Dead Kennedys

Last night I dreamt that my parents and I went on a vacation. In a process that seemed quite natural, we paid for transport back in time to the 1950s. I sat down by a window in the living room of the house I grew up in.

When we arrived, I saw a Kennedy brother jump up and grasp the rope ladder attached to a zeppelin taking off from our yard. I was worried for his safety, but he called out, beaming “It’s alright! I’ll be fine; I’m a Kennedy!” The zeppelin left and for a while, I shared a perspective across from Mr. Kennedy, who still hung from the rope ladder, above New England scenery, buffeted by the wind. The sun in his eyes, he seemed manic yet completely in control—the wide face and crow’s feet dug deeper by the wind. Above us, another brother was grappling with a young blonde woman in a bikini. She teetered over the railing; he pulled her back. I lost sight of her and returned to my perspective at the living room window.

It was raining outside and red. I tried to hide tears. My parents would occasionally approach me but I would stand and change windows, and with each move the tears came with more force. At the fourth window, my mother reached for my shoulder, made contact, and I could hold back no longer. I fell into forceful sobs.

Outside, my yard was no different than it is currently constructed, yet was chopped into alternating sheets of rain and red light. I told my mother and my sisters, who had now arrived (one telling the other not to change any numbers she saw written anywhere for fear of cosmic consequences) that if I could, I would do nothing other than travel backwards in time. I wasn’t sure if it was to mourn or to learn, but mourning seemed the vanguard of the moment. I ran around Cambridge streets staring at faces, straining to fix their features in my mind, knowing that with the effort of increased perception I was hinging dangerously close to forcing myself awake. I told my family, between spasms and flashes of young Kennedy boys chasing a dog across a manicured New England lawn, that the hard part was in knowing everything here was dead in our time.

As I pulled myself together and my breath steadied, I realized that everything was not dead, but rather would die and in that, there was no difference from every storm, sensation and cataloged feature of the present. There was no warning; I awoke. TC mark

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  • Chris

    Huh?

  • NTJ

    ….?

  • guest

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  • http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=545470264 Claudia Aguirre

    I like this, for more reasons than the author being Jason Oberholtzer.

  • http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1363230138 Michael Koh

    surreal

  • Aelya

    Don’t do drugs?

    idk this was weird and I’m waiting for the point

  • Catt

    I liked this a lot, even if I only half understood it.

  • Conehead
    • Guest

      Go away.

      • Conehead

        I clicked my virtual self away as soon as I posted that link.

  • GUEST

    I liked this.

  • http://twitter.com/mungofrench kdub

    like this a lot.

  • Asdf

    This will be the first and last time I ever use this internet-ism, but this merits it due to its sheer fantastic nature: <3.

  • Annwyn

    I’m glad that your dream seemed to shift at the end from a feeling of loss or sadness to  one more of acceptance.  It’s almost like something in you felt diminished at first, but then awareness  made you more whole.  That probably makes no sense whatsover!  Also glad your mom was able to comfort you.   

  • Anonymous

    soooooooooooooooo d33p

  • guest

    last night i had a dream about eating a ten foot wide burger. 
    then i rolled off my bed and woke up without warning.

    • Oliver Miller

      Last night I had a dream that I was doing drugs with Norm MacDonald.  Then my girlfriend woke me up.  Shrugs.

  • janice

    I could imagine this as a Salavadore Dali painting.
    I really really liked this. I’ve always found it hard to explain a dream without losing its beauty and simultaneous chaos/randomness and order/structure (if that makes sense), but you did it really well.

    • janice

      Salvadore*

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