I wake up and look around my room. It's my bedroom from the house before the other house. I still can't see what time it is and it's starting to freak me out. I feel like I want to wake up now that I know I'm dreaming. My mom is walking around with a basket full of laundry. She sits down on the edge of the bed and we begin talking. She asks me a question and my response startles me. I try to explain to her that it's normal because I'm dreaming. I explain that I know I'm dreaming because I can't see what time it is. I ask her for the time and she looks astounded when she can't focus on the clock.
Then I wake up. For real. At least I hope. I'm looking at a clock right now and it isn't dancing around.
I ran for my life, swinging from trees and leaping over obstacles with ease. For a while, I was sailing over vast expanses of forest, occasionally reaching for another branch to use on my next swing. I carried with me an animal who also needed to be rescued. I don't remember what animal it was, but it was small and fragile.
The next moment, I was struggling to find my way through half-constructed houses. Most walls were concrete with window holes cut through.
The houses were haphazardly built and rickety scaffolding obscured some walls. It was dusk and the only workers I encountered were trying to pack away tools and go home. None of these houses were complete. It was just a series of walls in no particular pattern.
I knew someone was chasing me and I knew the objective was to capture me and move me to another place. I didn't care if it would have been harmless, I didn't want to be near them.
Abruptly, I found myself in a house that was structurally complete. The walls were up and there was a roof. The tile floors were cool against my feet, but there were no furnishings in the house whatsoever.
I was standing in an entryway full of teenagers milling about. Few seemed to notice me or recognize that I was an animal and not a human. I released the small animal from my arms and it trotted away as someone, a somewhat disheveled boy, approached me.
He talked to me for a bit while I said nothing. He seemed enchanted with me even though I couldn't respond. All I wanted was for him to remain calm and not seek out anyone who might aid in my capture.
Then it was like we were pals. He took me around with him and insisted that we stay together. He liked to be hugged and I kept at least one gorilla arm around him at all times. He laughed at each hug and stayed close to me as though there was some maternal connection. No one bothered us. His friends all smiled at me and greeted me as though it was normal.
i try and float towards the ceiling to see what's in the pan. she looks over at me (even though i'm not really there) and says, 'it's not quite ready.' i stare at her, and then the pan. 'it's your true name,' she smiles as though i were a very silly child for not knowing this. the steam comes into focus for an instant before she replaces the pan in the oven, 'know me' it reads. before she closes the oven door, i catch a glimpse of what it holds.
They tell me to do various things. One time, I shoved a zebra ornament up my vagina. Friends always tell me, "Edith, you're one crazy Victorian bitch." I usually respond by flinging pickled cabbage in their faces.
"Improper," they say. "Edith Fitzgerald is an improper Victorian lady!" Hogwash. Absolute hogwash. At least, I know I'm alive.
Occasionally, I'll run around downtown Dublin in my knickers. The town constable furrowed his brow and talked about indecency and moralistic jibberjabber.
Granted, I'm not the most popular Victorian-era woman on the block. Mrs. Reingald doesn't invite me to her prim-and-proper tea parties with her sophisticated dollies, chintzy china and half-baked crumpets. Whenever she sees me on the street, she turns up her nose. Hmpfh. Hmpfh.
What Mrs. Reingald doesn't know is that I urinated on her hydrangeas one October morning after drinking a pot of fresh cider.
we were in a compound along with three other families that we didn't know. we had built up walls and fences around what looked like a small suburban neighborhood. my mother rushes in to our house and starts sobbing and thrusting family heirlooms into my hands while saying 'don't forget any of them. put them in your bags and keep them safe'. and i do, even though i think she's being irrational and impractical. i don't know why, but i know that we have to leave soon.
we are all waiting in the boat house for everyone to be prepared to leave. i'm bored and cold. there's a tv playing staticky re-runs of a 1970's sitcom and some of the guys are playing cards.
suddenly, there are zombies filtering through the barricades we'd set up. they fan out over the compound grounds and some find their way to the boat house. i can hear gun shots and banging as the zombies break down the large sliding door. they are slow, but not rotted. they are very strong. there are more of them than us and two men fight off a cluster at the entrance. i'm up on a large fishing boat and i start to panic. then it happens, not in slow motion, but more deliberately than i would have thought. i don't have anything to fight with, so i'm pushing the zombie's head into the gear shift of the boat and trying to shake its grip. i think to myself that once i've killed this one, i'll be fearless and able to kill anything. i'm the last one wrestling with my foe and they are gathered around me, encouraging me but also waiting to jump in if it takes a turn for the worse.
it is at the moment that i succeed in pushing my fist through its forehead that i realize i'm also the only girl left alive in the boat house and my first thought when i wake up is of my mother's heirlooms.
I was at a lakeside house along with some blond guy and a bunch of friends. I guess he was romantically linked to me although we didn't act that way. Everyone else called on me with issues related to the guy.
It was some sort of typical college-kid party where people carried red Solo cups and "rebellious" music played in the background.
Something was wrong with the blond guy's dog. He and I were in a room where the dog's leash was attached to the wall. The leash ran down the length of the room on the floor, out some sliding glass doors and down a floor to the sandy beach below. The dog had plenty of lead to run and play on the beach, but it was laying down close to the house when I looked.
As the guy told me how the dog approached some creature he'd never seen before, the leash rose off the floor as though charged with an electric current. Lights began dancing outside like something from Close Encounters of the Third Kind and the camera view shifted from the second floor where we were to pan down behind the dog. The lights out on the lake danced behind some trees as the dog barked furiously.
The dog had enormous ears like no domesticated species and a horribly short, wrinkly face. It raced toward the trees where the light emanated and pulled the leash taut.
The scene shifted back to the second floor where I was with the blond guy. His eyes had become red and alternately flashing like a child's toy. I was sitting on the floor as the blond guy crossed the room, his eyes flashing, saying, "I told the dog not to go over there. Stupid dog. I don't want to lose it, though."
All at once, the dog stopped barking, the lights stopped flashing and the blond kid dropped to the floor. His eyes had returned to normal colors and he could not breathe. He laid clawing the carpet and at his chest trying to take a breath.
I called for help and knelt over him as he grew more frightened. "Breathe!" I bellowed. He took one gasp. "OK, you can do this. Come on!" I encouraged. "One, two, three, BREATHE!" and he took another gasp as other people entered the room curious as to what was happening.
I screeched and smacked him in the face, which he didn't like very much.
So on my second round of trying to sleep in the wee hours this morning, I dreamed that my family and I were at Wal-Mart, outside in the parking lot. A storm rolls in and rains so heavily that Wal-Mart has decided to close. These huge chainlink fences slide closed around the store, locking everyone out. I pull out my Blackberry and try to photograph the action and send it to Twitpic and Flickr. (Yes, I know.) We get inside our vehicle to wait out the storm and lightning flashes around us. I realize that the lightning is actually hitting vehicles in the parking lot when I see these creepy trails of smoke leading from the ground to the sky, which is seemingly churning with anger now.
I see lightning strike a truck a few rows over, and then another vehicle closer to us. There's a slight flash of light near the ground right before the lightning bolt hits its target. I assume that at any moment, our car is going to be smote. I decide we've got to get out of there.
And get out of there we do. We're driving through a corn field, the storm still raging around us. We're following my dad, I think, and I keep wondering where mom is. My sister tells me she's behind us, and I can tell by the tone in her voice that she's doing something my sister disapproves of. The corn field, I notice, is faded and withered, which means it must be October.
Which means, of course, that that kind of happened in my dream last night. Kind of.
Last night in real life, I left my friends D and A's apartment and drove home, like, half a block away.
Last night in dream life, I had a few false starts from D and A's apartment, trying to get home.
During the first one, I was in my car and completely, completely drunk. I couldn't find my way out of the parking lot so I turned around and took some convoluted alternate route and ended up driving over a median and puttering out into the street, unsure if traffic was coming or not. I think I made it home.
Scenario No. 2 had me stumbling out into the parking lot with friends Ay and B, and B lagging behind because he had found something electronic blinking in the grass. He realized it was my Blackberry and handed it to me. I'm grateful, of course, because clearly I dropped it and would have left it behind forever and ever. And then I realize that I must have dropped it hours ago, because it's busted as hell — keys missing, panels warped, screen cracked, not functional at all. I instantly start freaking out because I don't have insurance on it and even if I did, would it cover stupid drunken mishaps like dropping it in a parking lot and people running over it with their cars? Doubtful.
Scenario No. 3 has me leaving D and A's place and getting on some kind of shuttle full of bona fide creepy freaks. I'm sitting in the back of a standard van — two people up front, three in the middle row, and then me and someone else in the back. The driver looks in his rearview mirror straight at me and saying, "Hey, baby, where you headed?" and other barely masked innuendos. He goes on and on and I try to stand strong and silent and wait for my stop. The person sitting beside him turns to look at me and I see what I can only describe as a Satanic nose, pierced by a huge, tribal-looking nosering. The van finally stops at McLean and Poplar and I get out and try to walk quickly across the parking lot of the strip mall there, but the driver of the van is walking briskly to catch up with me. Ay and B are walking close behind and B wants to know what's wrong, so I start yelling at the van driver, who is some skanky old dude with long blonde hair, "You can't just look at a girl like that and say 'Hey, baby, where you heded?" It's creepy!" B's all, "What!? Yeah, man, you can't do shit like that!" I'm screaming at the skanky dude and B and Ay try to console me as I break down into tears.
I don't know if I ever got home.
There's an owl figurine, and some kind of dusty flowerpot. I get the distinct feeling — the fear — that the woman who lived here before me (I can feel that it's a woman) must have died in the apartment. I wonder how she died. And why I got to move in so quickly.
I am suddenly struck with another fear — how easy is this place to break into? I peer into the bedroom window and see my bed, and wonder who else could have been watching. I don't feel unsafe, necessarily, but I also feel like I might be at risk. Especially since I have no idea where these apartments are located and their reputation for safety. They seem nice enough, but looks can always deceive...
Then I remember my old apartment and can't recall ever giving my building manager any notice that I was going to be moving out. I imagine him and his wife walking into my empty, echoing living room and wondering where I've rudely run off to.
This time, I'm hitting the high point areas of the target repeatedly. I'm shooting through some of the same holes, enlarging the rip in the paper, with a very sleek .45. My friend is thoroughly impressed.
He offers at one point to help me with some of my aiming. I take another few shots that hit the target in close to the same spot every time. There's a gaping hole to the left side showing I don't need any help.
"Nah," I reply. "I think I'm doing just fine." I grin and empty the clip.
I think I already know what's going on with this dream. I had been wondering for the past few days if I should trust my instincts on my evaluation of this friend or consider that maybe I've misjudged him. My subconscious apparently thinks I'm right on target.
"Weird" light isnt necesarily better than the dark, but the dark is still scary. things can seek us out better in the dark when they have the lights. sort of like turning on your high beams in a deer field to blind them (i've never done this, but i understand it's popular with poor hunters).
innate uneasieness when you're in the dark, even in populated areas. "watch the edges around buildings at night, and shadows from large objects and even telephone poles, but mostly big areas of darkness like the woods and fields." (i saw the quoted part in text form, like i was reading it in a book.) when you can see distant city light but you're not there yet, that's the most dangerous because the things that want to find you stay close to people but are in larger groups on the outskirts of a city.
i have a close friendship with a teacher who reminds me of kathy bates. everyone thinks she's a lesbian, including me. i dont have many friends and am apparently troubled. when i get stressed out, she lets me come sit in her private office after school to write and she talks to me. every afternoon the older, black dean comes into her office to have a scotch and talk with her. one day i understand that they are quietly in love with each other and have been for 23 years but it has always been secret for reasons not revelaed to me. i think he is married. when i realize that they should have been together all this time, i tear up and start crying. it's the saddest thing.
im with a good friend, a female. we are going through some sort of outdoor cafteria line at night. maybe for a drive-in? i'm disgusted with the country fried steak. the operation is student-manned. the cashier, jose, whose employee number is 6579, is acting obnoxiously and singing. he's slowing down the line. people are going to call and complain. i am still just grossed out by the food but i get a country fried steak, mashed potatoes, gravy, broccoli, and a roll with a tiny tub of country crock spread. i head toward the car. i stop at a friends car to get something. am aware of something like headlights beaming on us from a nearby field but am not very troubled. i open the friend's car door but she appears to be sleeping so i go back to my other friend's car, the friend im staying with. it is chilly but not cold. she tosses a blanket toward my side of the car. i open the door and balance my food while grabbing the blanket to spread over me after i sit down. we sit down and begin eating. the light is getting brighter. i suggest that we turn on our own headlights, for no rational reason. the headlights dont immediately turn on and we get outside to check them. the other headlights flicker, grabbing our attention. there are strange loud whooping noises, many of them, all around but mostly coming from the direction of the headlights, which are rapidly becoming blinding. i understand that something is communicating with like others out there. i say for us to jump in the car. we do and hurry to roll up the windows. i start screaming to turn on the interior lights. it occurs to me to keep our lights on while simultaneuously blocking theirs, so i hold up my blanket to my window.
i wake up.
i fall back asleep.
*****WARNING: THE FOLLWING PROBABLY CONTAINS TOO MUCH INFORMATION, EVEN FOR A DREAM. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED*****
I'm myself, but I'm an actor or some kind of performer. I'm in a dingy-looking place, and im being filmed. im with another woman and a man, and we're on a bed. the man looks like he is asleep and i understand that we are acting and that i am supposed to mourn him like he's dead. the other woman sits on the edge of the bed with her back towards us. she smells really good. i fake-cry and run my hands over the man's face. i lean forward and kiss him. i notice he has an erection and im vaguely attracted to him, but much more interested in the woman. i continue my fake grieving and the man who is filming calls cut and leaves the room. the man i was mourning sits up and smiles. he makes a comment about his "wood" (his word) and i just kind of nod. it's gotten much bigger. im scared of it. it's grown in length, to where it is almost under his chin. he says he wants to kiss me. i say ok. but he says he also wants to kiss the other woman. she walks over. i see that she and i are both naked. the man is topless. the woman is beautiful but she looks very sad. she sits down and we both kiss him. he focuses on me and pushes my head down. he coerces both of us into fellating him briefly. i feel disgusting and i just want to hold the pretty girl. he finishes and im left with a mouth full of semen, an incredible amount. i spit it out and lay my head on the woman's shoulder. i reach out to stroke her back in a comforting way, and the man slaps my hand away.
I see Fritz asleep on the staircase in what looks to be an incredibly uncomfortable position. I ask James if there's no better place where Fritz can go to sleep, like maybe James' bed, and he hesitates and tells me that even his own bed is in a high-traffic area.
James tells me that it's always like this in the house. People he doesn't know sleeping in beds in shifts, rotating out, lying around on couches and floors, crap piled everywhere. It freaks me out. I ask him how he can live like that, thinking to myself how much I cherish the solitude of my little apartment. He mostly shrugs it off, though I can tell he doesn't exactly love it either, but perhaps has no other choice.
He leans in to kiss me, and I kiss back, except he won't remove his tongue from my mouth, even when I make the "I'm pulling back" head motion/lip tightening action. I keep kissing him, thinking he must just be really into it, or maybe this is a new style of kissing in which you can't breathe or move, but his damned tongue is just a slab of concrete in my mouth, and I find myself really confused by his sudden inability to kiss well.
*Name kind of changed to protect the dream innocent
After that, I walk with a few people who are talking about classes they have and when they're going to exercise. At this point, I realize I'm wearing clothes for cooler weather to disguise how fat I'm getting.
I also realize I don't know my way around this university and the people I've been tagging along with are annoyed I'm there. I drop back as they walk away and wonder to myself how I'm going to get through this year.
Later, I see one of the members of that group I had walked with running in a race through an area with which I'm familiar. I think to myself that I could easily go run out there and not feel so fat any more. Happily, I go to the lecture hall.
At first I sit one desk away from a chick who immediately rolls her eyes and says "oh great ..."
"Fine," I say and move one row back. As I'm sitting there, I unwrap chocolates I have brought with me and eat them. Every time I unwrap one, people nearby turn and throw annoyed looks at me.
The chocolates are soft and I'm licking my fingers in between eating them as I scribble a few notes and generally don't pay attention to the lecture. After a few chocolates, I'm keenly aware of just how fat I am and how much people around me hate me.
It's slow going, and I'm in the first group. I look behind me to check the progress of the second group, and see my mother trip and teeter and then finally hit her head on the edge of one of the pylons, and then fall into the water below. My father, who's the head of my group, yells to my brother and me to take off after her and make sure she's breathing, because she has a concussion.
Somehow my brother dives into the two feet of water. I drop feet first and get to mom before my brother does. She's lying on her back under the water, unconscious. I lift her out of the water — she's heavy — and wonder how I'm supposed to get her to breathe. I don't know CPR. "Shake her!" someone yells, and I do, and she starts breathing. I'm yelling at her to stay awake, because she's drifting in and out of consciousness. Not sure what I'm supposed to do, I look up to see the family continuing to carry the log houses across the rickety bridge.
I suppose they cross the bridge successfully, because soon they are all beside me as I stand there trying to hold mom up. One of my nephews or maybe my brother — I can't remember which — starts going off on me for leaving chairs out in some building, presumably where the log cabins were taken to be stored, which is why it took them so long. I yell at him to back off. I feel completely helpless with my mom nodding off in my arms. We're both waterlogged.
I look up to see another family carrying another wooden log cabin across that confounded bridge. Someone makes a misstep and the wood cracks and collapses around them.
Good luck with that, I think.
I can't sleep in my childhood bedroom anymore.
This has been a problem for a while now. Every time my head hits the pillow and my eyes flutter shut in the darkness, I see shit in the dark. Shapes of things looming. Eyes watching. When I finally get ahold of myself and drift off to sleep, this absurd cycle of anxiety-ridden dreams and nightmares gets started.
Just now I had entered that delicious limbo phase when the conscious mind starts powering down and starts churning out all those nonsensical phrases and imagery than turn into dreams, and I went through no less than three bad dreams that I forced myself to wake up from. The last one is the only one I can really remember. I am leaving a building — work, presumably, because I look down and see my badge on a lanyard — and walking briskly in a parking lot. It's dark out. The breeze kicks up and takes me with it — straight up, like I'm on an invisible elevator. I realize I'm dreaming and decide to just go with it and will myself ever higher (what's the worst that could happen?) and my eye level gets nearly flush with the top of the building, which is old and made of bricks, and I see something that I can't quite make out. It's moving, and it's menacing.
I woke myself up when I cried out.
That's fucked up.
But dreams like that ALWAYS happen to me in this room. I've documented some of them. I hate sleeping here. Hate it. The whole night is fraught with pointless peril and I have no idea why.
The thing is, there is no reason for me to have issues with this room. I don't recall anything bad ever happening to me in this room. (Or anywhere else, really. I had a good childhood.) Nothing bad has happened to anybody else in this room, as far as I know. I have made a lot of really good memories in this room. Granted, they've painted the walls and redecorated completely, so it doesn't look anything like the Pepto Bismol-pink monstrosity I adored as a kid, but it's still the same damn room. What gives?
Perhaps it's all this violent Civil War art all over the walls. Or the weird dissonance between that and the unicorn collection on the dresser. Maybe it's the furniture. Maybe it's the mattress.
I don't know. But it's 4 in the morning and I would like to go to sleep. But I'm scared of what's waiting for me on the other side.
It kind of feels like I'm watching a documentary, or perhaps making one, as I listen to her talk about how much she loves the cacao bean and what kind of effect it has on her. I turn around to see her demonstrating, taking what looks like a standard black beanstalk (not what real cacao looks like) in her mouth and sucking out the insides. She becomes delirious — seriously, seriously high — and falls to the ground in a fit of ecstasy. The ground, I notice, is muddy and covered with trampled tropical leaves. Tall grass surrounds us. The young woman's eyes roll back in her head as she trips. Someone tries to help her stand — we've got to keep moving — and she simply keels over and does a straight-up faceplant into some mud and grass.
That's when I notice the bugs — giant, huge, ENORMOUS bugs, crawling over her at lightning speed, on their way to places more interesting, presumably. These bugs are everywhere in the grass. I can see them — roaches the size of lobsters, beetles the size of chihuahuas — leaping in and out of the grass and skittering over people's feet. I restrain my horror and think to myself So this is what South Africa is like.
(In all reality, wouldn't it be more likely that I was in South America, what with the cacao and the jungle? I dunno...)
I'm on a set of damp, cool concrete steps in a stone stairwell. A nice breeze is blowing through and the air smells sweet. It seems like above them there sits a nice outdoor courtyard full of trees, flowers, singing birds, pedestrians, and people taking their lunches outside. It seems that down below there's another courtyard...that's also in the sun. I'm not sure how that's possible, but it's full of the same things. The atmosphere seems almost collegiate, but I know I'm actually at work. I get the feeling I'm leaving work. I think I'm heading down the stairs, but I can't be positive I wasn't going up them. The important thing is that I bump into my old boss, the former art director of the C.A. and we start talking. He's in his biking shorts and a t-shirt and he's a few steps above me. He's very fit. (He's very fit in real life) He somehow knows that I have no vacation days or personal days left and there are still 6 months left in the year. He tells me that I have to quit for a year and go with him...that my health depends on it. He's a good friend and I trust he knows what he's talking about, but I'm baffled that he knows how many off days I have left when he's been gone for over a year.
Then I wake up.
As we drive through a field, we hear of a group of marauders running through the area. That's our cue to intercept the group and kill them.
We come upon a band of middle-aged and elderly suburbanites walking across a grassy meadow. There are the balding males with bermuda shorts, polos and sandals on. There are one or two grandmotherly figures in the group wearing pop beads and obscenely bright floral tops.
My sister, who is right next to me, has already pulled out her weapon. She's ready to roll.
I pull out an elongated knife (or maybe it's a short sword) and hop off the vehicle. We circle around the group that has now reacted like a herd of cattle. They're facing outward, wide eyed and panicked.
From the left, someone starts hacking into the group and I know it's go-time. Quickly, I dispatch two with a few deep cuts. They go down with very little noise and almost no blood issuing from the wounds.
As I circle around the back of the group, I see my sister bending down over an old woman who is on the ground near breathless after screaming, searching frantically for a way to get out of there. I'm strangely passive to her fear and nearly laugh as my sister asks her "do you want to go quickly?"
She repeats the question a few times before the woman finally nods. My sister steps on her chest and begins cutting in a way that would not bring quick death. The woman never screams. In fact, she lays there looking up at my sister patiently awaiting her last moment.
I come upon a middle-aged guy with his gut hanging out significantly over his shorts who continues to face me even as I circle him and says to me, "I never knew you were so good with those weapons." I slice into him twice very quickly. He drops to his knees as blood starts seeping into his mouth. As he falls over, he asks, "are you good with all of them?"
"Half," I reply. "I'm good with about half."
He nods and expires.
He arrives. They're still everywhere. I'm not ready for him to be here, but I do my best not to show it as I continue to try to shoo people away.
Somewhere in there, we're in a park sitting in this bench contraption that forms a square with two other people, one of whom is one of my bosses. The boss and my guest start up a conversation while I notice my guest has very strange feet. His toes are incredibly short and stumpy even though the size of his foot is normal. It's like his toes had to be cut from the slab of flesh at the end of his foot.
The boss ignores me completely and I wonder if anyone notices I haven't even taken a shower.
The second dream involved traveling to Europe with a group of people including my mother and a certain person of interest I can't seem to get out of my head. The person, we'll call T, is leading the group around a tour of Germany and keeps looking to make sure I'm right there with him.
I realize I forgot my watch even though we had been explicitly told before the trip started that we would need to bring one.
Then, I realize I forgot my camera. My mother begins to gripe at me that I should have taken more time to pack since I forgot two essentials of travel. This makes me wonder if I remembered to get my suitcase at the airport when we landed. I can't seem to find it anywhere.
Meanwhile, T keeps coming by and tapping me on the shoulder to get me to pay attention when the group moves.
I try to stay lighthearted on the outside and pretend I don't feel like a complete moron or worry that I'm disappointing him.
I search everywhere but can't find the missing bit of tooth.
I am sitting in a big building whose walls and ceilings are a band room, but whose floor and
furniture are my grandparents' house. I am sitting beside Cindy Haffly, who has out her tenor and is examining three new altissimo keys that have been added to the sax, but in keeping with the auxiliary F key, not the palm keys. I have my tenor in my lap, and I'm looking, too. I start playing the notes and then using the new keys, comparing intonation. Apparently we are making a chart of which fingerings to use in certain settings. When we're done she straightens her collar and pulls at her button-down shirt and says, "I'm getting the hell outta here! I'm starving!" and walks out. I laugh, and continue to play. I am playing when I hear a staticky interruption. I stop playing and hear Rick Shaw's voice filtering through the speakerphone on the desk. "Tamara! Tamara!" he's shouting. "Yeah?!" I say, irritated. "Listen, I have some bad news for you." Bob Besant has joined Rick, wherever he's calling from, and is snoring loudly into the phone. He sounds like Butthead sleeping. "When you go in to play for Dr. Mroz, he's going be like, 'Okay, hi, where ya from?' and you're going to say 'Senior high,' but the thing is that I forgot to tell him you're coming, and he doesn't like to take senior high." I scoff. "Great!" Rick continues. "Just say, 'Dr. Mroz? I'm going to be your daughter-in-law-" Bob interjects, "'with your kind permission,'" and Rick continues, "'-so if you'd give me the chance to play I'd really appreciate it.'" I stand there, not replying, trying to figure out who the hell it is I'm supposed to be marrying that Dr. Mroz would be my father-in-law.
The thought to leave never occurs to me, so I snoop through his things. One of the things I can vividly remember is his porn collection, which I remark is very classy: It's on vinyl (how that works exactly, I don't know) and instead of each cover featuring sex acts barely obscured by cartoon explosions or black boxes, there are simply artistic illustrations of bodily forms, designed with care and aesthetic calibration in mind. I approve, and think to myself this must be some really old porn. I can only hope the porn itself is as thoughtful as the packaging, if that's possible.
I look out the window and see a bus pass by. It's as if my eyes are equipped with zoom lenses because I hone in and see A's face in the back seat, laughing at a joke someone must have just told. Oh shit, I think. He's home. With friends. What am I supposed to do? I am acutely aware of how weird he is going to think it is that I am in his house.
I go to the next room and peek through the door as people file into the house. I catch A's vision and wave sheepishly, and he looks surprised to see me. I feel awful for being there. I sit down on some low-lying chair, trying to obscure my lower half, which is without pants. His friends come into the room, one by one, and occupy open seats. A takes a seat just on my right and introduces me to each person. I do my sheepish wave thing. His friend L sits down on my left as if she knows me too. I recognize her from the internet in real life and am happy she's being nice enough to sit next to me even though I probably smell bad.
A's looking at me, but I'm afraid to look at him or talk to him because I feel gross. I try to explain to him why I'm there and how I got there. "I think I honestly might have sleptwalked over here," I say, "because I cannot remember coming over here. I'm wearing my PJs and I haven't showered either," I say, embarrassed. A is leaning in to my neck, smelling my hair and the curve of my skin. I wonder if he's trying to get a whiff of my pheromones or something. I tell everyone, by way of explanation for why I'm there unannounced and possibly uninvited, that I've been reading this book called Snoop, about how to determine personality types by hidden clues in people's personal spaces (it's a pretty interesting book that I really am reading right now).
A surprises me with a kiss, and he runs his hands quickly but sweetly over my hair and my chest, before I pull away. There is no way I can make out with him when I've not even brushed my teeth.
One of them -- a dark grey beauty -- reaches out and just thwacks at me, for no reason. I've done nothing to instigate it. Its claws make contact and scratch me, catching on my clothes. The others get closer and more aggressive, and the grey cat continues reaching out methodically with the same paw, scratching me aggressively.
I yell to T that his cats are attacking me and think to myself how pathetic must a person be to get attacked by cats?
Totally weird! Never in a million years would this happen or would I want it to, but in the dream I was all like, "Yeah, okay, I'm all right with this!" Ugh.
I was talking to some people and said something along the lines of, "I know he's supposed to be the next (some actor I forget) but he's just not that hot."
Then, right beside me, Brendan turned around with a sorrowful look in his eyes. "You don't think I'm that attractive?"
I apologized profusely, but he was deeply hurt.
A freshly scrubbed college student is interviewing me about my life:
Does true love exist?
"True love exists, but sometimes it's messy. I takes over every fiber of your being. It doesn't have to be with a human being, per se. For instance, I love my cat. This tree. I water it everyday." I finger a bottle of Chardonnay at the base of the table.
What is the meaning of life?
"The meaning of life to live each day fully and to learn something new each day. You have to live it fully." Pregnant pause. I take a sip from my chalice. "I spent a large portion of my twenties going around half-assed. Young man, do not go around half-assed. Live it; love it; learn it."
But what if you're unhappy?
"I recommend smoking a little bit of weed everyday. But make sure you mix it with some anti-depressants. I recommend Zoloft. Buddhist chants help as well." I take gulp of Chardonnay. "Live it; love it; learn it."
We've spotted a menacing funnel cloud close by. We're in some kind of large factory — the paper mill? — and are told to head for the belly of it. We take the winding corridors and finally end up in a portion of the place that looks nothing like a basement, but instead seems to be a wide-open area with a murky yellow sky. I ask if we are actually indoors, and am told yes. Essentially we're in some kind of huge underground warehouse. I look down and my watch has begun glowing in pulses. I realize this means it's go time. Sure enough, we hear a rumble and there are shouts to take cover. I grab some pipes nearby and wince as the storm gobbles up what it can from above. There are two people beside me. I watch in horror as the three of us rise from the ground from the force of the winds. Rise and fall, air and ground.
The storm passes.
2. I'm in some kind of amusement park that is painfully empty. The rides are running on auto-pilot, but there are no people in them, despite the fact that there are a scant few people running around the park. I climb the queue for the park's equivalent of the Old Mill Scream (large boat climbs hill, rushes down hill, splashes water everywhere, the end), thinking I'd like to ride it. I get to the top and watch the boats crest the hill near the platform and then take off without even a pause for a passenger to board. I get spooked and decide I'd rather not jump into a moving boat. Lighthouse Pilot walks up to the platform, wanting to ride the ride as well, but sees the predicament of the moving boats. I caution him not to do it when I sense that he's thinking about jumping into one of the boats. We decide that they must be moving so fast because there's no one here working the ride and literally putting a foot down to slow the boats so people can load. The boats keep cresting the hill and falling rapidly as we watch them, wondering why there's no one there controlling the ride.
I'm at church, and it's packed. It's so packed it feels like a suffocating madhouse. There are people I've never seen before, and lots of children. It's bustling and loud and completely unlike any church I've ever been in. I have to take a seat up front, only to look back and see my family slide into a pew several rows back. My patience with the whole ordeal grows thin, so I grab my bag and slip out. My dad calls out after me, irritated that I would leave.
I navigate my way through the teeming crowd and realize the bustle is because there's some sort of festival going on. A revival-slash-festival of sorts. I don't want to be there and the contempt is bubbling up inside me, so I push my way toward the door until finally I'm outside. It's nearly dark and poorly lit, but there are people everywhere running around and playing. I push my way through the thick darkness, trying to get away from the church, when I hear a FWOOMP and look down next to me.
It's a javelin. A red javelin. I peer into the darkness and realize that there are people out there playing lawn darts with javelins, and launching the giant spears into the crowd with little regard for, uh, safety. And they are gearing up to hurl another one in my general direction. I backtrack and head toward the church again, my eye trained on the horizon. I see a javelin in the air, getting bigger all the time, and carefully plot my next few steps to avoid it. This happens two more times before I'm finally back at the church. I go inside and start telling people, "They've got lawn darts out there!!" but no one seems to understand the urgency.
I'm told my grandmother requires me in one of the rooms of the church, and when I go to find her, I realize I've been duped and my dad just wanted a chance to scold me for leaving.
Boyfriend: Oh, I'm sorry.
Me: I cheated on you with Judge Reinhold. I was devastated.
Boyfriend: Didn't you have that dream before? When we were in Memphis?
Me: No? Did I? You're bullshitting me.
Boyfriend: No, you did.
Me: I went to an underground sex club located in a strip mall. Judge Reinhold was there. He was like a sex god. Women and men swarmed around him, wanting to touch his penis. I remember that Judge Reinhold had a really big penis. It was massive.
Boyfriend: That's interesting.
Me: But yeah, I was totally devastated.
Crossposted at Manhattan Project
I don't think I actually saw it, though. I just dreamed that I thought I saw it.
I'm back at my childhood home looking out the dining room window at a back yard full of palm trees, which aren't there in real life. On the tree closest to the window is a gigantic lizard that has changed color to blend in.
It doesn't quite look like a chameleon. It's more like a cross between a gila monster and an iguana, but it's freaking huge. It's massive. The thing is somehow perched along one of the leaves and its tail extends back to wrap around the trunk of the tree. In my estimation, it's about 8 feet long.
Somehow, the trees are changing color a little bit and unmasking the lizard. This is how I first noticed it. I start watching it blend back into its surroundings when a sense of foreboding comes over me. This lizard is a wretched monster, I realize.
I call over some people (I think a few were family members) and show them the lizard. "We have to get rid of this," I tell them. Their concern mirrors mine. The monster moves and stares at us. We freeze in fear, watching for its next move.
I start off in the college/young singles class and sit down on the end of a row. Then I notice this certain person who has been a part of my life fairly recently has walked through the class. He smiles at me, says a few words to the teacher and leaves. A couple of people look at me with serious expressions. I stare straight ahead.
Then later, I walk down the hall to the 5th grade Sunday School class. I've been asked to join the class for reasons unknown to me. I go in and sit down. The same man walks through, smiles at me, says something to the teacher and leaves. I feel like he's following me.
Then I'm asked to wait in the hall while the class discusses a few things. I go out into the hall and wait with another girl who was asked to do the same. While we're waiting, the guy I keep seeing is out in the hall talking jovially with some church members.
The girl with me gets called back into the classroom and I hear the teacher asking her about how she lies. I wonder what the hell I'm doing out in the hall when I'm called back in.
The teacher holds something like a cordless phone to my face as she starts asking me about the affairs I'm having. I'm stunned into silence. Then people start milling around like class is over.
This is the most obvious dream I think I've had in my life. Good grief.
"Welcome, Engrish shittirens," the lead Asian-American says.
Right in the middle of the lotus flower presentation, a corpulent young man begins teabagging me. But it's not a fratty John Belushi-type teabag. It's more of a wink-wink type teabag.
I don't take too kindly to this. "This fat young Asian man is raping me with his scrotum," I cry out loudly.
The kabuki performers are aghast. Faces turn in the crowd.
Finally, my beloved English teacher Kristen Carwile escorts the teabagger to the nearest exit. Once outside the Belcourt Theater, a muscled Village People-esque SWAT team proceeds to beat the shit out of him.
The only bits I remember clearly:
• I'm on a plane and apparently we've got to jump the interstate to get to our runway. There's no overpass; we just have to do a miniature takeoff and landing to get to the other side of the road. And then when we do, suddenly we're on the interstate itself, trying to take off from there in between those huge green exit signs. Harrowing.
• I'm in a grimy public restroom, peeing, when I see this frumpy middle-aged dude walk past me (apparently there are no stalls) and ogle me. He continues to watch as he walks away. I am simultaneously enraged and embarrassed, and as I berate him for being a creepy asshole, I tell him, for some reason, "I'm sorry." When I come out of the restroom, I find my dad and he wonders what took me so long. I tell him about creepy asshole guy and dad gets so pissed off that he is shaking. He wants to kill the guy for treating his little girl that way.
• A very portly gentleman is telling me something about America and colonial political theory. He says, "Benjamin Franklin felt that everyone should be able to fly whatever kite they wanted, but that no one should be able to see your key." He leans back and begins unbuckling his belt, and I freak out, thinking he's some kind of perv. He reassures me that no, he just wants to show me his belly, which is portly because there's a baby in there. He cups his right manboob and tells me that he's lactating.
I wake up to the sound of a loud thud and realize that one of the five books on my bed has made its way to the floor. There's no one in my bedroom but me, so perhaps I was thrashing around and knocked it off.
There are people around — presumably people who know how to deal with camera equipment — and as soon as I show the lens (what's left of it) to a white-haired older gentleman, he shakes his head as if to say Too bad, that lens is FUBAR.
I set about trying to reassemble the lens shortly before realizing I have no idea how a lens' interior should even look.
I feel like a total fuckup but I'm not too disappointed because I've been wanting to get a new primary lens for a while. And yes, I did think of that exact lens in the dream.
They stood in the parking lot with little oil-caked tykes bobbing around them with their arms outstretched. The children looked like little skeletons dripped in wax. You know, the sort made famous in those damned Sally Struthers infomercials at 2 o' clock in the morning.
Anyhoo, I didn't give two shits from a gnat's behind about Prince William. Of course, I wanted to prod Prince Harry's red candy apples. Always have. But I chomped my lips at the bit, instead.
My Mom drove over to Prince Harry and asked if she could make a donation.
"That's be great," Prince Harry said.
So my Mum swung open the driver side door. In the process, she smacked a little oil-caked tyke in the back of his head.
Prince Harry didn't seem to notice.
We're getting ready to make a trip somewhere, and the husband is having a hard time getting his large family to give him enough space to get ready to go. He has been loading a shopping cart with food items we're supposed to take with us.
The large family comes over to bother me for a while. At one point, they gather around me holding hands in a circle and start singing. I freak out and break away from them.
The wife tells us to all jump into the shopping cart, which is now empty of food items. It's the couple, one other girl and me. I don't know the other girl, but she's ridiculously underdressed for as cold as it is. We talk briefly and I ask her how she stays warm in her purple sweater dress. She replies that she's wearing Spanx.
All during this time, the wife is moving back and forth putting the foodstuffs back in the cart. She's doing a remarkably good job in her feng sui as I don't notice a decrease in available space at all. When she's not nearby, her husband is being ridiculously affectionate toward me. He rubs my shoulders, kisses my head, and does all sorts of sappy little touches that seem to be reassuring.
I'm really ignoring this, not because I feel any sort of guilt or embarrassment. It just seems like nothing to me and I don't give it another thought. I don't reciprocate and I just watch where we're going as the cart coasts around the parking lot closer to the SUV we're going to take on our journey.
So I do my best to put my dress on and look pretty and it's tense because we're running late because of me. We pile into the car and my cousin Keri — a younger version of her — has to sit in my lap and I'm afraid she's getting mud on my skirt because she's just a kid.
The weather has started to get nasty out and we are trucking it over backwoods hills, topping them with no tires on the ground, screaming for my mother, who's driving, to be more careful each time we meet another speeding vehicle at the crest of the hill. We have so many close calls that eventually something happens and we're all exposed to the elements and we're wet and my hair is all effed up.
The sky is the heaviest color of dark grey, like it's ready to just flatten us all.
I'm in a high rise, in what I've come to understand is my editor in chief's office. It's super swanky, with its own little breakfast stand and attendant in the lobby. There are jars of candy on the stand, as well as doughnuts. The office is sparsely decorated, but seems incredibly, frighteningly open because it's surrounded completely by giant plate glass windows. And glass for a ceiling. The storm is still raging outside and I wonder who would want to work in a place like this when the weather gets sour. I notice a small, black, high-walled, completely enclosed cubicle. It is there that the editor actually keeps his desk, I discern.
I imagine a tornado sucking the entire thing out the window and carrying it across the fields that surround the building.
The apartment is housed inside some kind of huge mansion owned by an older lady who lives there with her family. She seems like a typical middle-class Southern lady: freckled from years of sun damage, and wearing cheesy granny clothes. She's even wearing a sun visor.
The bathroom in my apartment is rather large. It has expansive windows on two adjacent walls -- one side looks into the mansion's giant indoor pool room, and the other side looks onto a grassy courtyard.
There's a jacuzzi tub in the middle of the room, made of slick, dark material. I want to strip down and take a bath in it so bad, but I don't want to be seen, either by the family inside, splashing around in the pool, or any passersby who might happen through the courtyard.
I walk over to the drapes dressing the windows facing the courtyard and close them with a great flourish (they are huge -- the size of stage curtains). They glide shut and I realize I've lost all the natural light and the bathroom is suddenly quite dark. I open the curtains back up and close the sheers instead, but worry that people might still be able to see me inside.
Dream 2: I am looking at a photograph of a former teacher of mine - we'll call her Ylffah Ydnic for the sake of Google and my own very fragile pride - that Lindsey has taken for me on a spy mission. It is a face shot, and although the back part of her hair has gone gray, I notice that the front strands have not, even though Lindsey plainly told me that it was completely gray, and the hair around the face usually goes first. I am mystified and enchanted as the photo comes to life and begins to say something. But before she can get a word out I wake up in my own bedroom and can't figure out where I am for at least an entire minute. Then, when I do, I lament that I freaking missed what she had to say.
UPDATE: I just saw the real photo Lindsey snapped for me on her real spy mission and my dream was right! It's not totally gray around the face. It's salt and pepper. My dreaming brain was right! Also, if I may add, she looks so, so hot. SO hot.
Theogeo started a new career as a call girl.
A coked-out feline chases me up a metallic staircase. It clacks up the stairs, mewling and meowing the entire flight. Finally, it leaps on my face and starts clawing my nose to shreds. In real life, I jolt out of sleep only to find myself punching a nearby pillow.
I'm wearing a pink gazebo balloon animal to my sister's wedding. I'm completely naked except for the pink gazebo balloon animal wrapped around my midsection. "That's so gay," a wedding guest says. I begin stroking the pink gazebo balloon animal. I look up at the guest plainatively and say, "it's a part of me."
I remember going through the initial grief, and then trying to maintain my composure, doing well for a while, and then thinking about being an only child for the rest of my life. I remember standing on the grave without realizing it, and watching the dirt — red clay — shift to show a bit of someone's sleeve beneath it. Then I remember having a complete sobbing breakdown on the floor/ground, complete with heaves and honks and drool and snot bubbles and convulsions. I remember my parents trying to comfort me.
There's more, but it's all gotten quite foggy and I'd rather put it behind me anyway.
This may be the most fucked-up dream I've ever had.
We are riding on a bus, heading who knows where. It's packed with kids I don't know and kids from my senior class. And Jack White, fresh from either the De Stijl or White Blood Cells album. He's sitting in the seat in front of me, next to the aisle, chatting and laughing it up with the more popular students. His hair is delightfully mussed and he's wearing a red shirt (as if you couldn't have predicted).
I suppose I'm trying to get his attention in any way I can. So I'm babbling loud mnonsense to my seatmates, who are giggling at my lack of shame. Suddenly, I blurt, "GOD IS A PUSSY."
Hahaha, I'm cracking up right now even writing that because who the fuck says that aloud, much less in a dream? I'm a horrible person, clearly.
My exclamation fails to get Jack's attention but everyone around me reels in shock that I'd ever let such blasphemy cross my lips.
I am at the Young Avenue Deli with my old friend Amy F. (whom I haven't seen or talked to in real life in a few years). I've just trekked there through what is definitely not Cooper-Young but more dense and old and cobblestoned (probably some Parisian street I saw and internalized when I watched Paris, Je T'aime the other night). I'm ordering food from a plump young lady with short red hair. She is utterly bored with the task of punching my order into the computer and ringing me up. As I stand there by the bar (in this dream, unlike in real life, the food cash register is near the bar, not in the other room; in fact the layout of the place is all jacked up in the dream so I won't even try to explain), Amy and I are talking about newspapers and she begins going off on designers who insert errors into stories and make reporters look bad. (Amy, for the record, is not a reporter and as far as I know, couldn't give two shits about journalism.)
We get in a tiff in which she basically calls me out for ruining one of stories way back when, and she demeans my very profession in the process. I'm devastated that she would be so hard on me for making a very human mistake, which I explained was the result of several people's errors, not just mine. She continues berating me as I look over to the side room and see the popular kids from high school (what is with all the high school dreams lately? yeesh) getting drunk off of bottles of wine (including a magnum of Hogue White Harvest, yum). I've had my fill of being made to feel like shit, so I tell the cashier lady to forget about my food, even though I've already paid, and I stumble out onto the street like I'm drunk, even though I've not been drinking, and try to make my way back home through the cold, damp streets.
This time I'm in a huge movie theater full of people. It's an IMAX theater, it seems, with massive stadium seating, and we've just watched a promo movie hyping the next zombie walk. It's over and people are scattering, but I feel like I need to say something to them, so I rush down to the front of the room and attempt to yell over the din, but my voice doesn't carry at all. Someone hands me a microphone. I can hear my voice coming out in a comically distorted tone once I start speaking.
"Wow, I don't think I really sound like that, do I?" I ask the crowd, most of whom are ignoring me. I keep talking and talking and listening to my voice through the microphone and wondering why it sounds so hilariously obnoxious. Finally, someone changes the settings and my real voice starts coming out.
I make my announcement — I don't even remember what it was — and then go inside an equipment closet with my fellow organizers. Inside the equipment closet is a small spiral staircase. We go up it, and it gets smaller and smaller until it just ends.
Then we come back down.
There's also some stuff knocking around in my brain about how we had some video that didn't get done on time, and there's a point at which I'm standing in the middle of a busy highway intersection.
I was running. I was running from Jim Carrey. I had become entrapped inside a mid-revolutionary battle house during a nuclear holocaust, and Jim Carrey was my torturous captor. Bombs exploded outside, in all worlds, through and through, reality was unraveling, and I was skipping from world to world, lost from my own, in a warp zone tree infested modest two-story home. With my crippled pit bull in tow, I leapt from limb to banister in fevered and breathless panic in hopes of completing my mission and escaping back to my world with my dog. I found a warp hole and shimmied through into a vine-entangled jungle room. A suitcase bomb took out some flooring of the room in the next world, and my viney floor dissolved into a yawning gap between the trunks of two gigantic trees. My dog became laboriously heavy in my leather satchel, but I continued in frenzied haste down the tree house sidewalks towards a glass exit door. It was an exit to the outside. I could see shrubs, and a paved parking lot with modest sedans of grayish blue and maroon – it was my world! I crawled on my belly through the door and paused at the edge of the brick building, relishing in the edificial fire cover it provided against the turrets. I rested my dog’s satchel against the wall and positioned myself to peep around. Explosions, screaming, bullets shredding, my heart pounding; I inched the outermost corner of my left eye around the wall – too see a pair of army boots. I looked up in terror to see Jim Carrey smiling sadistically as he pulled back a long sword, then buried it in my skull.
Darkness surrounded me, and a deafening toll sounded. My heart pounded as I slowly became aware of grey contours about me. I lurched upright and stared at my blaring alarm, whose face dutifully read 5:14. Oh. The dim melancholy of my small upper room reminded me that there was no revolution, and I was curled on my sunken brown couch under a star-covered afghan having a nightmare.
Earlier this evening I was passing through the little swamp just before you get to my parents' log house in Hernando when I saw something that triggered a visual sense memory. It was around 6:15 or so and the sun was still out, but the sky was beginning to fill with semi-vibrant pinks and oranges...which reflected on the surface of the water. The water is also rising down there. It isn't necessarily as high as it's ever been...so says my mom...but it's getting high enough that they were forced to purchase flood insurance. There are several bridges you have to cross before you get to their house and lately, they've been closing them more frequently with our freakish April showers.
Long story short...I see the colors of the sky in the water and I remember a dream that I had at some point in my life...I feel like it was years ago...where I'm forced to travel across a very thin pathway...which is sometimes underwater and sometimes barely above...and sometimes very high above the water...so high that to fall off would most certainly result in me being rendered dead. BUT the one constant is that there is always water. At times my family is with me...maybe other people who I don't know now, but whom I was familiar with in the dream. We're travelling somewhere. Sometimes I feel like we're in a car and sometimes we're going on foot. Our path was once a road, but not much is left of it. Sometimes I feel like I'm swimming. The colors are very vibrant. There are blues as pure as cobalt from a tube...pinks and oranges. They seem like sashes that sort of flow in the breeze or in a current if they're under water. All I know is that I'm on some kind of important journey and despite being scared I have to continue.
So within a few seconds of seeing the colors on the water today...all of this sort of comes rushing back and a question forms in my mind. What if...and it's a big what if...but it's an interesting what if...What if the Big Bang or whatever formed our universe was a sort of controlled event...not by like an intelligent designer...no...not that...but the kind of explosion that is the result of an event...the kind of result that could be predicted. For instance if we mix two chemicals we know what type of reaction will play out. What if everything...man evolving from sea creatures, man developing the wheel, and ultimately becoming what we are today...is all some sort of predictable...controlled reaction? What if dreams are glitches that occassionally act as metaphors to the real journeys we're taking in life? What if that old dream (which I forgot to mention seemed like the road to my parents' house) is some sort of a clue about my life's ultimate path...if it has one? What if? What if we're accidentally catching a glimpse of a pre-destined roadmap for our lives? Maybe?
Maybe one day I'll write about the dream I had in the 10th grade where I (in the dream) dated Kelly Kapowski from Saved By The Bell (Tiffany Amber Theissen-sp?) for the better part of a month. When I woke up I felt dissoriented and when I realized it was only a dream I felt like I had been dumped. It really hurt that much. That residual break-up feeling lasted for a good week. I'll never forget the time we had together, Kelly. Never.
Someone next to me on the other side points across to somewhere inside the massive indentation and says "that's where it hit." Lucky for me, my sarcastic mind never skips a beat even when pumped full of adrenaline at the fear of falling. I think to myself, "It's a crater. The whole damn thing is where it hit, genius."
The clouds are not the average dark grey thunderheads. They're rather brown and resemble something more like a sandstorm than rainclouds.
About as soon as they're over the beach, softball-size drops of mostly yellow paint come falling out of the clouds and making big "sploosh!" sounds in the water. People start screaming and running. I'm looking around and realize these paint bombs aren't bursting and dissipating very much. They're actually rather gelatinous and they're ensnaring people in the water and on the beach.
It's strange, too, the color of these things. They're mostly bright yellow, but there are swirls of red, green, blue and purple in them that occasionally appear. The water has since turned from blue to an Easter-like pale yellow with rivulets of other colors.
My sister is screaming and crying as she tries to climb out of the surf and onto land to flee. I see a few people move to try to help her and I turn away to keep running. I've been hit by two or three of these Crayola blobs that I've shaken off as I climb over a breaker and stumbled down into some long soft grass.
I start clambering up an embankment full of flowers, grabbing and tugging at them to help myself up to the path. I yell at people to head east. "You have to head east before you go north!" I shout.
It's New Year's Eve. I don't know this just yet, but it will become apparent in just a bit. There are people everywhere. I'm not sure where I am and I don't really recognize any of the people around me. Some dark-haired dude I've never seen before comes up and starts cutting my hair with very large, very frightening shears. He is cutting in such a way that I am afraid he's going to slice me open. I tell him to be careful, and I close my eyes tight in fear. Suddenly he kisses me square on the lips and I open my eyes and realize it's because it's midnight on New Year's Eve. Everyone starts cheering and celebrating and I realize that he has cut my hair into a ridiculously short bob*. This distresses me a great deal, as I'm quite attached to my long hair and I tend to look weird with short hair. I freak out and leave the place.
Outside, it's dark, and there are people perched next to cars, poised to take photographs of the people who come out of the building. Like paparazzi. I cover my face and lament that I will look so lame in the photographs thanks to my short hair.
Amber is sitting at a table full of girls I don't know. They are all dressed in mid-'80s garb — acid-washed balloon overall shorts sets, for god's sake — and all of them clearly think they're onto a trend. Amber's wearing more jewelry than I have ever seen, and I note to myself that I have got to borrow her awesome dangly fuschia gem drop earrings. She's also wearing a hot pink cat broach, and a yellow dog broach (I did have one of these when I was a kid), as well as layers of necklaces and bangles on her arms. Her hair is cut short again.
Several of the girls at the table look uncomfortable. I don't know if they all know each other or not. I call out one of the girls for wearing all that '80s crap and not even liking it. She stands up to confront me and ends up being 9 feet tall.
* Yet another dream for which I pulled content from that day's events. My friend Ashley just got her hair cut really short and told me about it over e-mail yesterday at work.