Just before I was awakened Saturday morning in the usual way (small blonde person, tapping insistently on my happily inert skull bones), I was awash in a dream about teaching Sasquatches to bowl. I can only assume this was some kind of Equal Opportunity kind of thing.
We - me and the Sasquatches - were in this cavernous bowling alley, and I was smoking a cigar and wearing white & red checked bowling shoes, which were the only clothes I was wearing that were showing up under the blacklight, because all of my actual, from-home clothes were black. This is also true in reality and was thus a small comfort. There were also green haloes of light that would pool out from under my feet when I walked, and this was disturbing to me for reasons I shan't go into here. There was a blacklight because the dream bowling alley was doing that Cosmic Bowling bullshit, and playing a lot of bad disco music that makes your soul hurt. Abba sticks out in my recollection, like a piece of glass under your eyelid. The balls were all different colors & designs, greens and oranges and blues and spangles and shiny things that looked good when you turned the ball in various directions under the cheesy available light, but the Sasquatches kept dropping the heavy, loud balls on their massive, hairy feet, and then howling with rage and uncomprehending pain while hurling the balls one handed for great distance in fits of Sasquatchian fury into shit, destroying it. Smoke and sparks, shards of plastic and bent metal were proliferate. Or they would sniff the balls suspiciously before trying to crack them open to see what was inside, but this was largely unsuccessful. Also, their giant Sasquatch fingers didn't fit into the ball holes well, and some got stuck, leading to more howling and roaring. Beating of chests, smell of fecal matter and wet hair. Some dangerous, unevenly weighted spinning accompanies this. One had a branch. There was some illicit sexual activity occurring amongst the Sasquatches, poorly hidden, and some inappropriate evacuation of waste, as well. Sasquatches, my subconscious mind asserts, have zero decorum. Google that phrase. One kept banging his enormous shaggy head on everything. Their padded feet kept slipping on the highly waxed floors, and they kept drinking leftover warm beers and eating the contents of ashtrays mixed with old pizza and chips. Chaos doesn't even begin to stand and clear its throat to address the possibility of covering it. When I could be heard over the howling and rutting and chuffing and snorfling and basic full gamut of Sasquatch noises, I would often be regarded with a distracted, blank, partially evolved stare above slack mouths, since they didn't speak a lot of English, and I know no Sasquatch, and would have spoken it with a terrible human, Southern American accent anyway.
The best part? I'm pretty sure I know exactly how to interpret this. Take that, Freud!