Sunday Morning Nightmare from audelising on 8tracks Radio.

Sunday Morning Nightmare


I’ve got a million things I should be doing right now, none of which will be getting done today. I’m blaming the rain. Besides, I’ve got a whole pot of coffee to drink, and it’s not going to empty itself. So, instead of donning my fabulous running gear, or getting groceries, I’m going to tell you about the dream I had last night.

Priorities, man. 

Sometimes I wonder why I dream the things I do. Proof: I once dreamed I was exploding. I was floating in space (yes, I am implying I was a star. Shut up.) and then all of a sudden, I wasn’t. I was minding my own business, floating about, and then BOOM! Blood and flesh all over the place, raining down on Earth like some kind of fucked up plague. What triggered that, you know? It’s not like I’d been reading about stars or anything.

And then, there are those dreams that you KNOW were triggered by stuff you heard/saw during the day. Some time yesterday, there was a Donovan song playing (he of ‘Sunshine Superman‘ fame? The ‘Hurdy Gurdy Man‘ guy?), and for some reason that became the catalyst for whatever nonsense I dreamed last night. It was one of those really vivid dreams that feels real, but logically you know it isn’t. And no matter how much you try to convince yourself it isn’t real, THAT then becomes part of the dream, so you’re stuck in a vicious cycle and have to force yourself awake. And when you do, you reach for the bottle of whiskey by the bed cry joyfully at the fact that you aren’t really going to get deported for murdering Donovan over his refusal to approve a video.

Okay, look. I wasn’t the one who murdered Donovan. It was Paris. I was just dragged into it like a SUCKER, because even in my dreams I can’t seem to make the right decisions. We had just gotten a new project that involved bringing people in to interview them about something or other. We needed to get them on tape, and then have them approve/review the footage for use, and sign a release form. So they’d go into Paris’ office, do their autographing business and leave. Except a few people were being buttheads and never actually came out. Not that that wasn’t weird or anything. Dream reality is kinda jacked that way. I mean, c’mon. Exploding. You know?

At some point during the day, Donovan came in and I get an IM from Paris to come to her office to try and convince him to sign the release form. As soon as I open the (glass) door, I noticed there’s a lot of blood all over, only to find Paris looking down on Donovan’s body cut up into cubes, ‘for easier disposal. We really need to get him to fit in the closet with the others.’

Right. In the closet. With the others. 

It’s at that point I realised it was just a dream, but to be perfectly honest these were my first thoughts:




And then the panic set in. If I didn’t tell on her, I was going to prison/get deported. And if I did tell on her, I would end up in prison for being privy to her plan and not telling about it sooner. I was in a pickle. So instead of doing the right thing, I figured it’d buy me time if I helped Paris put the Donovan cubes in storage. She did say no one would miss him, and who am I to contradict her? I was very worried that the other people would be more problematic because one of them was fairly notorious and people would notice their absence pretty much within the next couple of days. And that’s when I decided I’d probably need to get up because I was making plans for escapes and thinking of alibis, and WHY IN THE HELL DID I HELP PACKAGE DONOVAN IN TINY BOXES AND INTO A BOOKSHELF?!

This is the short version. It took A LOT of convincing myself to wake up, and on doing so, I forgot a lot of the details. 

Oh, and here’s the track listing for the mix.

1 • Sunday Morning - Margo Guryan
2 • Sunday Sunday - Blur
3 • Sunday Baker - Total Control
4 • Sunday Morning Nightmare - Sham 69
5 • Sunday Morning Coming Down - Johnny Cash
6 • Sunday - Nick Drake
7 • Sunday the Third - Tripsichord Music Box
8 • Lazy Sunday - Small Faces