I was walking through a downtown. The city was unidentified, and the day (for day it was) was brisk and well-lit.

I passed a bus shelter and proceeded up a concrete sidewalk on a slight incline past an official-looking edifice: a university, perhaps, or a bank, or a government building. I paused when The Joker came up to my elbow. Of all the ones there are in the annals of print and celluloid, this one was Cesar Romero...wearing Jack Nicholson's costume.

Of a sudden, I became utterly drained of energy, experiencing a sensation of exhaustion so profound as to be iconic. I was not alone: I was aware that the same sensation gripped everyone in the city simultaneously, as we all sank to one knee and showed the same inability to raise our heads.

The experience was temporary, however. After a moment, we stood and continued on our business. Looking down to the level of the cross street, I saw that the foot traffic contained at least three more Jokers, who had also succumbed to the inexplicable drain.

The Joker who had been standing next to me nodded and walked off to the left, calling for a staff meeting. The city became a building, laid out in a dingy, once-antiseptic manner like an old hospital or elementary school. I walked in the direction opposite the one that The Joker had taken and entered a room with voices; being one of the henchmen, I was going to attend the meeting. The voices, which belonged to a small number of rather nondescript individuals of various types and sexes, engaging in water-cooler-style gossip, which came to an awkward halt as I entered.

I was told that I shouldn't be in there, since the meeting was only for certain of the gang. I made perfunctory apologies with the usual palms-out arm wave to ward off animosity, and made my exit through the other door of the room--this was The Joker we were contending with, after all, and someone with that sort of psychosis will very definitely kill for less. Painfully, messily, and with extreme prejudice.

I walked around a corner (the hallways and rooms of this building were oddly connected, but connected nonetheless) and found a long low chaise longue upholstered in shiny dark mulberry vinyl.
The Joker who had been standing next to me earlier walked past and gave me a contemplative, sidelong look through the hallway door as a I lay down on the couch and

woke up.

I was a high-schooler. Again, or still, a high-schooler, I could not say. I can say that this was not a dream of memory; the school that I was standing before was not the one I had gone to in "real life" as a youngster. It was at least two stories tall, squat and grey, possibly three or four stories if one considered the fact of a sloping driveway that led to an entrance below street level.

It was the first day the school year. That I could tell; I was being dropped off by my father, who in this case was Vince McMahon, powder blue suit and all. As I left the late-model black Lincoln Continental that dad had driven us in, two things became apparent: I was a music student, as I was carrying the Coffin Case that I use in the waking world, and that the body I was using wasn't the one that I usually wear. Nor was it the one, as may be expected, that is worn by Shane McMahon. It was in fact the one that belongs to Nick Simmons, the son of Gene Simmons.

Vince took hold of the amp head that I apparently was bringing with me (as my own hands were full--case in one hand, bag in the other), and preceeded me with his characteristic swagger towards the school. My actual age didn't seem to have dawned on the wrestling patriarch, as he began loudly bellowing the "T-I-O-N" song from The Electric Company in what seemed to be a gentle reminder of the sort of thing I was to remain aware of during my education that day. Rather than being embarassed as any right-minded high schooler would be (considering the crowd of students that bustles about the outside of a school first thing in the morning on the first day), I was actually rather touched, and could only chuckle in appreciation.

We made our way down the aforementioned driveway, through the open half of the gate of a chain-link fence that towered a full story above us. At this point, the school, which was a bit upscale and pristine on the side facing the road, became more stereotypically urban, the sort of thing you'd see in a 1970s TV show.

We turned back towards the road, to take the metal stairs that led into the building, and mingled with the throng of new students bustling about with a purpose. We were to sign in, and set up classes and whatnot, and almost immediately Vince and I became separated. This was more irritating than perturbing, however, and in spite of never having been in this school before, I determined to simply keep moving forward until I saw an administrative office that I recognised as such.

I walked on, case still in hand, for the length of one corridor--the tile walls matching the worn linoleum matching the middling flourescent light: all a sort of dingy yellow--until I spotted to the right an open doorway that I thought was a nurse's office, in spite of only being able to see a bit of mod wooden office furniture from the angle at which I was approaching.

I was inexplicably convinced that Vince was within--I may or may not have heard his voice--and was debating entering the room, or simply pressing on, when I

woke up.

I had originally intended to make this blog one of musicianship, but, as I predicted, my capriciousness has dictated that I shall separate out this blog as my new Dream Journal, and write of music and art alike in the primary blog...