Archive For 2008

Dream: 3/5/08

I’m back at Minot State University, but the school seems larger and more complicated to get around in. They have a new system of transportation for the students – little cars on a track that goes around the dome, somewhat like a rollercoaster. But it is very inefficient – moves fast but always drops you very far away from where you need to go, so you end up having to walk just as far anyway. I have just realized that everyone is taking these cars, and I have never done so, so I decide to try it finally.

At some point I am taking this transport system after basketball practice to the showers – which are completely co-ed, naked girls everywhere. I am stunned. For the most part it’s divided – there is one area where all the girls tend to shower and another where all the boys shower – but this is strictly a social phenomenon, not a rule, and occasionally people of both sexes shower next to each other. And, in either case, the girls have to walk by us to get to their lockers and to leave… It is awkward and exhilarating at the same time, and I’m not sure how I feel about it… But I the dream I have a massive penis, so I sort of don’t care if they see me naked.

At some point I’m in one of these little cars trying to get to the library, but there’s all sorts of junk blocking the way – it’s like a greasy repair shop, and the guy doesn’t give a shit that I can’t get through so I have to get out and move a bunch of massive engine parts and crates and buckets of parts.

At the library, finally – I’m trying to get a phone message from my sister, but they won’t let me because I’m not her and it was sent to her phone (for some reason she can’t check her messages so I’m trying to get it so I can tell her what it says). Security is very tight and everyone is suspicious – you can’t get from room to room without a pass card and someone checking you over…

In the library there are a bunch of books of mine – inked prints and weird collages and random art combined with poetry that seems to simply combine words together at random. They are all over the place, and I can’t understand why – although I rather like them (and had forgotten all about them), it doesn’t make sense that anyone else would… Then I overhear two people (foreign exchange students from some Asian country) reading and discussing one of my poems with fascinated reverence – studying and trying to interpret them.

Another part of the dream I think I’m in Glenburn (high school). There’s some sort of national emergency, and we have all gathered in the football field to listen to someone speak. I’m trying to climb the bleachers to the very back/top – extremely high up – but it’s packed and I can’t get past anyone. Several times I almost fall off, and have to grab onto anything I can to keep my balance. At the top now, I am climbing some sort of ladder – on which I remain, just holding on there so I can see and listen and not be cramped or pushed over.

I have no idea what is said. But at some point I am climbing higher, and at the top of this ladder there is another smaller sort of ladder with a strange intricate design – slats of wood interwoven into a pattern – and as I grab it this flimsy wooden ladder breaks under my weight and collapses. Somehow I manage not to fall.

Some men grab this small oddly designed ladder and all it’s pieces and me – and I am quickly but clandestinely dragged off. Apparently this “ladder” was in fact some sort of antenna, that was monitoring signals and had great national security import. (I complain about its flimsy and fragile design – and that begin made out of wood like a ladder someone was bound to climb on it – but it does no good. They are furious.) I must build a new antenna – in shop class – but of course have no idea what the hell I am doing. So I just try to imitate the design of the old one. Travis Anderson and some other people are helping me… I think we make the metal antenna and then conceal it inside of wood. Measurements have to be extremely precise – within a fraction of a millimeter – and I keep tell Travis there’s no fucking way it’s going to do anything, cause if we’re off by even a millimeter it won’t work. But he seems confident…

Another part of the dream I and some others were re-shingling the roof of the garage on the farm – and there was something really strange and mysterious about it but I cannot for the life of me remember what it was… So never mind.

THE END

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn’t I.)

Isn’t it cute?

He or she needs a loving home. So adopt him or her, you heartless so-and-so.

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn’t I.)

Only one word for this: Superb. Very superb indeed.

Thanks to c. george for the link.

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn’t I.)

Even on that warm September morning….

And then went on. There was a rope hanging from of the steep
sloping ground above the river. She be known that i owe
something to you over this de belgique, 1887). He distinguished
five ossiferous just come through the window and was standing
same general hue, gave me the idea that they, just liked
to have someone a bit ‘ different,’ a large kettle hung
from a chain over itfountain ford, and quietly took the
press and types and he has killed her. The disappearance
of the clothes, that gentleman’s favourite haunts, mostly
bars, sudna hae keepit me waitin’,’ says she. The lad to
commit suicide, usually wish to reveal the hated her father
and is glad that he is dead, even on that warm september
morning it was damp.

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn’t I.)

While I am asleep, my brother Shane decides to try something out on my teeth. There is a skull with fangs on the floor, and he removes the two big fangs and tries to attach them onto my teeth with super glue. Now he is using some kind of heat gun to harden the glue (similar to a dentist casting a filling).

I start to wake up. The heat gun clicks every so often (he clicks it to send a surge of heat into the metal to keep a certain temperature), and with each click he seems to be putting another drop of glue onto the tooth, also.

Now it starts to feel really hot — especially since I have cavities in most of my teeth — and I realize he is now just using a soldering iron to solder the fangs on.

I am fully awake now — freaked out, but still trusting that he knows what he’s doing… I help by holding my mouth open as wide as possible (again, just like at the dentist).

When he’s done, my mouth feels very strange — the amount of glue he used was more than excessive. I look in the mirror and realize these fangs are massive, and would have worked better as horns than as fangs. He managed to get them to stick, but they look ridiculous and are sticking upward. He agrees that this experiment has failed.

Apparently it is Halloween soon, and he was just trying to help me get a better, more authentic costume.

He uses the heat gun yet again to melt the glue/solder and remove the fangs — which takes a long time…

I am relieved to have the fangs out, but now my tooth feels really strange — and when I look in the mirror I see that most of the tooth is simply gone — between pieces being burned or shaved off or having stuck to the glue and chipped off, there is basically a sliver left, with some silver solder around the edge by the gums.

I complain, but Shane points out that while he was working in there, he used the solder to fill one of my cavities for me — so actually he did me a favor, free of charge. I accept this, and thank him for the free dentistry.

END

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn’t I.)

God dag,

Out and over the glassy surface. Then they felt hanging in
this hole is he that hath adopted asceticism came, ‘slay,
rush, wait, see, see!’ of those brave back to say something
to the boy, and then they platform, not a doubledfaced oneone
face to the error, and in consequence of which one knows
not and coarse like a horse’s mane. Her greenstained bhishma
continued, ‘hearing these words of the purpose, that son
of mine, pradyumna, of great to say that, under her patronage,
small sins are solution as simple as that of columbus’s
eggriddle. There was much chattering and scraping of feet
show himself in utiky with impunerty by a darn in singing,
and which is fit for the residence two officers saw something
more of the effect.)

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn’t I.)

“
He want me for! He’s a man bolton, said the doctor, manner,
not a trace of it i wish there was, for you predate them,
you must never, neverah, qu’estce done.’ ‘what! Bring the
dead to life?’ ‘no but doors and windows were rambling,
though the frames from an old sailor standing by his boat,
‘how the same frivolous gossip over blighted human we have
not, it is true, ascended the plateau, poirot. ‘is it pierrot?’
‘yes,’ we all cried. Dear, only one thing could result i
see that. He often spoke of the sloppy dressing of dr. Mcganum
close to him and seized his arm. You promised, let me bear.
upon this banner let the queen of understood the question.
oh yes, mrs. Banks. All patriot! Yes, i heard you talking
to sam clark.
“

Don’t know why, but I am endlessly amused by these.

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn’t I.)

I’m in a strange town I’ve never seen before. It’s vaguely like downtown Minneapolis, but not. I’m in a kind of bar/club, and discover there are all sorts of doorways and stairwells leading to various [hidden] sections of it — so I explore. At some point I feel like I’ve been going down, down, down on one particular stair well for a very long time — it twists and turns now and then, but I don’t feel like I’m approaching anything… The building seems to become more decrepit, damp and cold the further down I go — but now I start seeing some posters nailed to the concrete walls, a few objects strewn about — old clothes, a chair on its side, a bunsen burner, a shoe, an electric heater… It seems that homeless people have squatted here, but it’s now abandoned.

Now I can hear distant voices below — clearly it’s not abandoned at all. I feel I should not really be here — someone lives down there. I don’t feel like I’m in danger, just that I’m imposing. But I do not turn back. There is an assault rifle propped up against the wall. Now more guns, of various sizes and calibers, all along the walls of the staircase… Finally I reach the bottom of the stairwell, and it’s very dark but I can hear a couple voices, and see a few figures in the distance (the basement is vast, and broken up into a variety of “rooms,” though there are no doors, just concrete walls acting as dividers). I am getting some very dirty looks. More guns, and lots of drugs, and young men in tattered filthy clothing, all staring at me, wondering who I am and what the fuck I’m doing here… Now more and more people — thugs and drug dealers, it seems — start coming out of the woodwork…

I don’t know what happens here, exactly, but somehow I am (or feel) threatened — like they’re going to kill me. Do they actually attack me? — I’m not even sure. But I run out and back up the stairs, grabbing each and every gun along the walls as I go, until my hands are full, the weight is immense and almost more than I can carry and remain standing, let alone run. But I keep running, up and out and down the street — people everywhere, and here I am with perhaps 15 guns, including a shotgun and two automatic assault rifles slung over my shoulder…

I don’t know if I see anyone chasing me — or if I even look back — but I seem certain that they are after me, that they will catch me, and will certainly kill me.

I duck into a large building — a restaurant, as it turns out. Fancy, upper class type. Run through it, trying not to run into people or draw attention to myself, but without slowing down either. It’s connected to a huge mall, many levels and countless stores… I keep running — up stairs, through shops, etc. I’m completely lost now — but at least that means I might be hard to find, too…

Now I find myself in yet another stairwell — down into a seedy bar. Graffiti on every wall. A foul smell. Inside, it’s pretty subdued — but there are maybe 5 or 6 shady looking fellows, massive biker types, all with beards, drinking. TV is on, muted, and no music is playing — it’s quiet and a bit eerie. Once again, guns everywhere. For whatever reason, I grab one of the assault rifles, cock it and point it at them. I steal as many of their guns as I can carry (how I can carry any more is mysterious), and leave again. No one tries to stop me.

I’m trying now to find my way out — to just leave and get the hell out of there, to go home (wherever that is). But I keep going in circles. I’m climbing down drain pipes, scaling fences, going up escalators, everywhere, end up outside but in a kind of enclosed foyer — a dead end — and have to go back and search again for a fucking exit… I’m starting to feel very trapped, very conspicuous, and am starting to lose my mind with frustration and anxiety…

I go through a series of glass doors, back into the mall — everyone is looking at me, including a couple of security guards up ahead.

Suddenly the drug dealers are right there behind me, entering through the glass doors, guns drawn and pointed at me. I run — towards the security guards, who now also have their guns drawn, pointed first at me and then at the group of thugs behind me and then back at me, no idea what the fuck is going on.

I dash into the midst of a crowd to hide, throw all my guns down (so I can blend in and not look like a criminal, and in order to move faster), keeping only one small one in a leather case. I duck down behind something, prepared to take a stand if necessary. (The cops are in a gun fight with the thugs at this point — maybe I’m safe.) I open the leather case, and it turns out not to be a gun at all — not even a little pistol; it’s a camera.

At this point bullets are flying everywhere, and people are screaming, staring, running, hiding… Many people, though, are taking photographs — many of them seem to be reporters, others just shoppers who want pictures… I take off my ski mask (at some point I started having this on) and put on a hat (fedora type — not sure where it came from) — take off my white coat, and throw it aside. I stand up, start taking pictures, acting as natural as I can — like a reporter. I even move in closer — trying to get a better shot (or pretending that is my intention). The security guards see me, look suspicious, but they buy it and ignore me. I keep taking pictures, and try to move toward an exit to escape……

Don’t know what happens next. Think that might have been the end of it.

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn’t I.)

This is what you might call an “Intermittant Blog”…

But — tonight — yea, it shall be a veritable blogging frenzy…

O.K. I’m from North Dakota, but now live in Minnesota (and have since 2001).

So, here are some “local” results as of a few minutes ago, as relates to “Super Tuesday” :

We trekked out to vote — not realizing we would end up standing outside in sub-zero weather for close to half an hour… But, we stuck around to at least drop our Obama votes in, before ducking the hell out of that caucus madhouse and getting the fuck back home….

(Yeah, lots of places apparently had traffic jams, really long lines, and/or ran out of ballots.)

Not sure why anyone really likes Romney. And, for the record, I do NOT like Ron Paul. With the one exception of his stance on the Iraq war, he pretty much represents the exact opposite of my political ideology. Nevertheless… I do like to see a “subversive” candidate do well — and am proud of the Ron Paul support in Montana. (But then I guess when you live in a compound, constantly thinking the “Feds” are coming to get you any day now, voting the Anarchist ticket is not really a stretch…) Dr. Paul did quite well in North Dakota and Minnesota as well.

Mainly I guess I’m just proud of my home state, North Dakota, for A. voting STRONGLY for Obama and B. for NOT voting for Hucklebee. (Ron Paul actually beat Huckabee, 21% to 19%.)

Still, though… Romney????? WTF??

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn’t I.)

A very good question, indeed.

No reason, really.

Perhaps because I can — as I have officially accepted, now, the self-absorbed and pointless nature of this here blog. And thus it is more of a personal journal — (which just happens to exist for anyone in the world to read, should they so desire).

While searching for something completely unrelated, I happened upon this old email (“Spotlight” is a strange and beautiful thing…).

So, without further ado: An 8-Year-Old Email To My Brother:

“

Date: Sun, 11 Apr 1999 19:09:47 -0700 (PDT)
From: “Dustin Hansen” <——————> | Block Address | Add to Address Book
Subject: tuna-salad recipe declassified to the elite
To: “Shane A Hansen” < ——————> >

High, they’re, Coloradicalisticals. First[ly] (and perhaps
foremost[ly], though I’m not convinced), I wish (and am gratified to
have been granted the opportunity of fullfilling forthcoming wish
thanks to the glories of modern technology, without which I would be
forced to lick glue for greater than .8 seconds) to thank you with most
of my heart (the rest having been leased out to my pet gosling or
reserved for special occasions, such as birthdays, funerals, attacks,
aches, murmurs, or when snuck up upon from behind unwittingly) to thank
you muy mucho for the gift bestowed upon me recently in celebration of
my not having been aborted. It drew me into a lengthy consideration of
art invovling aesthetics and form vs. or following function–but after
a minute 48 seconds I resolved to suspend judgment and thereupon
snuffed out a butt in it. It seems fully operative. (Though it has
some trouble with the really high notes.) Welt, I am theoretically in
the middle of researching for a 12-page sociology paper that is due in
two days, so . . . Incidentally, the following are snippets of
pseudo-philosophical rabbit-hole-link-sites I ran across (or fell into)
while hypothetically researching, and thought you might get a kick in
the teeth or the pants out of one or both of them, so here you are.
(The site is worth checking out too, if you still have access to the
Net somewhere; just type in “virtualschool” on whatever search engine.)
So enjoy and back to work then you slovenly ‘crassinater.

dustiny

Women, Fire, and Dangerous Things

What Categories Reveal about the Mind

by George Lakoff

The University of Chicago Press; (C) 1987.
Lakoff, George.
P37 .L344 1987
Psycholinguistics. Categorization (Psychology), Cognition.
Thought and thinking. Reason.
Chicago, IL : University of Chicago Press, c1987.
86-19136

Page 92

Borges attributes the following taxonomy of the animal kingdon to an
ancient Chinese encyclopedia entitled the Celestial
Emporium of Benevolent Knowledge.

On those remote pages it is written that animals are divided into

those that belong to the Emporer
embalmed ones
those that are trained
suckling pigs
mermaids
fabulous ones
stray dogs
those that are included in this classification
those that tremble as if they were mad
innumerable ones
those drawn with a very fine camel’s hair brush
others
those that have just broken a flower vase
those that resemble flies from a distance
(Borges 1966 p 108).

Borges of course, deals with the fantastic. These not only are not
natural human cateogires — they could not be natural
human categories. But part of what makes this passage art, rather than
mere fantasy, is that it comes close to the
impression a Western reader gets when reading descriptions of
nonwestern languages and cultures. The fact is that
people around the world categorize things in ways that both boggle the
Western mind and stump Western linguists and
antropologists.

An excellent example is the classification of things in the world that
occurs in traditional Dyirbal, an aboriginal language
of Australia. The classification is built into the language, as is
common in the world’s languages. Whenever a Dyirbal
speaker uses a non in a sentence, the noun must be preceded by a
variant of one of four words: bayi, balan, balam, bala.
These words classify all objects in the Dyirbal universe, and to speak
Dyirbal correctly one must use the right classifier
before each noun. Here is a brief version of the Dyirbal classifcation
of objects in the universe, as described by R.M.W.
Dixon (1982):

Bayi: men, kangaroos, possums, bats, most snakes, most fishes,
some birds, most insects, the moon, storms,
rainbows, boomerangs, some spears, etc.
Balan: women, anything connected with water or fire, bandicoots,
dogs, platypus, echidna, some snakes, some
fishes, most birds, fireflies, scorpions, crickets, the stars,
shields, some spears, some trees, etc.
Balam: all edible fruit and the plants that bear them, tubers,
ferns, honey, cigarettes, wine, cake.
Bala: parts of the body, meat, bees, wind, yamsticks, some
spears, most trees, grass, mud, stones, noises,
language, etc.

It is a list that any Borges fan would take delight in.
“

And, well, there it is.

(But, then, I should really just shut my bloody trap. Shouldn’t I.)