Dream Control

Sean Gullette
Originally Published in The Silicon Alley Reporter
May, 1999

	Late Night Snacks For Custom Nightmares

	Forget DVD, computer games, and broadband video-on-demand. The ultimate home
	entertainment system is factory installed inside your skull. Here's how to
	turn it on. 

	I stumbled on my revolutionary secret by accident, after eating a large order
	of Gonzales y Gonzales nachos with green chiles late one Tuesday evening. 25
	minutes later I found myself running half-naked through a bamboo forest,
	pursued by a rattling army of giant crabs, as mortar rounds liquified the
	beach nearby. The next pulse-pounding four hours would have cost Jerry
	Bruckheimer half a billion dollars to stage. I bolted awake in the middle of
	a terrifying cliffside chase sequence with the light bulb of a great idea
	glimmering over my head in the darkness.

	For centuries aquiring control of the dream state has been an elusive goal of
	mystics, shrinks and poets. Surely, control of dreams could greatly enhance
	our mastery of waking consciousness. "Those nachos," I thought feverishly.
	What if the secret to dream control was a carefully prescribed system of junk

	When we have eaten a meal, the brain diverts blood to the stomach to support
	the process of digestion. Nutrients and enzymes race through the bloodstream
	to their destinations, and as the wildly enriched blood passes through the
	sleeping brain, something magical happens.

	Dreams are inside us waiting, as ancient as consciousness, the software of
	the subconscious, spiked with the hot energies of the blood.

	Over the following weeks, I embarked on a scientifically rigorous program of
	eating rich, spicy food and then falling asleep. A system of menus, sleep
	timers and dream logs is too complicated to describe here. The price,
	financial, physical, and emotional, was steep.

	The following are my preliminary finding on four of the dozens of Dream
	Genres I discovered, with the exact menus which trigger them and restaurant
	information. Do not try this at home unless you are ready to be propelled
	into a new kind of dreaming. If you are, eat rapidly 30 minutes before
	bedtime--and stand clear the opening doors.

	Catholic S&M 
Two Boots "Newman"Pizza and Boylan's Cherry Cola
Two Boots, 74 Bleecker, 777-1033 I am in the parking lot of an exclusive cathouse/restaurant way out in the Black Forest. One of the attractive prostitutes happens to be my ex-girlfriend from college and we nod hello politely. I walk through the spacious, cool Plantation-style house, still mostly empty, girls lounging on banquettes in window seats and deep chairs in the big room. Outside in the back, I am seated under an old tree in the arbor--this is considered a very good table. A few old german people are quietly dining. The prostitutes, dressed in faded bathing suits, serve me fresh scottish salmon, buttery and piquant, and during the meal we exchange goodnatured banter and I do not feel like a john. When I am finished eating, I feel a hand pin mine back against the tree and a rose thorn cuts my flesh. I try to pull free and a wizened Bishop comes around the tree, muttering benedictions and flailing at me with a long strand of rosebush. It seems he need more of my blood for a ritual he wants to conduct shortly. I fight back with a the antenna of my Israeli automobile, which makes a formidable synthetic whip against his woody one. When I wake up I realize for the first time that noisy fan on my old Mac 7100/80 sounds exactly like cicadas in the woods. Illogical Transactions
Seafood gumbo with tabasco sauce and Dixie beer
ACME (9 Great Jones St. 420-1934) I have agreed to purchase a cabin in the woods from an insane old man named Harry and his sons, Harry and Henry. The three of us are in a hotel bar in a rundown South American city, stoned to the gills off a bottle of clear guaro with live worms moving at the bottom of it. The intoxication of the guaro blurs into a nightmare evening of sleaze and self destruction. We are celebrating something. Later I find myself in bed looking for a match-- there is nothing in the matchbox but a cucharacha. The next afternoon, we arrive at the site of the cabin. From the road, it is invisible. I am at the top of a small rise, looking across a dense green delta of lakes and low hills rising out of swampland. It looks like a pretty savage place to call home. The owners retreat into a little shack on the side of the road the road. I make my way alone over the top of the hill and see through the unthatched roof into the upper room of the house, which is built into the steep hill. I climb down into the room, full of dry leaves and kindling, with a cracking concrete floor, stained with motor oil--a storage room. Bracing myself on the slashed and gnarled roots of trees, I descend the hillside, smelling the breath of the stagnant algaegreen water. The front part of the house, maybe intended as a porch, floats on the river; when I put my foot on the mossy sill, it sways and water sloshes off the decks. The floor holds, and I cross to look up at the main room, canted off the hill just above, with treetrunk braces and wide, chainsaw-cut flooring beams. Access up by a rope-ladder strung at 45 degrees. I swing through the door and steady myself on the deck. The rail is worn smooth by decades of hands. I look out across the green bay, in silent shadow--miles away across the water the sun lights the paler green of the hilltops. I smell rotting meat, and see a pile of furs and skins in a corner. From above, Henry is shouting or laughing. "Well, my fren'," I hear, "how you like 'er?" "I'll take it," I yell back. Homoerotic Deathmatch
Schwarma with onions, white sauce and hot sauce. Schweppes ginger ale.
Caesars Falafel, 34 St Marks Place In an empty bullfight arena, I am daring a blonde youth around my age to a fight. It is a dangerous kind of all-out wrestling in which death or permanent injury can easily occur and I don't really want to do it, but I must be perceived as the aggressor or I will lose face with bad consequences. We begin to fight and it is terrible--teeth being knocked out, large cuts opening, but now I am through the wall of pain and I realize before he does that a victory here is worth literally any sacrifice. We fight on and on, getting dizzier, and now I have forgotten what there was to gain, why were are fighting, everything but the imminent mortality of this moment. I was wrong about the possibility of redemption and now I am going to die. High Altitude Incest
Ceviche with South American Spices and Taro Tartar. Kirin Ichiban.
Nobu, 105 Hudson Street / 219 0500 / 8095/ At a party on the roof of a skyscraper I have met a very sexy short girl with a wonderful ass who wants to have sex with me. My sister (I don't have a sister), is there and the girl begins trying to seduce us both. At first my sister is curtly dismissive, but quickly she realizes that this girl is irresistable and we all get it on in slow motion in an airy white room, with windows overlooking the entire Eastern seaboard, now from satellite altitude. A thousand miles down, New York City is radiant with white light.