Going Camping with Michael Jackson
Dream | July 26, 2009
Another strange dream about Michael Jackson. Perhaps his recent death has inspired millions to have dreams about him. A fitting coda to his life.
As far back as I can remember, some friends and I are rollerblading along a winding sidewalk between a grassy park and a straight pedestrian walkway. And we're doing some amazing intricate tricks and jumps and twists and whatnot. There's some kinda haunted theme to our activity, like game or something. It's peculiar.
And then Michael Jackson walks by. He's trying to keep a low profile. Black suit, black hat, head down, hand covering his face.
It's very crowded and all at once everyone realize it's him. A roar of “Michael Jackson! Oh my god!“ and in a wave they surge forward and envelope him.
He's not liking this at all. Just cruising along, and suddenly being mobbed. So he's walking faster and they're clamoring for his autograph and asking him questions and he's back-pedaling and saying “Just leave me alone!“ like the song.
So he kinda resigns to his fate but he just stands there kinda listless and inactive, sitting on a boulder or seat or something.
I'm in the midst of this, partly carried forth by the masses and partly because my friends are here, but I'm not really interested in his autograph or the novelty of seeing a reclusive celebrity. He's this still, sad image of a person amidst the throng. I kinda sympathize with him, trying to make conversation. Maybe since I'm the dreamer that I'm the one he responds to. I say, “You prolly get this everywhere."
He says, “Yeah."
“You prolly get sick and tired of it sometimes."
He says, “Yeah."
“You prolly want to go some place where there's nobody around where you can get some peace and quiet."
He looks at me with this haggard expression and says, “Yeah."
I say, “Well, you know, we can go out into the country and just hang out. Just a couple of us, and we won't bother you and ask you a billion questions." He seems kinda receptive to that.
So a couple of my friends pile into my blue van with Michael and we take off and he's sitting in the front seat. I think Matt from grade school was there and some other guy.
Out into the country we book it, on some gravel road in remote Colorado, in the middle of nowhere. On a ridge above a river. Hanging out on the road just talking.
So I stoke up the conversation from before, suggesting that although it must get tiring to be him, it's also cool to be known by everyone in the world. My examples are that kids from Tanzania and tribes from Zimbabwe know Michael Jackson.
He says, “It got old a long time ago."
I say, “Geez, you probably don't want to talk about this stuff or anything."
He's like, “well, this is...okay."
I realize he's still the focal figure in our group. So I suggest we go camping and we don't have to talk. And he shows some support for that idea, so we bundle into the van and the other two guys kinda disappear from the dream. He's sitting in the passenger seat looking at the mountains.
A truck with some construction workers comes by and park in front of us as we sit there briefly. I think they were doing some surveying. The van starts and we continue along the dirt road and into an L-shaped town. As we turn sharply at the corner I drive over a big dirt bump and hear stuff being scraped off from under the van. Stuff I had stored there. And I'm looking in my rear-view mirror, which actually becomes my windshield so that I'm looking forward for the things that were scraped off behind me: a few utility towels, large flashlight, and a large bar that looks expensive and useful. There's this lanky black guy in a beat-up pickup truck collecting up my things like salvage. He reminded me of Sanford n' Son, but looking like neither Redd Foxx nor his son Lamont. He knows where the stuff came from but he tries not to pay attention to me.
I yell, “Yo! That's my stuff!"
But he's packed it all up and is driving off, with ropes and chains trailing out behind the pickup's bed. So I run after the truck and grab onto these trailing lines. He sees me but he's accelerating and I'm half-dragging, half-flying behind him on this dirty road with my feet in the air.
We're hauling ass through this quaint little rugged frontier town. People milling about in the morning light, poking into shops, oblivious to this scene. Hand over hand up this rope I climb until I finally grasp the metal bar frame over the truck bed. I get inside and he suddenly stops at a store.
Quickly I grab up my stuff, including this heavy metal bar that looks like an expensive weapon. He gets out and scowls at me and I yell, “Motherfucker! You knew this was my stuff!“ He stares at me and the formidable weapon in my hands and he just turns and walks into the store.
I'm kinda pissed off coz I'm kinda dirty. So I carry the stuff back to the van. But I don't get there.
Some people come by that I know. They're heading towards a stadium along one side street for some kite-surfing event, only it isn't kite-surfing. It's more like the people are arranged in a grid, say 5 x 5 for a total of 25 people in a squarish grid, and they're sitting in these shallow concave cups and holding other's hands and feet so that they all fly around as a unit. They're doing some amazing stunts and aerial maneuvers, and I just accept this as a normal thing like Cirque du Soleil. I have a memory of this as something I almost got into but this more very cool, very advanced stuff.
Noah and Max are in this flying grid, accomplishing tight arcs and darting around the stadium as if following crazy wind currents. Their brightly colored fabric costumes flutter around as they sail through the air. The finale was some crazy psychedelic effect as if some glistening slime was poured over the top-level performers in this grid and it oozed over the rest.
After the show the performers and the audience headed over to some café or outdoor office like their training headquarters and I got into a conversation with a girl about the show.
“Yeah that was pretty cool, huh? We've been working on that for awhile.“
“It was amazing. That green ooze was it digital? Like, how the fuck did you do that?"
She tries to explain it but it's very technical and I notice she's got some papers there in front of her and one of them is a transcript of our present conversation, like a formal letter or something. Then she says she's got to run out and meet someone and I smile and say that's cool and she leaves.
So I get up to go, walking down a hall where I meet some cute girl who asks me if I want to go to breakfast where she'll explain the whole process.
So I'm like “Sure! But can I bring a friend?“ But I don't tell her it's Michael Jackson, still waiting out in the van, towards which I point in a silly way with my fingers. She says, “Yeah that's fine“ and tells me the restaurant is on Beer Avenue. “Where is that?“ I ask. We're outside now and she indicates a street sign. I tell her I'll meet her there in fifteen minutes.
I head down the street towards the van in the golden morning sunlight and that's about the time I woke up.