The Dream of a Thousand Hairs
Was supposed to give a lecture, but there I was in a large room that was divided by a partition that started almost at the door, so that when you walked in, you had to decide immediately if you were going to go left or right. I went right, and it was packed. Girls were coming up to me, and I was smiling, wondering what kind of things I had to talk about. The left was a mystery, and it turned out to be a bedroom-full of ladies. And I’m not sure how I knew that since I didn’t take that direction. One woman, who used to be a TV star back when there were these daytime programs called soap operas, had a signed photograph she wanted to give me. She had other images of herself in the nude when she did that men’s magazine photo shoot that (I now vaguely remember) was a very hot thing — back when I was still getting wet dreams when placed in other dream situations with half naked women. Well, there she was half-naked in these pictures, but she carefully, diligently put those pictures away before I could make out the details. I was suddenly made aware that I could be looked at as one of those perverts young ladies set their racy alarms to private for, and this lady was not even young, but a part of the past, yet she still looked real good and even better than most of the girls in this crowd of bedroom hair covering the side walls and back walls. Played it cool. No other way to do it. I kept smiling to the crowd, making my way out of this place that was turning into a giant bed and going over back to the right, where images were on the giant screens in the back, and I was starting to talk about them with the voice of expertise. General things to say. Another ordinary occurrence. When another girl — a young lady this time — asked me to take her picture, just like the older actress had done. The actress was no longer on the left side. We went in there. Noticed the stage. She wanted me up there. I was looking around. The professional photos of the actress were on the giant screens. The actress was reclined with breasts hanging off of smooth, orange tan skin and the prettiest face that any TV screen could buy. The young lady and I were smiling at the bright spotlights, and when the flash came, I looked at the wall, where the resolution was projected and it was just me, no girl. My head. My hair. It was crazy and curly, like back in the day when I let it all hang out, like an explosion of ideas was making their way out from my cranium and curling in every direction because it didn’t know what it wanted.