching which occurred in Mobile in the early eighties, which I will not go into, I happened to mention that I had moved my sleeping spot to the back of the U-Haul van. Thomas told me that I was right next to a neighborhood where crack is sold, and that all "they" would have to do is see me emerge from my spot in the light of day, and they would come in the dark of night and, as Thomas put it; "They'll kill you, I'm serious."
I then interpreted the dream as such: The snake that got killed in my sleeping bag is me, in my sleeping bag, if I continue to use that spot. It works for me.
Now that I am reading the book "Songwriters on Songwriting," I am learning to tap into my subconscious, and to be more in tune with things, in general, like Bob Dylan, who can see yellow railroads.
I made up my mind to move from that spot, and I did so, by going up there later that evening and grabbing my sleeping bag and tying it to my other bag and getting the hell out of there. It was spooky just going there with Thomas's words still echoing in my head. I put credence into what he say's because his family has been in Mobile for generations, and has seen their share of murders in the backs of U-Haul vans, I would think.
Terry slept there, but Terry is black and doesn't really have anything like a gutar to entice thieves, if they were to have no scruples against stealing from their own race.

I then walked down Dauphin Street.
I sat down with all of 22 cents in my case and began to work on my latest project: "You're A Mean One, Mr. Grinch."
While working on it, a man came and threw a quarter in my case. I persisted, even though most of the pedestrians were homeless people, whiling away the time until 15 Place was to serve their Thursday night (extravaganza of a) meal.
A guy, who's name I forget but whom I've met before, came along and threw me 2 bucks. I memorized the first two verses of the Grinch song, and then took a break, to partake of the extravaganza, myself.
Gerald, with his bag, during lean times
(it's usually as big as Santa's bag, prompting
me to nickname him "the poor man's Santa Claus")
Spaghetti With A Lot Of Spicy Meat In It
The meal consisted of spaghetti, with a lot of spicy meat in it. I saw pieces of red pepper and onions in it. There were a lot of familiar faces there, Terry, the 54 year-old black guy, Thomas, who usually prefers that I remove his name from my blog posts, usually because there is something scandalous written, was also there. And Gerald was there, with his huge bag, containing everything he owns (except the clothing on his back and whatever might be in the pockets thereof.)
They had plenty of food. I had "seconds." Some people had "thirds," and beyond. Everyone left stuffed, and only one guy was made to leave for "sitting there, cussing." He was alowed to stuff his uneaten food portions into his pockets, after wrapping it in some manner suitable for spaghetti with a lot of meat in it, before exiting, though.
I went out and made a few more dollars off of the Grinch song, drank two Earthquake High Gravity Lagers while doing so, then ran into a guy who knew me from The Garage's open mic night, who invited me into a bar for a beer, then settled for giving me 5 bucks, after I was refused admission because I have only my "jail" ID.
I walked to the Dauphin Store, arriving there just as they snapped the "open" light off. I made my way to the Shell, and arrived there, just as they snapped their lights off. I then walked the mile from there to the Exxon, which is open all night, and got my third and final beer of the night, drank it, went back to Dauphin Street, getting to my spot at 2:10 am, played for about 15 minutes, until realizing that there were hardly any people and so, went to the church spot and slept pretty well. I thought Thomas might be there, and I was going to give him a couple of cigarettes, but he was absent from the spot. I hope HE wasn't killed; that would be too ironic...
I had no dreams of breaking strings or of snakes nor homosexuals, that I can recall. And that was Thursday...
It is now Friday, and I feel like I am running behind schedule already.

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