A Jamaican and four girly men

I’m Tony Soprano, a middle-aged man with a gravelly chest of hair, pummeling the life out of a Indian man in the middle of a jungle that seems vaguely familiar after having a massive ninja fight with four Thai girly men searching for the gay cast member of an odd reality show I’ve found myself in the midst of, when everything erupts into chaos as thousands of Chinese men in full grey overalls start attacking the Thai boys, which is after a brutal cycle of eating spaghetti in a place that seems like something straight out of the Jungle Book, being chased by a very rotund woman who runs like a cheetah, and smiling as my henchman (who happens to be Russian ) prepares to help me beat the life out of the aforementioned Indian man.

That was my dream, or at least what I can remember of it.

I know exactly why the dream was an odd mix of weird images and random circumstances. I’ve been reading this interesting book called Working Stiff, which chronicles the sexual escapades of a late-blooming brit named Grant Stoddard. I ate a large bowl of spaghetti just before my midday nap, was watching bit pieces of The Secret (a movie filled with scenery from everywhere) and listening to Erupt’s “Click My Finger” song, which explains the continuous feeling of a need to dance throughout the entire dream. What I cannot explain is a ninja fight with four girly-men, me suddenly morphing into Tony Soprano, the Chinese riot, or how the dream began.

I remember the last part vividly. After I started to dispatch of the four highly trained girly-men, a door blasts open, and a stream of Chinese guys rush in. Not tens, not hundreds, but thousands. The area (which is a hillside in some foreign country) is filled to the brim with men in gray overalls. Somewhere over a loudspeaker, I hear a voice say that the men are “free” (whatever that means), and as I’m looking at the crowd breakup, someone pinches my wallet. I curse myself, saying “Dude, this isn’t a movie!” because one of the thousands of similarly dressed men took my wallet. I then begin chasing a very suspicious Asian man with Shang Tsung-long hair wearing a green dress-thingy. It looks like he is a lost marauder from that band of desert-roaming pirates in Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon. I chase this guy (who is probably just the best representation my mind can make of a Chinese thief based on popular media) and it he leaps over a wall and I accost him. This is when I turn into Tony Soprano, beat him up, then hold on to the Indian guy, who was trying to steal my credit cards, business cards and whatever else was in my wallet, as I pummeled the thief. What was weird, almost hilarious, was when Soprano (or me) gets that tell-tale look of satisfaction that comes just before metering out a lot of punishment to someone “deserving” of it before they die, a massive Lithuanian looking fellow with icy blond hair in an Army guys’ crew cut appears from the underbrush, ready to dispatch the guy with me. This makes no sense—Tony Soprano is racist and doesn’t interact with blondes, unless they are prostitutes or his wife—and it is at point I wake up, wondering where I am, and what the hell I was dreaming about.

The last few weeks have felt like this. A bit chaotic, a bit confusing and a little off. I’ve been patrolling the city a lot, watching people, and getting inspired to write. I find it annoying that I am most inspired to create insightful prose when I’m far away from home. I rarely write anything in my room, which is a labyrinthine representation of packaged isolation. I feel like describing moments when I’m in Chinatown, blindly going from bar to bar in Adam’s morgan, riding my bike and fearing it will crash, or most recently, attending a sex-themed party (complete with pornography on the walls, sex candies and condoms in large dishes) and feeling disappointed the crowd was a bit stuffy. (Stuffy could be replaced with “tight-assed” if you wish).

An aspect of my confusion most likely lies in the fact that I am not inspired to write much, and this is fueled by many things. In fact, I have been hesitant to blog any of my thoughts because I’m beginning to see it as a pointless venture. Like much of my writing, it feels empty; a representation of other emptiness around me. Which faceless people read my blog? In what order? Of what nationality?

I have no idea. No tengo idea. Wakarima-freaking-sen.

But this doesn’t really bother me I realize. I just can’t bother to open up. I secretly planned to keep another blog, a private one that could keep an accurate record of my “deepesht, darrrkesssht, thoughts” but I decided not to. I could just buy a journal and call it a day.

This dream was wacky enough to prompt the ever-interesting-and-always-enjoyable bird blog, but there is more to tell, lots more. Tales of rejection, woe, the throes of the work force, racism, animal-based rejection (yes, this is true, even I couldn’t believe it) among other things.

A lot has happened in a few weeks, mostly good, some bad, somethings I can’t label yet. I think I’ll try and go back into the mindset I was in when I started this blog six months ago. It is an outlet for my thoughts to enter the Universe of the internet, where unlike going to a mountain top saying “God, are you there?" and probably hearing a bird squawk somewhere in the distance, I ge to see things like:

I want to go on adventures with you.

Oct 11, 9:14 PM

or

Is not nuh candy corn, ah di oil inna yuh back! Stop wid dis I’m-too-aloof-and pinky-finger-stiffened-and-gots-near-unattainable-standards-to-give the-bourgeois-the-time-of-day and kill off a ting! Time fi tear up bed sheet and ting.

Nov 9, 5:33 PM

Or maybe

See, we Asians are perpetually perplexed too–Asian girls we think are hella ugly always manage to be considered pretty. So maybe REALLY what is happening is that the average-looking white guys are getting the average-looking Asian girls (for Asians anyway), but you on the outside think that she’s a prize!

Maybe?

Oct 9, 6:37 AM

Either way, the blog will continue. I’ll have to gear up, get recharged and work some stuff out, but a writer needs to write. Alas I will blog anon.