Advance

Remnant Advance, circa 1986

 

I dreamed I was at a Bible Study retreat, or as they were called back in the cult, an Advance. Yeah, they were just that obstinately contrarian, they had to display how opposite they were at any opportunity. While other churches went off to retreat from the world, we would use up our vacations and sick days and spend two weeks getting non-stop teachings to "advance" our Biblical knowledge. At least the setting was nice: snowy Big Bear in the middle of winter, with unheated cabins and just enough hot water for a 3 minute shower, provided no one went over.

I'd driven up there alone, via the usual route. It resembled the Ice Road in Alaska this time of year, very treacherous. I made it up without incident, but saw several instances of those who were not so lucky, in the form of abandoned vehicles or tire tracks that went off the road into an unknown abyss. 

Once there, of course, it was time for teachings. I was late, so I had to find seating in the periphery of the chalet. Robert Leon, the demagogue pastor, was droning on to a rapt crowd, but he noted my arrival and made mention of the fact that I was late. More shaming and rebukes would be forthcoming, but he went on with his teaching for the moment.

I was immediately bored and began walking around the dining area. Kim Spencer had made a giant strudel which covered an entire 3x6 cafeteria table. It drooped over the edge lazily. I picked a few cherries that would have otherwise fallen on the floor and scooped a handful of the crust mixed with filling, just enough so that the dessert looked symmetrical on the table. It was for the aesthetic, I told myself, I wasn't sneaking an early desert.

Cher didn't see it that way. The pop icon had been watching and asked if I'd gotten enough. Damn. I was getting called out for everything, and it was just the first day.

Martin Leon called me from somewhere on the ice road. He'd gotten there before me but had to go back to town for something or other.

"Hey, dude," he said, "Check out this music that they are playing on the local radio station." He put the phone up the car speaker, and I heard some Jimi Hendrix come through my phone.

"It must be on a loop," I told him, "They were playing the same song when I drove up." It was "Fire" or "Purple Haze," one of the classics. 

I found myself with a boxful of deformed kittens in my hands. They were all gray, some eyeless and some legless. They were eerily, pathetically cute, all writhing and mewing as I stroked their misshapen bodies. I hastened to put them back in the box, fearing that they wouldn't make it far in the hostile environment of the lodge. 

Cher's daughter Chastity was there, running a vacuum cleaner. She looked like a younger Cher and not like the amorphous trans-being that she/he is in real life. It seemed that everywhere I wanted to sit, she was about to vacuum, so I was displaced several times. 

She was wearing a black one piece swimsuit that showed off her legs. Her legs were long and lithe, perfect except for the glaring defect of a 50 cent piece sized hole mid-thigh, through which one could see clear to the other side. The hole was perfectly round and appeared to be of natural origin, or if it had been a wound, it had been carefully reconstructed to look like an intentional utilitarian upgrade.  

"Is this uncomfortable for you?" I asked, poking my fingers through the opening, as if to prove that I could indeed reach through to the other side.

"Not at all," she said, unperturbed. 

I rubbed some toothpaste around the circular opening in a swirling motion, giving it a nice wintergreen ring. 

"I suppose you need me to move again?" I asked, noting that she hadn't turned off the vacuum and was hovering close to me.

"She's on a roll," Cher called out from the other room, "It's best to just stay out of the room for the time being."

I followed Cher's voice down a hallway that branched off into a couple of bedrooms. I surmised that she must have been using the bathroom in one of these bedrooms because she shut the door abruptly and exited a bit awkwardly upon my arrival. The lingering smell of poop also clued me in.

I needed to use the restroom too, so I was going to just have to brave the smell for a moment or two. There was a wooden toilet nestled in a set of wraparound bookshelves that took up two walls, three if you counted the notched out corner which housed the toilet. I prepared to sit down on the oddly placed crapper, but the sound of Chastity's vacuum cleaner approaching gave me stage fright. 

That's about it. I don't have any clue what this disparate potpourri of a dream means, other than maybe I just have to poop.

----

"This is Dr. Lee's office, calling for Andrew Golding," a voice on the phone said cheerily. 

"Who may I ask is calling, and what is this about?" I asked, a little grumpily. I'm suspicious of anyone calling my house, whether they know my name or not. 

"This is Dr. Lee's office," she repeated, "We're calling about a referral from Dr. Qin about a melanoma on your shoulder."

FML. I guess this was bound to be my luck. The dermatologist had shaved off a layer of skin from my left forearm last week, and I hadn't heard back from them with the results. She'd also taken a chunk out of my right shoulder, a small spot of which I'd been unaware, but that she said looked suspect.

Now, I'm going back in for two more separate procedures, bringing the total to 3 within a month's time.