Dream Logs

Dream Log: 17 March 2016 (President JFK & Claude Monet)

As President JFK, I am spending the day with my wife, Jackie Kennedy. We are sitting inside the family mansion's living room, surrounded by family memorabilia: photo albums, passed down trinkets, old jewelry and paintings. We begin reminiscing about how we first met, dating, our life before the presidency, and our ancestors; lives. We discover an old typewriter in a corner of the room with a faded, half-typed letter of resignation. She hugs me and begins crying.

I am now in Giverny, France, standing in front of Claude Monet's grave. My uncle has given me two rolls of film to print in the church's darkroom. I pay my respects to Monet before proceeding inside the church. I remove a lit torch from the wall and begin descending the spiraling stone staircase. As I descend, I review the photos and comment loudly on their terrible quality.

JFK, Monet dream. Giverny Church, Location of Claude Monet's grave.

Dream Log: 12 February 2016 (Bootleg Frank Sinatra)

I am bootleg Frank Sinatra. I am inside a Las Vegas hotel. They are paying me to host their grand opening. Men in suits and women in dresses fill the banquet hall. A live band plays in the background while people dance and drink. I am the life of the party. Everyone wants to shake my hand, greet me and buy me a drink. I quickly grow tired of everyone. However, I am obligated to host the night. More and more people approach me. Photos, handshakes, drinks. Gorgeous women in low cut dresses and men with perfectly coiffed hair all want my attention. I break away and take to the stage.

With Count Basie's orchestra behind me, I sing two charmless songs and receive a standing ovation. The night never finishes. As I wade through more people, I notice a something bizarre: A girl, simply dressed, sits on a wooden stool in the middle of the dance floor. She has no makeup on. Her hair, in a simple bun. I focus entirely on her. My body begins collapsing as I near her. I fall to my knees and continue approaching. When I reach her, I lay my head on her chest. She warmly holds me. The attendees, ignoring us, continue to drink and dance. The music, the chattering and the clinking glass fades away. I wake up.

Dream Log: 14 April 2015 (Exhumed)

I am with the curator of Andre Kertész's estate. The estate has determined that Kertész's body must be exhumed and moved to another location. I'm in the backseat of a van. We begin driving through the Hungarian countryside to his burial plot. When we arrive, the curator exits the van and pulls out two shovels. We begin digging. After some time, I hear my shovel crack loudly as it hits the casket. We clear out the surrounding area. The curator and I each grab a side and pull up, groaning against the weight. We finally lift the casket out of the plot and onto the surrounding grass. With a crowbar, the curator opens it. Kertész's remains are inside, wrapped in a towel covering his feet to his chin. A CPR mask covers his nose and mouth, sitting deep into his rotten flesh. 

The curator and I lift Kertész and place him into the back of the van. We miscalculated. The curator slams the van's back door into Kertész, digging into his face and sending green chunks of decomposed skin and flesh everywhere. As we stare in horror, his face begins oozing thick, yellow pus.