Agitprop

In my dream there are places and peo­ple. They all do things, most­ly. Some do things in the wrong places, except that this is cor­rect for the dream. A clown with a sword might chop some onions. I do not under­stand why the clown does this in a field chain­linked and barb wired, but I accept it. And when the clown begins to speak in words that col­lapse upon them­selves, I reg­is­ter noth­ing but nor­mal­cy.

“Weak mod­eled irony rein­vents extrap­o­la­tion.” My mouth fol­lows suit, what I recall now as some­thing from Nicht l?schbares Feuer.

“A vac­u­um clean­er can be an effec­tive weapon, an auto­mat­ic rifle can be a use­ful house­hold gad­get.”

The clown stops chop­ping onions and smiles like a pen­guin. On the teeth a man stubs out a cig­a­rette on his arm and I dream in my dream of a girl run­ning down a dirt road, her dress melt­ed to her skin by napalm that can­not be rubbed off. A fire that burns under water. I spin away from the clown and now that I am on a side­walk, I start walk­ing, the rub­ber soles of my shoes squeak­ing on the pave­ment.

As soon as I know I am dream­ing I start to awake. Though I try to go back I do not know how. Before any of my dreams reach an end­point or answer, I am con­scious. They are too agit­prop for me to know.

One of those rea­sons is why I hate clowns.