When I was little I had this recurring nightmare about Prince. Now I don’t mean I was a precocious urban ironist who totally “got” the music and his presence would occasionally seep along my dreamscapes in which I’d already be dining with Turgenev and Steve Perry and then Aquinas would burst in and be all like, “Where are my puddings? Who ate all my extra puddings?” and then we’d laugh and listen to “Here I Go Again” by Whitesnake because even in my dream body there’s not one sincere bone.
Fuck no. When I was seven, I didn’t know what irony was and my only interests were eating my boogers and watching Freakazoid. So, I had this recurring nightmare about Prince. Basically, I grew up on a cul-de-sac and my house had a steep driveway, and I remember standing in my garage looking down the driveway and hearing music and laughter and having this terrible urge to flee. The odor of evil could carry even on that brisk wine country breeze.
Then the chase would commence, in the way you know events as they unfold in dreams because pervasive dread informs you. And I would be on my tricycle, peddling desperately for the entrance of the cul-de-sac, little handlebar streamers flying. Then the perspective would shift and behind me he would rise: Prince, on a colossal tricycle of his own making, purple and embellished to resemble a grand parade float, on which his minions danced and fornicated in the tissue blossoms. And all I could do was urgently peddle and the dream would end just as Prince was upon me.
I had this nightmare about six or seven times until I hit age twelve and got really into Prince. I mention because last night I had a dream about sleeping with Prince, and it actually wasn’t weird. Well, I mean it was obviously weird once I woke up and thought about it, but while it was happening it seemed reasonable.
She’s not lying. Brainland actually lives her life with these thoughts swirling around her mind.
