Cats & Dogs (8/10/18 Dream).

I’m at my parents house, and I’m supposed to be watching two tan-colored dogs, identical in appearance. Though I’m uncertain who they belonged to, I’m fairly certain that they didn’t belong to me. At some point I noticed that I hadn’t seen them around in some time, though initially I dismissed it as me being paranoid and put it out of my mind. Eventually, though, I felt justified in my worry and began asking people if they had seen either of them, and when it became clear that no one had, I began my search in earnest. As I began looking around inside the house, I saw my parents’ collie laying on his side below the kitchen table and immediately suspected he was dead, but chose to ignore it, figuring I was merely being paranoid.

I looked everywhere for the missing dogs. Each time I even thought of my own little, black cat (which I do not, in actuality, own), it would show up nearby, as if summoned, but I could not find the twin dogs anywhere. Ultimately I went outside to look, and eventually went into a little fenced in area with a large wooden box-like structure with a door, an area that turned out to house all these cats. They all seemed to really like me, especially one fluffy one in particular, which looked at me curiously. I kept looking. In the yard, by the driveway, I see my parent’s dog again, and someone’s lifting him. He’s clearly dead and stiff as a board. When I finally went back into the house, my youngest sister comes back inside as well. Her face is red and, with tears in her eyes, she tells me, sobbing, that the dogs are barking — at least, that’s what I think she says. I take her to mean not the two dogs I had been looking for, but rather the neighbor’s dogs, specifically the neighbors who used to have the vicious rottweiler I had affectionately named Cujo.

After that, I finally woke up and got out of bed.

Though I’m not entirely certain at what points in the dream that it happened, I actually awoke once or twice in the midst of it and decided to go back to sleep and enter back into the dream because I wanted to find those two dogs before I got out of bed. I never did, but I find the fact that I was capable of entering back into the dream damned intriguing in retrospect. I think I’ve been able to do that in the past on relatively rare occasions, but it has been some time. Indeed, it has been a long time since I’ve had any degree of dream recall at all.

In the past, I’ve had recurring dreams in which I suddenly recalled that I owned pets that I had forgotten about and had failed to provide food and water for, often finding them dead or near death. Though this dream doesn’t exactly fit that pattern, I suspect that it references and reflects the same underlying issues.

In general, animals may symbolize instinctive drives and emotions. Humans are animals, after all, it is only that we are self-domesticated, so other animals in dreams may be associated with the biological drives we dissociate ourselves from, the aspects of our identity that we tend to repress — in essence, the Jungian Shadow. My recurring dreams of having amnesia regarding owning pets and not having given them food or water suggests a failure of responsibility towards aspects of myself dependent on me for health and survival, and so perhaps my instincts themselves. This more recent dream, however, features two dogs that were temporarily dependent upon me and for whom I was responsible. In losing them, I not only let the animals down but whoever had entrusted me to care for them.

In addition, there was again a dog that belonged to someone else, namely my parents, and he was dead. To call this dog a friendly dog is to make a molehill out of Olympus Mons, as he is the biggest, most adorable attention whore I’ve ever encountered. He constantly wants to be petted, always tries to step up on your lap or stick his nose in his face and always follows you around, often waking you up out of sleep with a cold nose or sloppy lick to the face. Though he can get irritating, I adore the dog, as I do with respect to most animals, and spend a lot of time when I visit my parents feeding him the attention he craves.

So lost dogs, dead dogs: the dogs got lost due to my lack of attention, and the dog that craves attention more than anything has died. Like the recurring dreams of animals, it again suggests not investing attention and properly nurturing someone or something, perhaps buried and instinctive drives. And dogs I strongly associate as an animal that is loyal but incredibly dependent on the owner. My characterization of cats is much different.

Cats are typically independent creatures. Rather than followers, they are, at best, partners with their own, strong sense of self. A little internet searching regarding dream interpretations reveals that they are also seen to represent the Jungian Anima, or the feminine aspect of the male psyche that he projects onto the women in his life, and also his intuition. Of potential relevance is the fact that twice in the dream I dismissed my intuition as paranoia only to later discover that I had, in fact, been right: first, assuming the two dogs had run off; second, assuming my parent’s dog was dead. Typically, dogs are considered to be more obedient; cats, more independent, but the circumstances in the dream seem to imply the reverse. I couldn’t find the two dogs, but every time I so much as wondered where my cat was it seemed to suddenly just be there.

Blacks cats in particular are additionally associated with the unknown, the mysterious, and with the occult and magick. To some they also represent bad luck, but that’s never been an association of mine, at least consciously. Everything else associated with cats offered above, however, also resonates remarkably well with the qualities I find alluring about women I’ve been close to in my life.


Plague of Noise.

I help make the artery-clogging consumables you mindlessly shovel down your damn gullet. Often I go outside and deliver it to you thankless fuck-nozzles as you sit lazily in your stupid fucking automobiles. In the wake of your feasting in the style of an amphetamine-fueled herd of Tasmanian Devils, I clean up your mess in the dining room. I clean up the bathroom after you take your epic dump, mostly on the seat and floor, and all too often after you smear it all over the wall, Paleolithic-style. I am your slave and I fucking hate you. I hate the world in which I am forced to participate. I hate your stupid fucking wars and crooked social systems.

My mind never shuts up, nor my oversensitive senses.

Life has become too noisy. I hold my breath for my work shift and drive home to exhale: that’s what it feels like. I know I’m not alone.

At home, the door closes. Locked, bolted. Finally, a quiet place. Coffee, smokes, my room. Solitude, silence and insomnia.

Sometimes I fight the sleeplessness, like two nights ago. I decide to crash my spinning head on my pillow a bit early, probably about two o’clock, doing some meditation to help ease myself into sleep. Then someone starts laying on their horn.

Long honks, short honks, a symphony of relentless beep-beep-beeping. It was as if someone were trying to send a coded message to a neighborhood reluctant to listen.

Doing my best to ease my irritation, I let curiosity drive my mind. Maybe someone was raped or stabbed or had their tongue caught off and couldn’t scream for help. They fought off their attacker, perhaps with a spork.

They tried conventional ways to call for help. Predictably, their cell phone wasn’t getting service. So they dragged their mangled body across the house, smearing a trail of blood over the carpet and tiles and finally the concrete as they clawed their way to their car, where they realized, of course, that they had left their keys inside. The doors were unlocked, though, so they climbed in and started honking away, hoping someone in the neighborhood might pay attention and help them. Surely all this damn racket will get someone’s attention, they thought.

How naive.

This went on for at least half an hour and no one in our shit-town of Silver Ghettos raised a voice of protest, including myself. Oh, the shame one feels…

Eventually it stopped, though I had given up on sleep at that point. I went on with my writing, but after the honks stopped for about ten minutes, the intermission of peace and quiet ended. Then the sound of cats began.

This duet of meowing and screeching suggested to me some kinky kitty sex was going on outside my window. Yeah, let’s go to the window of the guy not getting laid and make him listen to the soundtrack of feline hardcore.

This went on for maybe ten, fifteen minutes until I got out of my seat, went to my window, pounded on it with my fist and heard at least two cats screech in fear. I pulled my window shades to the side and looked dead in the eyes of some gray cat just outside my window, staring dead back at me with a look of unparalleled terror in its vertically-slit eyes.

“Fuck off,” I told the cat, and then immediately closed the curtain. The result? Total silence for the rest of the (albeit sleepless) night.

So yeah, I guess if you want to send an SOS, don’t go for the car horn. Crawl to a neighbor’s window and make noises like a feline sex orgy.

As a side note: I hate this town.


Sometimes she’s like a cat that’s cornered a mouse and just wants to play with it, torment it, rather than kill it straightaway.

Sometimes she’s like a queen bee, kept enslaved in a way by her willing drones, maybe using them to her advantage, but never giving any honey for the money (but maybe simply because its being readily given to her free of charge).

Sometimes she’s like an adorable cat that comes up to you, rubs against your leg, and once it finally seduces you into bending down to touch it, with your fingers lingering nanometers away from it, the damn feline darts in the other direction like the roadrunner on a mission. Chase the cat down and it will come no closer. Give up, go away, forget the cute little thing from hell exists and before you know it you feel that seductive rubbing against your leg again, purring like the soft idle of a gentile engine. Then the game plays on.

Sometimes she’s just a puppeteer, using his dick and balls as a joystick for the game she’s playing with his heart. She may not be so sadistic, perhaps just greedy, and in that case she manages to make him her marionette by playing his heartstrings like Hendrix.

Maybe she uses his heart to get to his dick, or use his dick to get to his heart, or perhaps she uses both his dick and heart as routes to his wallet.

Sometimes she’s a dominatrix without the latex and you don’t have a safe-word.