tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57646754620869323272024-03-20T21:35:40.362-07:00and then i couldn't breatheit's a dream journal. categorized by themes and symbols and emotions.mhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11731917839844470875noreply@blogger.comBlogger530125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5764675462086932327.post-7087363392810811782017-04-04T14:09:00.000-07:002017-04-04T14:14:59.001-07:00Sunshine in Spain<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Last night, I dreamt I was in Spain with my new manager. I walked down a long flight of shallow wooden stairs to the beach, the sunset was beautiful it was purple and pink the whole
sky was lit up that way, with the palm trees as a backdrop. I took a photo and
posted it on Facebook, then I remembered nobody knew I was there. I thought
that was a bad idea. I put my phone back in my pocket and forgot about it. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We were walking through sand and I remember thinking <i>this
is why I don't go to the beach alone, because I wouldn't be able to run away if something happened. </i>We were discussing what to do next, I said I wanted
lunch. He said he refused to eat octopus, and that was all they served. An
older lady overheard us, we were walking up the stairs and she was walking down.
She had painted on eyebrows, but they were so small and short I just remember staring at
them as she talked. She said "they serve more than just octopus, it's like a
seaside soiree. They do serve only seafood, but there's more than
octopus." As we were walking away, my manager said "we only just ate a half hour ago." I asked him what time it was, I said I was hungry when I really was not. He said it was only 10am. I asked "what does it matter, the company is
paying for our lunch anyway?" He was silent, which made me wonder if that was
not the case. </span></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I remembered I only had a few dollars in my purse. We walked by a
display with a cooler full of octopus and squid. They were all bright green in color, but otherwise looked normal. There were also larger pieces that were just round octopus heads. I just
remember there were flies all over it and that made me feel sick. We tried to shoo
the flies away so I could take a picture. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: blue; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We kept walking and saw these beautiful
cats everywhere. They were just wandering around. I distinctly remember one
that jumped up near us was all black and looked like a panther. It had a beautiful black coat and jumped with elegance and grace. I walked out of a
door and said out loud "this cat does not have a collar, should I not let her out the
door? I don't want her to get away." A stranger, an Indian man, said "we don't do
ouchies here." I looked at him puzzled and asked what he meant. He said "we do
not allow collars they are outlawed" and made a gesture like his finger going
across his neck and hanging himself. I let the cat out next to me, she was
black and white and very clean. I was petting her when the panther came back. I
noticed that the panther had a little bit of white on her chest, so I convinced
myself that it wasn't really a panther just a neat looking cat. I started to walk
down the same steps again, and the sun was shining. I asked what happened as
the sun had just set. I asked a stranger if it was like Alaska where there's a constant
light period. The woman laughed at me and said "of course. The sun only sets for
a short time here." I remember thinking that I didn't understand why I never
knew that. Then I woke up. </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5764675462086932327.post-10883139603115391922016-04-02T20:50:00.000-07:002016-04-02T20:50:35.768-07:00Lounging with the LadyMy alarm didn't go off and I didn't wake up until the time I was already supposed to be at work. Freaking out and wondering how to get there before the boss noticed, I slowly crawled out of bed and started getting ready. Somehow Lady Gaga appeared out of nowhere about the time I was ready to leave and offered me a ride. First though, she needed to make a few stops. <br />
<br />
Gaga was dressed in white jeans and a pink t-shirt. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she wore a ton of wild makeup. She had the reddest lipstick I had ever seen. We climbed into an old pickup truck that had seen better days. We didn't talk much on the way there, although she reminded me that she had a few stops to make beforehand. <br />
<br />
The first stop was at an art store where Gaga took her sweet time deciding on which painting she wanted to purchase. We moved on to an office building across town and in the opposite direction of my job. Lady Gaga went into an office while I hung out in the front room with the receptionist. Some guy came to check on me after awhile and I told him I needed to get to work. He said that Gaga was conducting business and couldn't be rushed. I sat there seething for several minutes before resigning myself to the fact that I probably wasn't going to make it to work after all. sprinkleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09081967372702276914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5764675462086932327.post-59840641171083304842015-01-25T22:27:00.000-08:002015-05-20T17:54:41.548-07:00Dear Stress, Let's Break UpI think this was a stress dream. I'm a college senior and things have been a little overwhelming lately. On the last day of the semester before the holidays, I got sick. I had a fever for 2 days, a cold for 2 days, and then felt very woozy on the fifth day. The next week was fine, and I got to enjoy the lack of responsibility. The third and final week before school - my heat went out, I lost a tooth, and had to have a locksmith come out to fix my doorknobs. The following week I went back to school and was immediately overwhelmed with the massive amount of work I'll have to do this semester. It's all been very stressful.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>*******</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I was at home trying to get some homework done when there was a knock at the front door. It was a handyman, and he got right to work. Whatever he was doing was noisy, and I couldn't focus on my homework. I'd gone grocery shopping earlier in the day and had a few things I hadn't gotten around to putting away yet sitting on the table. I'm not sure what the handyman was fixing, but he wasn't working in the kitchen. For some reason, I asked him if the groceries were in his way. He came in to look at them and said no, but that I really needed to put the cleaning solution away so that my children wouldn't get into it. I told him that I didn't have any children, but that I would put it away anyway. I opened the cupboard door under the kitchen sink and discovered a puddle of water. I stared at it for several seconds, then decided I needed to contact a plumber. I sat down on a chair in the living room with a cell phone and phone book. After making a few phone calls, I looked down at the cell in my hands. It was an older version flip phone. I thought to myself, "I am clearly not one of the cool kids with a cell phone like this!" </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>*******</b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
And that was that!</div>
sprinkleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09081967372702276914noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5764675462086932327.post-12183747154375800372015-01-03T20:22:00.000-08:002015-01-03T20:23:52.255-08:00We need to talk, but first let's make pies!No one has posted here in a long while, so I thought that I would, and hopefully other people will start to again as well.<br />
<br />
My father passed away about 3.5 years ago. Every now and again, I'll see him in a dream. He almost never says anything and often seems to just be in the background observing. This is my most recent dream that included him. He was wearing the jean jacket and the hat that my mom gave me after his death.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
*****</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I was in the kitchen doing something (not sure what exactly) when I heard someone knocking on my door from the garage. I opened the door and found my mom standing there wearing one of my lacy, see through summer shirts and no jacket in the middle of winter. Her red corvette (that she had Y-E-A-R-S ago) was parked in my garage. I was wondering where my car was and how she got her car into my garage without the garage door opener. She pushed her way in and said that we needed to talk, but first she needed to make pies. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I don't really remember her actually making the pies, mostly I just remember them being almost finished and about ready to bake. She made about 5 of them. While she was working, I asked her what was so important that she needed to discuss. She said she wouldn't get into it until after the pies were done baking. I looked out the kitchen window and saw my dad sitting on a lawn chair out in the back yard in the snow. I didn't see his face, just his back, but I knew it was him. I asked my mom why my dad didn't come into the house. I don't remember her answer, but that's the last thing I remember before waking up. </div>
sprinkleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09081967372702276914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5764675462086932327.post-66247825968100612452013-03-10T10:12:00.002-07:002013-03-10T10:12:50.709-07:00Tornadoes and fraternizing<br />
I was at work and in my dream, we were on the 12th floor (in real life it's the 7th). There are ceiling to floor windows. The wind was picking up I looked out the window, and saw black clouds swirling very fast. The whole sky was dark and in seconds, a tornado was produced. The funnel swirled from the sky to the ground. It was long and narrow, and it was very vivid in my dream. The wind was whistling and I remembered thinking "<i>this doesn't sound like the freight train as people so often describe it</i>." The winds sounded like high pitched whistling. A man who works in my office in real life, Steve, is someone I have a crush on. In my dream, I saw him jump down to the floor with a frightened look on his face as the tornado was right outside our window. He was wearing a light blue button down shirt, and put his hands over his head. I did the same. I was so excited to see a tornado, but then realized we're on the 12th floor and I feared the building would collapse. It went by us without any damage. I remember saying "I can now cross that off my bucket list. I've always wanted to see a tornado" to one of my coworkers.<br />
<br />
I was then walking up stairs in a residence, they had carpet on them. Steve was sitting on a couch by himself, with a large window behind him. He smiled when he saw me, and asked me to come over. His teeth are perfect and white, his hair very short an always kept nice, light brown in color and blue eyes. He took his shirt off, and exposed his hairy chest. I felt giggly and strangely comfortable with him. He smiled at me throughout the dream. I was sitting on his lap facing him, when my coworker Sandy came upstairs. Steve covered himself with a shirt, and she didn't notice he had taken it off. She asked if I knew whether or not the Christmas tree outside was still standing after the storm. I told her I would go and check.<br />
<br />
I walked outside onto a concrete patio, and saw a sting of lights and a pole, but it appeared the tree had been stripped down to nearly nothing. I turned around and saw lights that were black, looked burned, and were attached to shorter pole going down to the ground as if they previously served a decorative purpose. I came back in and told her what I'd found. She said she wanted to go back out and see if the video games that were left outside were still there. She said they were clipped to the side of the house. In my mind, I envisioned them to look like green plastic clips holding a video game case when she told me about them.<br />
<br />
Steve was yelling something downstairs to another person who asked him a question. I can't remember what he was saying. I just remember him constantly smiling at me, taking his shirt off again and we were holding each other. The person he was yelling to was coming up the stairs, when I woke up.<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5764675462086932327.post-49424814704112153742012-11-19T05:30:00.002-08:002012-11-19T05:31:06.428-08:00Car towing and bloody treesThis was very brief dream I had in the early morning, after I hit the snooze button and fell asleep for about 15 minutes...<br />
<br />
I was staying with a friend and had my car parked in the lot at her apartment. I hadn't left the house in a couple days. When I did leave, I couldn't find my car. There were about 10 cars in the parking lot and the space where I parked mine wss empty. My friend said "your car may have been towed." She said it so nonchalant, I was pissed. I said "what do you mean? You said it was ok to park here." She said "well it's the commuter lot for people who take the train, and if you park here during the week without a permit they will tow it." Now, I'm really angry. I started to yell at her, as I'm thinking about how much money is in my bank account. I said "well how much is THIS going to cost me?" She said "nothing. I will call these 2 guys, they will bring out a lift and they can get it out for us. They will authorize your credit card for $180 but it won't go through and charge."<br />
<br />
We walked to the rental office to ask about my car. She no sooner gave the address, when the two women in the office said "oh yes we towed that car." I saw the address handwritten on a piece of paper and they had some paperwork in their hand. Both of the women were wearing glasses, were about 40ish years old with dark hair but I don’t remember seeing their faces. More paperwork was strewn all over both desks. I asked why. One of them turned to my friend and said "she is not allowed to go swimming in our pool either. That car hasn't moved in 2 days and we found egg sacks on the tree branch on your balcony." They showed me a photo of what looked like tree branches, with large white tunnels on it about the size of a sausage. I felt sick looking at it. I envisioned hundreds of spiders coming out of it. She snapped me out of my daze when she said "you two aren't taking care of your apartment and you won't be able to use the same privileges as everyone else." I argued "but I don't even live here! The car hasn't moved in 2 days because I haven't been working."<br />
<br />
My friend asked if they were going to charge for the tow. They said "I don't know. You have to concern yourself with getting the infected branches off of your balcony."Then, I was wandering around a hallway at a college dorm. I had just moved in there. I was looking for a guy who I had only recently started talking to, I wanted to ask him for help. When I found him, he seemed excited to see me. He had a short beard, a baseball hat and brown eyes. I didn't get a good look at his face. I asked if he could do me a favor. He said "of course! Anything" he had a wide smile. I started to explain about the branches and said they needed to be cut down. I no sooner finished my sentence, when he said "ok sure no problem." I asked "do you know what you're really getting yourself into here?" He smiled and said "don't worry about it."
He asked for the address, and my friend was there with me again. She said it was at Seaton Hall and I saw a picture of it in my mind. I envisioned a three-story building, with white balconies. The vision was in black and white. I said "oh yea" as I remembered where it was, and we started to explain how to get there.<br />
<br />
We were at the apartment, and he was on the balcony holding the tree branches when he asked "do you know what this means? He took one of the branches, bent it in half and blood started to come out. There was an opening on it, that was darker brown than the rest, with blood inside of it. He pointed at it and said "this kind of infection can hurt you and your family." He had a look of great concern on his face. Then, I woke up.
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5764675462086932327.post-71578974042403199032012-09-03T06:22:00.002-07:002012-09-03T06:30:44.464-07:00Video store and creamed corn<div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;">I pulled up at a movie store with my ex husband. I told him we should have gone back home first, because I had a buy one, get one free coupon. He said he didn't care, it was only a $2 rental anyway.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;">We went inside and I was standing at the counter while he looked around. I was waiting to talk to someone about a rental, but the woman was in conversation with a customer. She had blonde hair, kind of a big hairdo like a bouffant, and big glasses. She was sort of interrogating the woman in front of her, she was an older also. The movie case was on the counter and it was very large, like it had 3 vHS tapes in it. The woman behind the counter was asking about the movie, prying her for information about how much she knew about the movie. The customer was stumbling over her words, as if she hadn't watched the movie. The woman stared at her, narrowing her eyes and said "wasn't it interesting when they started going out and the fights they had?" The customer nervously laughed and said "um yea." She was then looking over her shoulder around the store.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;">The customer walked away and the woman said "so she wanted a refund on the full purchase price, but she didn't even watch the movie or return the popcorn." She rang up $6.42 on the register and laughed, shaking her head. I remember thinking, she still owed the customer a lot of money like another $45.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;">People were viewing the movies on small TV's that were set up at many stations around the store. It looked like computer stations on desks, all very close together. The desks were light colored wood with a laquer over them, so they were shiny, and they had a curve shape to them like an S. </span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;">I was walking through the store trying to find an empty place, but people were everywhere. I found one that was empty, but the desk was turned the wrong way and I couldn't reach the keyboard or monitor.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;">I found my ex husband in the store watching a movie. I poked him on the side, and he gave me a very angry look. I remembered thinking at that time, "he's so much different than the man I just dated. Why did I go back to him? My friends are going to really let me have it for this decision." My mind was racing about our relationship and all the times we fought. I thought of how it ended and I swore I would never be with him again. I thought about all the times I'd cried over him, as I stood there staring at him watching some movie and ignoring me. I thought I should end all contact with him before we got any further into it.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;">I started to look at the monitor next to him to watch a movie, but I couldn't remember the movie I wanted to watch. I wanted to see whatever movie the customer was talking about earlier, but I didn't know anything about it or the title. I walked back toward the counter, and found the same employee who interrogated the woman earlier walking by. I stopped her and asked generically if I could get a movie. She said "what movie?" She smiled at me, like I was some stupid girl. I said "you know that movie with that one guy, I can't remember his name. He got together with that woman, I can't remember her name either." She said "what is the name of it?" I said "I can't remember." She asked "what did the cover look like?" I thought it had two people, maybe in a wheat field, but I really wasn't sure. She asked if I wanted to preview something. I said yes.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;">I went and laid down on a bed that looked like a hospital bed on wheels, but with a big thick foam mattress. The mattress, sheets and the blanket were all cream colored like the wood in the store. I pulled the covers up and put some headphones on to listen. </span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;">My cell phone rang. When I looked at the number, I thought it was my ex husband looking for me. I answered it, and it was my friend's father. He was saying in the background to my friend "is it ok if I tell her where we are?" She mumbled something, then he said "we are at a furniture store and she wanted to know if you had to pay for delivery when you bought your bedroom set." I said "I did but they bring the furniture up one flight of stairs and put it together for you. They will even take apart your old set, so you don't have to worry about it." I envisioned the old set she had, and recalled the story she told me of how difficult it was to get it into her room. He was repeating what I said, then he said "but they won't deliver it to the second floor." I clarified "they will, in your house there is only one set of stairs. They will bring it up the one flight of stairs." The woman who worked at the video store was staring at me the movie case in her hand. It looked like she was waiting to talk to me. I started to feel rushed in my conversation. My friend said "well I can hoist it up into my bedroom window." I said "they deliver - aren't you listening to me? You don't have to take it through the window, they carried the boxes into my room and set it up. You would only have to move your current set out of the way." She said "Oh really? I don't think I'm ready for this right now, it's too much work." She seemed irritated and her father was trying to reason with her in the background. I said "I told you they deliver because I thought that would encourage you - not discourage you. I don't think you're understanding what I'm saying to you." She rushed off the phone.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;">The woman approached me with a video and I realized I hadn't been wearing my clothes anymore. I was naked under the blanket. I hurriedly tried to put them back on, while she was talking. I hoped no one would notice.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Georgia, serif;">I heard my friend Jen's voice calling to me and when I looked over, there was a stairway leading up to another level where a kitchen was. She was putting away dinner she'd made and asked me if I wanted some corn. I said "no thanks" and when I turned back around, I was in her house, in the middle of the living room and laying on the same bed. She came over and said "I knew we shouldn't have made so much, I really don't like creamed corn. My father insisted that I make it because everyone usually eats it all." She was dumping a colander upside down, onto what looked like a bucket on the floor. I wondered why she didn't do that in the sink, then I woke up.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5764675462086932327.post-59261336090780282352012-05-15T16:23:00.001-07:002012-05-15T16:23:36.149-07:00The crushI had a dream I was at a guy named Kyle's house. In real life, I've always had a wicked infatuation crush on him. There were
men all around drinking and laughing, all of them in jeans and tshirts. I was hanging on Kyle a lot and I couldn't stop smiling. We were
looking at and adoring each other. There was no doubt about what was our minds.<br />
<br />
He was
drinking Jack Daniels. I smelled it and immediately I felt like I was going to vomit. I
needed water. I grabbed a plastic cup out of the cabinet and when I tried to fill it, I noticed there were
frozen green beans in it. I dumped them in the sink and didn't want anyone to
know, so I pushed them into the disposal. I filled the cup while pushing the green beans down and drank some water. They were all laughing
and doing shots, raising the glasses to "toast" one another.<br />
<br />
I walked back over and said "I used to be able to drink it but now the smell makes
me sick." We were all talking, I remember thinking one guy looked familiar but I
couldn't remember his name. I hinted to Kyle I wanted to go to his room. He
smiled, and his gorgeous face with perfect white teeth reminded me why I always had this crush. We walked up carpeted stairs. He
turned on a light and this room was full of plastic partitions with blankets and
no pillows. I thought" there's no privacy? You sleep with other people here? No
mattresses??" He leaned in to kiss me, we smiled at one another and I said "you're a much different
person since you got rid of Candi (his ex)."<br />
<br />
He took my hand and led me to a different room that
looked like a hostel. It had bunk beds and all of them were made up nicely. He
said he had to pay $40 to sleep there. I said I could pay it but I only had a
credit card with me, I had no cash. We started to kiss again and a crowd of people
flooded into the room. I sat down on a bed and noticed a second later a girl was
there behind me. I apologized and went to move, she touched my arm and said it was ok. She had a warm smile and big eyes. I
told Kyle I left my purse downstairs and I was worried about leaving it there. I
asked the girl if the homeless people would be offended if I went to get it, I
didn't want them to think I didn't trust them. She said "oh no not at all, but
they would never take anything from your purse." Then I woke up.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5764675462086932327.post-82077014644324261762012-03-23T14:01:00.005-07:002012-03-23T14:35:08.750-07:00Mr. Clinton's legs and Mr. Cantat's toothpickI haven't been keeping track of my dreams for a while, but I just thought this recent pair of celebrity cameos was amusing.<br /><br />In the first, I was working as a personal assistant to Bill Clinton, who was writing his memoirs [didn't he already do that?]. We were sitting and talking about something that needed to be done, and he was complaining about his legs being irritated. He hiked up his suit pants to reveal skinny, pale Old Man legs covered with weird scratches* and equipped with some kind of weird braces possibly meant to hold up his socks.<br /><br />The second cameo appearance was by a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bertrand_Cantat">French rock star</a> [who did something terrible in real life that I won't dwell on here]. In the first part of the dream I had been getting ready with some friends for a Halloween party that would take place later that day. I'd been combing through my wardrobe, cobbling together an outfit consisting of vintage items from the 40s through the 60s to go as "an extra from <span style="font-style: italic;">Mad Men</span>", which I saw as a cop-out, but a fun one. I didn't realize what a weird mishmash it was until I woke up; in the dream, I had much more interesting and historically accurate hair (well, historically accurate for the 40s!), and the outfit was going to be tied together with a cute little hat and coral red nail polish.<br /><br />Anyway, I'd left my preparations to go to an antique store, although not with the purpose of adding to my costume. I was there just to browse, but a group of people caught my attention. There were 5-10 people gathered in a little sitting area in the middle of the store, around a table with lots of drink bottles and glasses. It took me a minute, but I realized that it was a class on cocktail mixing, with an emphasis on imaginative combinations of non-mainstream ingredients. It was being led by a few people, but the big draw was obviously this French rock star, who wasn't teaching so much as he was just mixing things up, imbibing, and commenting vaguely on people's concoctions. He seemed to be getting bored as I stood there observing, and soon just gave up the entire show to a Maggie Smith-like lady who started theorizing about why people were drawn to flavors like carrot cake (sentimental childhood-related reasons, from what I gathered).<br /><br />I'd been gradually approaching the group because the whole thing was intriguing, and had even sampled one girl's drink, which just tasted like grape juice. Mr. Rock Star seemed to find me interesting for some reason. I fancied that this was because I seemed blase and unimpressed by his status. He started gesturing with his head for us to get out of there, but I stalled by commenting further on the poor girl's grape juice facsimile. I eventually followed him out to a little vestibule that led to the restrooms, where I commented on his large, elaborately carved ivory toothpick (really! and no, I don't think that was some kind of phallic symbol). I restrained myself from commenting sardonically that fancy ivory toothpicks were a nice perk of the trade. For some reason he seemed very interested in spending some time with me (not <span style="font-style: italic;">that </span>kind of time, he seemed more bored and lonely than anything else), but I had to politely brush him off because of the costume party.<br /><br />What a weird combination of cameos.<br /><br /><br />*This detail was almost certainly inspired by that gruesome and sad <span style="font-style: italic;">Downton Abbey</span> episode where Bates tries to cure his limp using a metal brace.strovskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14041323073133282639noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5764675462086932327.post-22616133701563425522012-03-23T05:11:00.001-07:002012-03-23T05:12:41.944-07:00Amusement park.. and adoption<div><span >I was at Six Flags. I walked in, and got in line for a roller coaster right away. I remember thinking "no one stopped me at the gate for a ticket." I wasn't going to notify anyone. I was looking up at a roller coaster that was going upside down and a twinge of fear started to creep in. (In real life, roller coasters are not scary to me). I saw it go through the same upside down loop twice and I seemed to be fixated on that. I got on the coaster and strapped myself in. I had my cell phone out, I wanted to take a picture upside down while in the loop. My phone was broken, I felt stressed as I tried to put the battery cover back on and the ride was already moving. I had a tight grip on it, snapped a picture and realized I had the camera facing the wrong way. I remember thinking "that was one of the few pictures of myself that I actually like." I fixed the camera, took a picture and attempted to upload it to Facebook... but the ride was too shaky.</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >I got off the ride and walked into a room where people had many dogs up for adoption. I was always a cat owner and had reservations about owning a dog, but something drew me to them. One of the dogs seemed to really like me, and I spoke to him while I petted his head. I considered taking him home, when someone said the other dog had been severely abused and was in many different homes already. He just needed a stable place where he could be loved. well, that did it. I was determined to take the dog home. They explained to me that the dog was abused by the previous owner. I walked into another room and saw a dog laying on top of the covers, while a woman was laying beneath them. Her head was sticking out and I saw her eyes looking at me. I asked her "why did you abuse this dog? What's wrong with you?" She didn't answer. I continued to yell at her while she looked at me, expressionless and making no attempt to answer.</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >I took the dog home and when I walked in, my cat seemed nervous at the sight of him. There was another dog there too, but the abused dog just wanted to go lay in a dark room and be alone. He was frightened.</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >Then, I woke up.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5764675462086932327.post-16697661496741855652012-03-17T09:27:00.000-07:002012-03-17T09:27:14.868-07:00The Moors<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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The beginning of this dream is lost. The first thing I
remember is dark, cold moors. There isn’t a house around for miles. No lights.
I have a job to do, but I don’t want to do it. Oh god, I don’t want to do it.
But I have to. If I don’t do what I set out to do, my life will be forfeit.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I smile in
the darkness, even though he can’t see it, and grasp his hand. I hope my grip
is steadier than it feels. The smile feels traitorous on my face. He drinks
more. Good. He’s drunk. Not drunk enough to stumble and fall. I have to make
sure he doesn’t drink that much. He’s bigger than me, so if he goes down, I
have to do it the hard way. The mere thought of it sends my stomach pitching
and rolling like the hills over which we walk.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Darkness
coats the moors like paint, but I look up and read the thick spray of stars
well. I know these moors and I know where I must take him. It’s not far, but
the bitter wind slices through to my bones and slows me. Neither of us has a
heavy coat, but that doesn’t bother him. Alcohol is his coat. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I stretch
out the hand that’s not connected to his and brush something hard and rough.
The tree. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I tell him
that we need to wait a minute, but I don’t let go of his hand. Don’t dare. I
can’t lose him in the darkness. I lean against the tree, wrap my free arm
around it and press my cheek to its crusty, craggy bark.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s warm.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I know what
it looks like in the light: Gnarled and twisted, dark and blasted. Its limbs do
not reach for the sky anymore; they’re arthritic fingers, curled into knobby claws
by time and age. It’s shedding its bark; it falls off in musty-mossy chunks.
Wind and water and day and night have worn away the ground around its roots.
They rise from the earth like the backs of sea serpents. He trips over them and
almost falls. My heart leaps into my throat. But he leans on the tree to get up
again.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Don’t touch it,</i>” I almost scream. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s not yours!</i>” I screw my mouth shut
against the scream pressing against the backs of my teeth.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Technically
it’s not mine either, but I bare my teeth and snarl at him silently. He doesn’t
notice. He spilled his beer on the roots of the tree. I want to force his head
down and make him lick it off, but there are more important things to get done.
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I don’t
want to leave the tree. I draw no comfort from its crumbling existence. Its
peeling, pointed bark pierces the bare flesh of my cheek and arm, but I grip it
tighter anyway. It is still warm, and that’s what I cling to. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s time to go,</i> I say to myself. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You have to. Now.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I let go of
the tree gingerly, feeling like I’ve left my heart impaled on one spiny piece
of bark. It’s connected to me only by strings, which spin out like thread on
spools as we make our way over the moors. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s
downhill now, and I know we’re getting close. I don’t hear it yet, and I hope
he won’t hear it until it’s too late.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There is no
moon, which is good and bad. Good because there isn’t enough light for him to
read the land and, more importantly, to read me. He’s always been good at that,
and I’ve been bad about keeping my heart hidden. Bad because I love the moon. I
miss the moon. It anchors my heart. It is my eye, my satellite, my safety, my
blanket of light in this always-night.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He doesn’t
notice when I begin to hum. He still holds the empty beer bottle and tips it
back from time to time, trying to drink from it. We still hold hands. I try
desperately to keep my grip from mimicking the clawed branches of the tree.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To my dearest forsaken</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Who the earth now has
taken</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Empty, the bottle drains
no more</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A rushing, hushing sound begins to drown out my quiet hums.
I’ve been down here dozens of times, but that doesn’t matter. I must be still.
Because to most, the sound has no source. It creeps and surrounds, blankets and
disorients, makes you scared and dizzy. The very air makes the sound, it seems,
and it’s warning you like a rattlesnake.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But I know
better. I know how to find the source of the sound. I close my eyes and remove
myself from myself. It used to be a lot more difficult than it is now. I throw
my consciousness out wide in front of me like a net and find what I’m looking
for. Close. Not even a football field away. Relief and trepidation muscle into
my mind and I am sucked back into myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Awareness
begins to clear the cloud of drunkenness around him and he asks where we’re
going. I squeeze his hand in reassurance, which he seems to accept. We walk. I
feel the strings attached to my heart begin to pull. I hum.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It is true that I loved you</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Despite the harm now on
you</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Wash us; the river has
you, boy</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As we get closer, the sound does not grow or change. It gets
colder, though, as we pick our way through the blasted moor grasses, down,
down. I glance up. The fog kicked up by the water is separating us from the
stars. That’s okay. It’s not them I’m wedded to, not their tiny needlepricks of
cold white light. I urge him deeper into the mist.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We may as
well already be underwater. It’s bone-cold and dangerously black. The air, the
fog, the sound presses on us like silt on a riverbed. Here is where it gets
tricky for me. I don’t know precisely where the drop-off is, so I have to tread
like a frightened child, reaching out to test the ground with one foot before I
take each step. I tell him not to step ahead of me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Even though
that would be easier.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But I still
have hold of his hand; if he falls, he’ll grip me tighter instead of letting
go. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I can’t let
that happen. I can’t fall with him. I can’t. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
heartstrings, connected to my heart still at the tree, are nearly taut now. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
With my next step I reach out, step
on nothing but air. I find the edge of the bank, orient myself along it so that
we stand side by side facing the yawning crevasse the river has cut into the
flank of the moor. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Despite how
close we are to the roaring rapids, the sound is not deafening. That’s because
the water has spent millions of lifetimes carving this never-healing wound;
it’s cut so deep into the earth that the sound works so hard to reach us it’s
tired and weak when it gets here.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
warm,” he says.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It is. The
poisonous cold is less here, right at the bank, especially when you lean out
over the emptiness. The river ran so deep it must have struck the earth’s vital
warmth, which it was now releasing. I look down, even though it’s still too
black to see even a hand an inch from my face. The water must be boiling down
there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I let go of
his hand. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Here on the eve of too long</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Where you’ll think I
have done wrong</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Waking in fear of you no
more</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am scared. I feel the triphammer-pound of my heart through
the strings, which thrum and vibrate and send out a frantic, skittery song.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
He is quiet. Still. He’s sober now
and beginning to guess why we’re here. I have to do it before he realizes how
deeply I violated his trust.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I have to
do it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wonder if
he can feel the terror and anticipation baking off me in waves. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I have to
do it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I will the
soft soil under his feet to suddenly crumble and pitch him into nothingness.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I have to
do it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I put my
hand on his shoulder.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If he
decides to fight, he’ll win. He’s bigger and stronger than me. What will I do
then?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If I move
another inch, the taut strings of my heart will snap.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I have to
do it. Now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I take a
shuddering, painful breath and push.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There is a
terrible ripping from the center of my chest. The pain is blinding. It tears
the breath out of me and I fall back onto the bank coughing and gasping. I
clasp the sucking hole in my chest, expecting to plunge my hand into gouts of
hot, thick blood, but feel nothing. Not even a hole.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I feel
nothing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I lie there
for a moment and catch my breath. Gazing up into the stifling blackness, I
begin to hum again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To my dearest forsaken</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dearest vow I have broken</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Afraid of your angry hands no more</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">River may help me later</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Sleeping my lost love
for you, boy</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Song: "Dearest Forsaken" by Iron and Wine </i></div>KDChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00049431472532233126noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5764675462086932327.post-43447726112445902742012-02-02T07:05:00.000-08:002012-02-02T07:05:37.333-08:00The pregnant lady<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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In my dream, I am pregnant. I’m not exactly sure how far
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wheels, tables, other people, and being close to anything.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Because of
this, the outdoor café table at which I sit is far enough away that I have to
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a suit in the ironwrought chair across from me. His appearance does not stir
any emotional response in me at first except for a mild surprise. I immediately
understand why.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This man is
the devil.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He sits
straight-backed and still in the chair, one leg cocked and resting on the
other.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His hair is
sleek, slicked, curly and dark. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span>His skin is
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The only
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handsome but indistinguishable. He does not blink. He does not smile. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I don’t
either.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hi,” I
say, closing my book.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hi,” he
says in a rich, silky purr.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I know this
man well. We’re past small talk.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He reaches
out an unblemished hand and picks up my teacup. He moves with a fluid, unbroken
grace that only exists for him. He sips, never taking his wild, lurid eyes off
mine. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Later, as
we talk, I realize that there is steam rising from my cup where there wasn’t
before. Every so often I check. The tea never cools. I don’t touch the cup
again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Your child
will have a good singing voice,” he says in his own sweet baritone that nearly
drove me out of my mind with need for him. “Your child will have good eyesight
and gentle hands. It will grow wise and compassionate. It will love easily and
be loved by nearly everyone close to it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nearly
everyone?” I ask, the answer dangling just out of reach on the hinge of my
mind.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He nods
once, slowly. For the first time since he sat down, his eyes stray from me. I
look at him now in profile. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As he
speaks, I watch with interest the words riding out of his mouth on a heat
shimmer so intense it blurs the color of the space behind him into a watery
grey.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Your child
has nothing to prove to you. But you won’t remember that.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I cock my
head. I am not angry or defensive or even confused. I am curious.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The baby
kicks me high in the ribs once.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I would
never ask it to prove anything to me. Unless I were teaching it how to argue.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The devil
sighs. Twin blasts of heat billow out from his flared nostrils. The air
distorted by the heat is mesmerizing. There is no breeze in the cool spring
morning, but I catch a whiff of burning leaves.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He returns
his face to me, etched in lines of sadness. Those lines look foreign, alien, on
the plain white clay of his skin. His eyes spark with something that is not
sadness. It is not greed or rage or lust or envy or hunger or pride. It is not
human; it is not emotion. All I know is what it is not. His eyes spark and
glitter, and the not-knowing is the water that urges the feeling of unease into
full, queasy bloom. It is never outright fear, not around him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What do
you gain from having this child?” He asks.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The knowledge
of another part of myself,” I reply.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The baby
kicks me again, this time low.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The devil
stands up, not even a whisper of silk on silk accompanying his movement. It is
then that I notice a song playing softly through the speakers on the café’s
eaves:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Time it took us</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>To where the water was</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>That’s what the water
gave me</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>And time goes quicker</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Between the two of us</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Oh, my love, don’t
forsake me</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Take what the water gave
me</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This song would be playing throughout the rest of the dream.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The devil
rests a hand on my shoulder. My eyes trail up the length of his arm. The suit
fits him so well there is barely a fold or a ridge. He’s got his eyes on me,
those cold-burning blue eyes, those eyes that have seen the firstborn chaos of
the universe, those eyes made of entropy. They uncouple me from the hook of
reality.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I
surface from the moorless depths of disassociation, I am sitting at the edge of
a large lake at dusk. I breathe in the dimness, but my lungs cannot expand. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Partially
because the darkness is thick and sticky and it coats my lungs like tar.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Partially
because the baby has grown so big that it presses against my diaphragm.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I cough,
but it does no good. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Darkness
drops fully like water from a bucket and I look for the source of my
unease.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To calm myself, I begin humming
under my breath.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lay
me down</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Let the only sound be
the overflow</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Pockets full of stones</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Lay me down</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Let the only sound be
the overflow</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a struggle to stand. I keep stepping on the gauzy,
flowing dress I find myself in. It feels wonderful against my skin, but it’s
little comfort. With the smell of rotting lake all around me and cold mud
sucking at my knees and feet, I am immobilized by the mire in my mind.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The moon is
broken and sickly, gives off a drunken yellow light that does not illuminate
but confuses. I grab at something near me upon which the light sizzles like
sluggish oil. It’s an oar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pry myself
out of the swamp by clawing up its length. My legs are rubbery and
uncooperative, so I stand swaying for a moment, resting a hand on my belly and
feeling the mud squelch up between my bare toes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I can’t
catch my breath. But years of dealing with asthma have taught me not to panic
and gasp, so I don’t. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In, out,
in, out, in, out. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There are
soft voices behind me. Familiar familial voices. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh no. </i></div>
The thought sparks in my head and
lights a flame of fear. I know what this means. When I dream of water, I dream
of drowning.
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There is a
log cabin set several dozen feet back from the lake. Lights burn fitfully in
the windows, casting shadows that leap like rabid things over the walls.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The voices
inside are risen in song. I open the screen door and the flickering candlelight
flays me. I cringe and squint and am assaulted by life, foaming at the mouth.
My family, extended, adopted, all, is crammed into the cabin. They are
exuberant, they are wild, they are loud and completely unlike themselves. They
dance as if there is nothing left for them in the world. There is gravity here,
and it grabs at my chest, wanting me.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hey!”</i> I scream into the light, the heat,
the rush, the motion, the oppressing life. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
water is rising! You have to get out! Get out! Get out!”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I lean as
far in as my arms will let me, my hands holding onto the outside edge of the
doorframe for dear life. For a moment, the terror of getting lost in the press
of bodies overwhelms the sick, sinking knowledge of the water behind me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nobody
hears me. Suddenly, my feet are cold. I jump and look down. Water, ankle deep.
Moonlight slathers itself on the little lapping ripples like rancid butter.
Still gripping the doorframe with both hands, I twist my neck as far as it will
go. The grass is gone. The gravel path from the lake to the house is gone. The
creeping fingers of the lake have taken it all. The darkness, I realize then,
did not grow down from the sky. It grew up from the water like vines and
infected the world. The smell of decay, of murky, evil water, gets thicker. I
feel it trickling into the hollow spaces in me, filling me, making me feel
heavy and awkward.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I hear singing in my head:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They took your loved ones<br />
But returned them in exchange for you<br />
But would you have it any other way?<br />
Would you have it any other way?<br />
You couldn't have it any other way<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I rend myself from the doorframe of the cabin and shut the
door against the painful light inside, against the rising liquid darkness
outside. I pray that my family is safe from the water inside the cabin. I hope
that the energy they create will be enough to fight the water back. I cannot
help them now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The water
is knee-deep. My dress is no longer gauzy and light but floppy and sloppy. I
slog back toward where the bank of the lake used to be. My leg bumps something.
I reach down into the freezing black, curving my back so that my chest doesn’t
touch the surface, and pull up the oar I used to help me stand. The water drips
off the oar onto my arm and it’s not water but a condensation, a concentration,
of the darkness. It leaves oily trails on my arm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There is a
small wooden canoe to match the oar, but it’s way out on the lake. Yards away.
To reach it, I’d have to swim.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I lay my
hand on my belly. The baby has been quiet for a long time. I worry for it. Will
my heat be enough to keep it alive in the impossible cold of the water? Will
the weight of it, plus the weight of the darkness in my lungs and the weight of
the dress drag me to the bottom?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Lay me down<br />
Let the only sound be the overflow<br />
Pockets full of stones<br />
Lay me down<br />
Let the only sound be the overflow</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The
water reaches lustfully for my hips. As I wade toward the canoe, I keep an ear
trained back toward the cabin. The terrible cold rips the breath from my lungs.
It swallows my belly. The baby does not kick. The water licks my neck. I fight
the air for breath. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In, out,
in, out, in, out.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Kick.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I kick.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’ve lost
the bottom; I float now, kicking to keep my head above the grabby little waves.
Soon, my legs disappear into the numbing black. So I wave my arms and, despite
what I’d feared the most, I reach the canoe. The devil is sitting in it. I know
it’s him because his eyes slice through the darkness like knives made of
electricity. They seem to scream at me. He sings:<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh, poor Atlas<br />
The world’s a beast of a burden<br />
You’ve been holding on a long time<br />
And all this longing<br />
And the ships are left to rust<br />
That’s what the water gave us</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I know
better than to reach out a hand to him. I cling to the side of the canoe. I am
past cold, past shivering, and I know that if I don’t get out of the water,
both the baby and I will die. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You remind
me of Ophelia in that dress,” the devil says. “Or the Lady of Shalott.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The Lady
of Shalott didn’t drown,” I say.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll write
your name round about the prow,” says the devil. “Then you can sing me your
last song.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With some
untouchable force that is brother to the darkness, the devil pries my frozen
hands from the edge of the canoe. I swallow my panic, force it down into my gut
to warm me, give me buoyancy, buy me time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The sick
yellow-grey moonlight wanes. Only the high edges of things are lit, and even
then they aren’t lit but painted with light. It drips from the tops of the
trees and falls thickly onto the devil’s shoulders and head. He chuckles deeply
as he carves my name into the inside of the canoe. That chuckle finishes what
the water started; it crawls into my ears and piles up at the base of my brain,
sinking me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I sing with
the last breath I have:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">She’s
a cruel mistress<br />
And a bargain must be made<br />
But oh, my love, don’t forget me<br />
I let the water take me</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">It’s
peaceful in the deep. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The
arms of the water are no longer crushing. They welcome now; they curl around me
protectively as I curl around my belly. The fingers of the water no longer
grope and want; they soothe me and smooth my hair and my dress.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I rest in
the black sanctuary. Now that I don’t have the sound of the devil or the cabin
in my ears, I can hear the singing:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Lay me down<br />
Let the only sound be the overflow<br />
Pockets full of stones<br />
Lay me down<br />
Let the only sound be the overflow</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It seems to
take hours to lift my head far enough to look up at the surface. The last bit
of moonlight is fractured by the waves and sluggish fragments float down at
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They never reach me because I’m
sinking.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I look
forward to reaching the bottom. I’ll finally have somewhere still and quiet to
rest my head. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Is
this what it feels like to give up?</span></i><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> I ask
myself.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The baby
kicks once, hard.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span><i><br />
</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span><i><br />
</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span><i><br />
</i></span></div>
<i>(Song: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=am6rArVPip8&ob=av3e">What The Water Gave Me</a> by Florence + The Machine</i>
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span></span>KDChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00049431472532233126noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5764675462086932327.post-5714083403659518672011-12-19T16:26:00.000-08:002011-12-19T16:28:07.028-08:00Don't let the bed bugs biteI had a waterbed and in the dream, I had it in my mind that I set it up at 2am. I was sleeping and saw ants crawling on me. I got up and saw some blue frogs and another weird thing like a centipede but fatter. It was making screeching noises at me. I tried to get a picture of the frogs and they turned into kittens. I got up and pulled the mattress back, there was dirt and grass, leaves and all sorts of crap under the mattress. I was trying to figure out where the ants were coming from to get a trap set up. I had a broom and was sweeping up all the junk, blaming myself for setting the bed up in the dark not seeing all the dirt. My co-workers went by, stopped and asked why I was working so hard. Then I woke up.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5764675462086932327.post-17264627236689150152011-12-13T08:46:00.000-08:002011-12-13T08:46:10.907-08:00GuitarI was supposed to be playing classical guitar in a quartet performance of the Nutcracker,* along with a cellist, pianist, and... other musician? In real life, I haven't played my guitar in ages and can't really sightread.<br />
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In the dream I knew it was a bad idea to be sucked into this performance without having practiced with the group--let alone looked at the music--beforehand, but I hoped maybe it wouldn't be too noticeable. I didn't even have the music, so I had to read off the copy of the woman beside me, who was singing as a member of either the choir or the audience.<br />
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Naturally, I was terrible. Weirdly, it didn't bother me as much as it should have.<br />
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*Or perhaps the <i>Messiah</i>; it shifted.CëRïSëhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18133935575651973096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5764675462086932327.post-10311534941537743972011-12-04T15:35:00.000-08:002011-12-04T15:39:33.345-08:00Friends and pig headsI was visiting a friend, she has blue streaks in her hair and they were present in the dream. We walked up to a woman who was sitting poolside and I wasn't introduced. I said 'nice to meet you' and shook her hand, which felt like she had something wrong with it. Her hand was disfigured. It looked like a shopping mall with a pool and tables inside.<br /><br />People started to show up and it became more like a dinner party. Everyone who came to sit at our table told my friend she looked fabulous. I felt uncomfortable and bored, I didn't know why we were here.<br /><br />A man was carrying around a pig head on top of a bucket. I was uninterested. The head looked like it was alive with pink flesh. It had fake eyes that looked like blue human eyes. The man was making the eyes blink as he brought the head around to all the tables, as if it were on display.<br /><br />An older woman started talking about what a long walk it was to get outside for a cigarette. She was going on for a while and I started to look around. I saw the pool and people walking on a cement walkway behind it. Then, an attractive and young black girl with a drink in her hand approached the pool. She had a black strapless ball gown. She walked down the pool steps and into the pool, seeming to go unnoticed and she was very casual about it. She held her drink over her head and went in until the water touched the top of her dress. I remembered thinking it looked refreshing and I wanted to try it. I pointed her out when people seemed interested in knowing what I was looking at. She started walking up the pool steps and had a white dress, like a wedding gown, with pearl beads and layered in front like an open style. Everyone in the place clapped and hooted when they saw her. She waved and walked on.<br /><br />The pig was getting too heavy for the man to carry. He set it on a table and was going to carve it. Before he set it down I couldn't stop looking at the eyes as he made them blink. We then were served what was called garlic shrimp, but it was fried and overcooked. The women at the table said 'isn't it fabulous?' I nodded but didn't think it was. I thought it was dry. I looked at the sauces, red and yellow... I was looking for melted butter. Then I woke up. - GirlXUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5764675462086932327.post-20052865563078364222011-12-01T18:29:00.000-08:002011-12-01T18:40:20.188-08:00Back in high school... and anthrax?<span class="Apple-style-span" >I'm new to this blog, but I found it fascinating to read about other people's dreams. I have a lot of my old dreams documented, so I thought I'd share one today. - GirlX</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span">I was back in high school and I saw M in the line for lunch. (<i>Side note: M is a girl who my ex boyfriend cheated on me with in real life, then left me for her and later married her.)</i> She was talking to a girl that I know and have been trying to get a hold of lately. I hate M, so I didn’t want to talk to her. I noticed she’d lost some more weight, and grew her hair. She looked good (of course) and she was talking to someone else I thought I knew. </span><span class="Apple-style-span">I started wandering the halls trying to find something – my locker? Someone else’s? Then I felt I had to leave. </span></span><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >I was standing by a friend of mine while she was running a cash register, and I wanted to buy some things since she gets a discount. A guy was giving her grief in line, and she held up a button that said ‘can YOU do this job?’ Her mom was there and told her to stop acting like that. The friend freaked out a little and walked away. I was trying to grab the things I wanted to buy but was told not to worry about it and the friend would take them home for me. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >I was driving home and saw an old guy friend in a car going past me. His eyebrows were raising, then lowering, and in the rhythm of the eyebrows raising and lowering his eyes were turning into a creature’s eyes – yellow in color, and he had an evil sort of grin on his face and he blew past me. In the dream I said to myself "<i>that it was something I’d seen before in a Stephen King book or movie</i>" I thought it was one of the characters. I laughed it off. I pulled into the driveway of a house where I lived, got out of the car and was checking the mail. I had a lot of mail from military establishments, a few of which were open and a powder was inside them that got on my hands. It was anthrax, I was sure of it. I quickly wiped off my hands and continued pulling mail out of the mailbox. The box was taller than me, and when I pulled out another envelope that was a bit larger, the powder fell out of it and into my mouth. I started to panic at first, then realized I’m going to die in a few days. I tried to figure out where the letters were from, and as I was walking up the driveway there was a strange man in a delivery truck waiting for me. He said he had a package to deliver. I started to shut the garage door, and then laughed and apologized – I was just in a daze from what had happened and wasn’t paying attention to the man. I started to walk into the house with him following, and thought it would be unsafe to let him in. He gave me a bad vibe. I turned and asked him what he had for me, and he replied "it's a package, but it's a little damaged." I was walking back to his truck, saw blood on a cotton ball on the ground in my garage. I asked him where the package was from, he said it was from a military address. I was afraid to see what it was, and asked him if he knew who it came from. He said no, and while he was digging in the truck to find it, I woke up.</span></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5764675462086932327.post-48830459449448171772011-11-29T08:08:00.000-08:002011-11-29T09:05:23.365-08:00weird combinationIn all this time I haven't posted, of course I've had a lot of dreams. Last night's were particularly impressive, though. First, I had a terrible dream about my husband getting shot in the head. We were somewhere with a group of very young people (I don't know if we were as young in the dream, or just out of place). We were hanging around in a semi-derelict house, and one of the guys had a gun. He started messing around with it, shooting out the door at something outside. In theory it wasn't supposed to be dangerous because he was just shooting at a target, but somehow he accidentally shot my husband in the back of the head.<div><br /></div><div>I don't need to go on about how awful that was, because it's self-evident. He was still alive, though, so the awfulness just escalated. The kids freaked out and didn't want to take responsibility (didn't even want to call 911). Of course I immediately started to try to stanch the blood (of which there was surprisingly little) and call 911. I failed at first at calling because I kept getting distracted with my first-aid attempts. Then, every time I tried to dial I couldn't get it right. I accidentally entered the wrong sequence of numbers, an extra number appeared at the end, I accidentally erased all the numbers, I pushed the wrong button, I accidentally hung up on the dispatcher, etc. etc. I couldn't find my own phone, which had fallen down somewhere, and kept trying on a variety of phones that were lying around, none of which I could figure out how to use (usually it was the crucial "call" button that I couldn't locate). Finally I decided to look for help on foot, while simultaneously trying to prevent the kids from burying my still-alive husband to hide the evidence of their accident. I eventually ran into some people outside who seemed helpful and competent. I think at that point I must have woken up and realized that he hadn't actually been shot, because I don't remember how it ended.</div><div><br /></div><div>The other part was considerably less harrowing. I was composing poetry, which is something that I think I've dreamed occasionally before*. Usually when that happens I can't remember any of it in the morning, but this time I remembered part of it. It was a medium-sized poem, so at least half of it is probably gone for good. The missing part was along the same lines. I think it was inspired in part by some recent thinking about my personality and priorities and how to deal with people with conflicting personalities and priorities; and in part by a <a href="http://www.carlhonore.com/?page_id=6">book</a> I've been reading about slowness. Anyway, this is all I remember:</div><blockquote><div><b><i>Manifesto</i></b></div><div><br /></div><div>We reserve the right to dawdle, to hem and haw, to hedge.</div><div><br /></div><div>We write poetry in our dreams, and knowing that it was graven once in the gray folds of our unconscious is enough.</div><div><br /></div><div>We are not waiting for happiness.</div><div><br /></div><div>We know it when we see it.</div></blockquote><div></div><div>I found the dream really interesting and amusing, because I remember the thought process I went through choosing the wording there, including a debate about whether the word "graven" was too stilted (I'm still very much on the fence about that). I think the lines that came more easily were the ones I forgot.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>*In real life, I haven't dabbled in poetry since late adolescence, when I think one is contractually obligated to do so.</div>strovskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14041323073133282639noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5764675462086932327.post-70718179317364251372011-08-17T08:38:00.000-07:002011-08-17T08:58:17.296-07:00retailI haven't been remembering many dreams lately, although I know the group-living dreams are continuing, since I can recall a snippet of one from the other night (a friend was fixing a computer for me, pulled out a long, nasty string of mold/cobwebs, then carefully replaced it in the bowels of the computer).
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<br />Last night, though, or rather this morning just before waking up, I was having a different recurring-theme dream, a theme I like better than the group-living one. I was in an Anthropologie-esque store, looking at the sale section*. Actually, this store was a lot less attractive than a real Anthropologie store, resembling more closely a mall Dillard's or something like that. The merchandise, however, included some very cute clothing. I particularly remember a strapless dress made out of a linen-y fabric with multicolored blowsy roses printed on a deep rose background. It doesn't sound like me, not being either a strapless-dress or a cabbage rose kind of girl, but it was actually very appealing, and I was sorry it wasn't in my size.
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<br />The really great thing on offer, though, was a home fix-it book. It had simple, clearly written instructions on all kinds of things, accompanied by photos and drawings. The design was very well done, clean and attractive and just girly enough to be a good fit with the store (but not too girly; not festooned with pink). There were instructions on unclogging a drain** and rewiring a lamp, and I don't remember what else. It was quite disappointing to wake up and realize that I couldn't actually buy the book for $5.99 or however much it was on sale for.
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<br />*Not too far off from reality, since I often troll the sale room at Anthropologie, it being my "pass" to park in their parking lot so I can avoid the highly unpleasant Whole Foods parking garage. This particular retail dream differs from the usual, though, in that it's the first I can remember not involving secondhand merchandise.
<br />**Also reality-based, since we've been having some bathtub drainage issues.
<br />strovskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14041323073133282639noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5764675462086932327.post-82854292345732435882011-07-13T08:29:00.000-07:002011-07-13T08:46:23.431-07:00more celebrity appearancesWell. I'm tempted to restate my lack of real interest in celebrities, but since they keep showing up, I guess it would sound like a case of "doth protest too much". Here are the latest two cameo appearances.<br /><br />The other night I dreamed that I was transitioning to a group living arrangement (of course). I suppose I was in school, because it was rather dorm-like, but I don't remember the details. I was supposed to be sharing accommodations with Chloe Sevigny, which startled me a little--didn't she have enough money to live in a place of her own? After my initial surprise, I thought she might be an interesting roommate. She seemed interesting, nice enough, and I figured she would probably have interesting taste and introduce me to interesting people. Being an introvert who has a hard time meeting people, the idea of a built-in source of acquaintances appealed to me.<br /><br />I was still in the process of beginning to move my possessions in when Chloe presented me with an itemized rundown of all the food that she estimated I'd consumed or would consume within a certain time period. This included groceries and eating out, and I was floored by her attention to detail. It was all listed by item, estimated serving size, and price--including estimated tax. The estimated-tax part rankled me a little, and I started to think that maybe her financial fastidiousness was going to be a pain.<br /><br />++++++++++++++++++<br /><br />I'm not completely sure who last night's cameo was. It was either Ben Stiller, Adam Sandler, or a hybrid thereof. My husband and I were in the process of establishing ourselves in yet another group-living arrangement* (sharing a house, I think; we had our own space, at least, but it was within a larger dwelling). We had pretty much settled in, and our dogs--our real-life Doberman and a dream German Shepherd--had too, making themselves comfortable on a top bunk that our Doberman would never be able to jump up on. Despite some climate-control issues (no heat?), it was a fairly comfortable arrangement, and we took a break with a movie.<br /><br />The movie was some kind of comedy featuring a gone-to-seed boys' band. They were singing a semi-choreographed song in which they wandered around a vacant lot. The lyrics included something about "until my hips get soft", which puzzled me--I wasn't sure if it was meant to be a sexy double-entendre or a wry commentary on their age (they were all 40-/50-something). They were dressed in either jeans/black leather getups or track suit/gold jewelry ensembles, and the Ben Stiller/ Adam Sandler hybrid sported a spectacularly ugly hairdo: slightly bleached (orangey) dark hair on top, curly but brushed out to fluffiness, and a darker, gelled longer layer (mulletlike but equally long all around) consisting of tiny, bouncy little curls. I was transfixed by its ugliness.<br /><br /><br /><br />*WHAT is UP with this? What unconscious fixation keeps making me dream about group living arrangements? Am I going to have to join a kibbutz to exorcise this?strovskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14041323073133282639noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5764675462086932327.post-6992732537456991682011-07-03T16:37:00.000-07:002011-07-03T16:38:57.933-07:00TsunamiI'm pretty sure I was reading some Lacan-esque French theory, something about a sea lion/regular lion and a polar bear, and recognizing the Other or some such business. I'm not sure if I was studying this while at the beach, or if the elaborate literary metaphor sort of just came alive for me, but at some point I was definitely being rocked by the waves.<br />
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The tide on this U-shaped beach was coming in, though, and I decided I was done with the water. When the waves pulled back, a whitish pebbly beach was revealed at the bottom of the U, and I ran across to get the backpack(s) and corkscrew (?!) that I'd left there on a ledge. Back on the other side, the door to the hotel/apartment/dorm was locked, so a beach employee (?!) kindly let me in. It was an odd sort of industrial-looking stairwell, so as she was in there with me, I asked her whether I'd be able to get out on my floor. She was assuring me that I would, just as she received a message, which I couldn't decipher, on her radio.<br />
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"Up!" she said to me. "Up! Run!"<br />
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"What happened?" I asked, as I started up the stairs. "What is it?"<br />
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"Up, up!" she shouted, pushing me. "Go!"<br />
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I was struck by the realization that we were trying to make it to higher ground, because a tsunami was coming. I tried to run faster, taking two steps at a time, but my legs were tired and then we started to run into crowds in the stairwell, also trying to get up to higher ground. They were quite orderly and not pushing or shoving--primarily just polite and a bit bemused.<br />
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Suddenly it got darker in the stairwell, and I realized the wave was coming. There was a window in the stairwell, separated by a gap of several feet from where I stood on the stairs. As I looked out, I saw a wall of water rising, in incredible colors--glowing sage-y green, then golden, then red. It reached up to a few inches above the window, and then sank, and I thought, with relief, that we were all going to be fine. But then came what I instantly knew was the Second Wave, higher than the first, and I could feel the foundations of the building shaking. This wave filled the window with incredible sparkling droplets of water, glowing red. I thought to myself that I might well die, but even if it did, it would be after seeing the most beautiful scene of my life--and that it would be okay.CëRïSëhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18133935575651973096noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5764675462086932327.post-70465241330941432672011-06-28T07:55:00.000-07:002011-06-28T08:26:44.924-07:00I'm disappointed in you, GeorgeHere's another embarrassing one. Alert Readers may recall that I've had two or three dreams in which George Clooney shows up randomly and reveals himself to be a charming conversationalist and a good companion to kill a little bit of time with while waiting in public places (??). Unfortunately it turns out he has a darker side below the charm.<br /><br />This encounter began with my needing to take one of our dogs to the vet. I had found a vet that was more conveniently located in relation to my house and work, and wanted to try it out (inexplicably, we were living in something resembling a poor-ish neighborhood of a third-world city). The building was a three-story concrete building, with parts of it in okay shape and other parts that either had never been completed or had been destroyed by some unidentifiable catastrophe. I was poking around trying to figure out where the vet office was located (not easy, despite a prominent sign on the roof indicating that it was somewhere in the building). At some point I realized that I had forgotten to bring the dog (??), but since I didn't have time to go back for him I decided to at least locate the place and see how it looked, and maybe try to ask a couple of questions.<br /><br />In the midst of my pokings-around, I ran into George, who was sitting at a counter in a cafe/bar restaurant in the building, looking out a large glassless window onto the parking area (keep in mind that the whole atmosphere was one of picturesque third-world decay, almost post-apocalyptic). I decided to play it cool and ask him if he knew where the vet's office was (you know, treat him like a regular layperson). He was, as usual, charming and helpful, and gave me directions involving navigating the destroyed part of the building that looked "like Kosovo" (his words). He then invited me to sit down and eat something with him, an offer I accepted both because I was hungry and because who would refuse a lunch invitation from George Clooney? We had a pizza, which was quite good.<br /><br />We got along famously over the pizza, although I don't remember the conversation. Nor do I remember how we got to his house, but the next thing I can remember we were in his house, which had a larger selection of chotchkes displayed than you'd expect. By this time I felt like I had known him for ages, and he was being very nice, in the manner of a guy that you're getting to know and fast moving toward relationship territory with (you know, very interested in what you have to say, doing all the right body-language things to appear interested but not creepy). I was enjoying myself very much, although I certainly wasn't thinking "I'm going to have an affair with George Clooney"; he was much too smooth to provoke thoughts like that.<br /><br />This is where things started to go downhill fast. In an embarrassingly ham-handed bit of G-rated symbolism, my subconscious chose to indicate his wish to take things further by having a wrapped condom drop out of his pocket onto the floor (??!?). Of course I freaked out because I had just been basking in the warm glow of his charming company and apparent general regard for me. I backed away and started sputtering, at which he abruptly lost his temper completely. He started yelling that I had been leading him on, with the reasoning that I accepted his gift of lunch ("you took the first piece of pizza, too! You just jumped in there."), and that the logical implication of that was that I was agreeing implicitly to "pay" later. I was completely crushed--what I thought was a spontaneous meeting of minds (and, well, yes, I did find him charming) was actually, in his mind, a way to get some action. I was crying by this time (loud wails and hiccups, the whole spectacle) and said, "but I'm MARRied", which I figured would surely appeal to both his reason and what gentlemanly side he did have (although I was beginning to realize I had seriously overestimated his gentlemanly side).<br /><br />As I was wailing and he was berating, a young brunette slipped out of a bedroom and left the house, obviously having been there all night. Of course that didn't help things either. I beat a retreat, having completely changed my assessment of Mr. Clooney.<br /><br />But that wasn't the end, oddly. A short time after I got home, someone delivered a medium-sized box, from George. I opened it and found a wild assortment of things, heavy on the books but with other things like event tickets, information on the stock market, etc. As I started to look through it, I realized that this was George's identity encapsulated in a box, and that he had somehow, drawing on his celebrity status as bosser-around of assistants and obtainer-of-favors, to assemble all this in that short amount of time (there were documents that would have had to be obtained from businesses and agencies, for example). Despite my resolve to have nothing more to do with the nefarious George, I began to soften as I realized what an effort he had made to be understood and explain himself.<br /><br />What an odd and embarrassing dream. Once again, I promise I am not obsessed with Mr. Clooney. The only times I think about him are when confronted with a bit of celebrity gossip and when I have these random dreams in which he shows up. I have to say, though, I'm curious whether his Jekyll or Hyde side will show up in the next one (I doubt I've seen the last of him).strovskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14041323073133282639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5764675462086932327.post-84069613285770794092011-06-20T08:48:00.000-07:002011-06-20T09:09:18.338-07:00Gandhi??!I've been having lots of really detailed dreams that don't stay around once I've woken up. Here are the two that I remember best--they're widely divergent in style/subject, as you'll see.<br /><br />The first is kind of embarrassing, and I hesitated to post it, but it's just so surreal I couldn't resist. I'm not sure what the situation or setting was, just that it involved men coming out of the woodwork to reveal that they had all been coerced by Gandhi (!!?!) into performing sexual favors on him. It was alarmingly and gross-out-inducingly explicit (which is the embarrassing part). Obviously this was brought on in part by the recent scandals involving politicians, but why Gandhi?<br /><br />The other dream was one I would rate as one of my best overall, for subject matter and scenery. I was taking a boat tour of a South Carolina swamp with my husband, and there were animals all over, a range from animals that would actually be in a southern American swamp (alligators) to real animals that live somewhere else (hippos) to completely made-up animals. There was a small fish/mammal/bird hybrid that I caught in my hand and kept holding onto because I wanted to take a picture of it. I don't remember exactly what it looked like, but I think it was bright orange, and very wiggly.strovskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14041323073133282639noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5764675462086932327.post-32834506999260236292011-06-07T08:31:00.001-07:002011-06-07T08:58:52.487-07:00the mechanics of dream cryingI had the saddest dream last night. So sad, in fact, that I woke myself up crying (or maybe the dog barking woke me up; it was simultaneous). My husband and I were living (with other people, of course--I couldn't possibly have a dream in which I don't live in a group arrangement) in a rooftop apartment. It was really just a small box-shaped one-room building with extremely low ceilings, on top of the flat roof of an older building. I think the building itself contained a mixture of offices and apartments, and it wasn't in great shape.<br /><br />We had been out and about and were returning home, if you can call such a living arrangement "home". It had been raining, and as we neared the top of the stairs leading to the roof, I noticed water pouring down the stairs from the rooftop. I made a note to let the building manager know (incidentally, the same guy who manages the building at my real-life office). It didn't really occur to me to be worried until we came out onto the roof and saw that it was completely flooded, almost up to the wall around the edges, which was about six feet tall. We could still walk through the water easily, but it was threatening to fill up the apartment to roof level. When we went inside, everyone was confusedly trying to gather up their things to evacuate. I looked around for our dogs with an increasingly sinking feeling. I asked someone about them, and just as they started to answer I brushed up against what was obviously one of their bodies floating around under the surface of the water*.<br /><br />Of course no one had thought or had time to rescue our dogs, and it was terrible to think about them struggling to keep their heads above water in the middle of the crowded bunkbed setup (the room was filled with bunkbeds like a summer camp). I felt terrible realizing that if we had been there we could easily have gotten them out of there, and terrible in a different way thinking that if the roof had had proper drainage this wouldn't have happened at all.<br /><br />I've always kind of wondered about the mechanics of crying in dreams, in those cases where you wake yourself up sobbing violently--how long are you actually crying in "real time" (it always seems to me like I cry for hours in the dream), and are real tears coming out? I still have no conclusion, but found it interesting that I woke up with tears in my eyes (but not streaming down my face) after what seemed like ages of crying. I also woke up slowly enough to note that I was gasping, sob-like, but my sleeping partner is a heavy enough sleeper that I've never been able to get an outside observation of whether I'm actually sobbing or just gasping.<br /><br />Anyway, it was a harrowing dream, and I was very glad to hear the dogs barking when I woke up from it.<br /><br /><br />*This seems like a weird detail, that they would be floating around at a 3' depth, but I don't know enough about the physics of water and dog corpses to say whether it's really inaccurate. Another weird physics-related detail was that after we had removed the dog corpses from the flooded rooftop I was carrying them around in a garbage bag, casually slung over my shoulder--all 170 pounds of them, which I would surely not be able to do in real life, especially if racked by sobs.<br /><br />Which reminds me of another gorily specific detail: I was carrying the dogs around because I hoped to find someone to flay them and preserve their hides for me, and also to remove and clean up their skulls so I could keep them as mementos**. When my husband expressed dismay at this weird and excessive desire, I said, "but think, don't you know any hunters who could do it? It would be easy for a hunter who was used to processing deer!"<br /><br /><br />**I probably shouldn't confess this, but I have considered in real life (although purely theoretically) the possibility of keeping the skull of a dead pet as a memento (in my defense, the hide idea hadn't occurred to me), although I'm sure I wouldn't due to a lack of butchering/taxidermy skills/cast-iron emotional constitution, and the fact that I don't know any local hunters.strovskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14041323073133282639noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5764675462086932327.post-77307645405336338082011-05-24T12:29:00.000-07:002011-05-24T12:29:17.204-07:00Dream AnalysisI finished my first semester of school recently, which included a class in Psychology. We took part of one class to discuss dream analysis so I thought I'd share what I learned. Please keep in mind that these are all generalizations.<br />
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<strong>Water -</strong> Freud thought water meant sex<br />
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<strong>A loved one being hurt or killed -</strong> it's a way to let them go<br />
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<strong>Being on your deathbed -</strong> You need to be more up front with people<br />
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<strong>Falling and waking up when you hit the ground -</strong> the fall is stress about what you think you're responsible for, generally not emotional stress<br />
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<strong>Flying -</strong> seeking independence, freedom to go where/do what you want to<br />
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<strong>Animals -</strong> represent basics, these are simple dreams<br />
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<strong>Recurring dreams -</strong> your brain is compartmentalizing and organizing information<br />
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<strong>Guns -</strong> represent the penis <br />
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<strong>Guns not going off when you fire them-</strong> fear of not being able to reproduce<br />
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--Dream analysis only matters as to what the dream truly means to you.<br />
--Dreams help us understand things.<br />
--Dream analysis is different for kids and adults and for different cultures.<br />
--Dreaming happens during REM. Those who sleep less than 6 hours don't typically REM. Those who REM regularly tend to remember their dreams better.<br />
--If you can't remember your dreams, try keeping a journal by your bed and write down what you're thinking of when you first wake up. You should start to remember them better after awhile if you do this regularly.<br />
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I wish we would've taken a whole class to discuss this. The professor called on various students and analyzed their dreams but she never called on me, even though I raised my hand every time. I would have loved to hear what she thought of my <a href="http://andthenicouldntbreathe.blogspot.com/2008/04/you-say-toe-may-toe-i-say-toe-mah-toe.html"><span style="color: blue;">tomato plant leg dream</span></a>.sprinkleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09081967372702276914noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5764675462086932327.post-49022021313673849842011-05-24T11:00:00.000-07:002011-05-24T11:06:54.971-07:00zombie apocalypseLast night I had a mixture of what I'd call a Classic Zombie dream and a home-renovation dream. The zombie part hewed amusingly to the basic zombie movie tropes*. I was in a house with a lot of other people [Group Living trope alert!] when we realized that there were zombies approaching outside and then milling around, true to form, outside the door. I don't remember any gore or anything, but there was a fair amount of panic before we settled down to divvying up domestic tasks after realizing we were stuck in the house for the long haul.<br /><br />The house renovation part was, I think, in the same house, although I'm not sure if the plans were being made during the zombie apocalypse, before, or after. They involved putting skirting around a pier-and-beam foundation (like our real-life house), and we pretty much settled on using sturdy 2x4-like wood and painting it red, which seemed like a wonderful idea in the dream.<br /><br /><br /><br />*I know this because I'm married to someone who has a fondness for the occasional zombie flick, not so much as to be fanatical but enough so that I got a good score on one of those "would you survive a zombie apocalypse" online quizzes.strovskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14041323073133282639noreply@blogger.com0