I'm staring up at the cloudy night sky, amid some sort of turmoil, and I scream, "I HATE YOU!" into the darkness above me.


Que hora es?

I'm standing on my parent's porch from their previous home. It's wintery and I'm talking to a girl that I don't know in real life, but am in a relationship with in m dream. I can't recall her face, but she's wearing a dark colored peacoat and a fuzzy scarf with red and gray stripes. We're saying our goodbyes...possibly after a date. I catch myself saying something that seems out of the ordinary for me and question whether or not I might be dreaming. I turn to see what time it is and have a hard time reading the red digits on the alarm clock. It's 10:48...no, it's 49...no...the numbers keep changing. I can't seem to keep the clock in focus. Before long I can make out that it's after 11 and the numbers just keep ascending. I tell myself "Now, I know I'm dreaming." as I recall the whole not being able to read time thing in Waking Life.
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.



Last night, I was a gorilla on the run from people trying to put me back where they thought I belonged. It was some area of Africa full of rain forest and residential development.

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.


not quite

amy ten years from now is humming to herself in the kitchen, tidying the counters and preparing food. she stoops to open the oven door and pulls out a rectangular glass baking pan. there is steam rising from the dish, it swirls thick like words. she smells the contents and pricks it with a toothpick.

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.


Dream or past life?

Voices clatter and clammer in my head.

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.