I'm attempting to go back to Voodoo Village in Memphis, by myself this time. I have no idea why. It's dark and misty, and I'm really scared. I seem to be coming in from behind or something, because I'm not on the road. There are banging noises coming from the houses, and it looks like flames behind the windows, but no one is coming outside. I get too scared and decide to run away. I turn around and start running, and trip over a tombstone. Looking up, I realize I'm in Lafayette cemetary, the one in New Orleans. Somehow this is still part of Voodoo Village. I don't know how I know that it's specifically Lafayette and not some other random cemetary with above-ground graves, but I do. I'm suddenly thinking , "Shit, shit!" and other gotta-get-out-of-here thoughts concerning witchcraft and crime rates, when I'm approached by a mean-looking yellow lab. He stands in front of me and growls at me, and I start cying and explain that I'm lost and I just want to go home. He stops growling and says (yes, he talks) that it's ok, that it's just his job and he's not going to hurt me. He suggests that I sit down for a minute and collect myself, and he'll give me directions. This seems reasonable to me, so I sit and we begin talking. He tells me that he's not really a dog but that he has been in this dog's body for a long time, so he's just gottten comfortable now. We have a long talk and does give me what seem to be good directions. I stand up to leave and he nuzzles my leg. I look down at him and he has a pen and paper in his mouth. He drops them and asks me for my phone number. I figure it's the least I can do, and give him the number. He says he'll look me up on Myspace. I say that's fine and I start walking away. I can hear him crying behind me, but I don't want to turn around. I mean, he IS a dog and I honestly feel that he's trying to force a connection. I keep walking and end up in a baseball field, where Tamara is sitting on the pitcher's mound and trying to build one of those ship-in-a-glass-bottle things. I ask her how it's going, and she looks up and tearfully thanks me for coming and tells me that she has to get this done before her wedding.
*I blame most of this dream on a combination of actually going to VV and having been reading The Witching Hour right before going to sleep.
2.12.2008
Rob Lowe makes a charming dream guest
It always cracks me up when celebrities cameo in my dreams. Usually they're doing insane things related to the characters they play. But last night Rob Lowe stopped by for a bit to talk about acting and show biz. He was an all-around nice guy.
I don't remember much of what he said, except, "I've been in this business for fifty years." (!!!) Which was interesting, because I just stood there mesmerized by how handsome he was, trying but failing to do the math in my head.
I don't remember much of what he said, except, "I've been in this business for fifty years." (!!!) Which was interesting, because I just stood there mesmerized by how handsome he was, trying but failing to do the math in my head.
Wreckage
My mother and I are in my old Alero, driving along the back roads of Lexington, Tenn., which is not terribly far from my family's house in Saltillo (think somewhere between a dozen and twenty miles). She's at the wheel, and we're chatting it up, when she gives the car a bit of gas to go over a hill, and we go flying, Dukes of Hazzard-style, through the air over a rain-filled gully at the foot of the hill, and crunch down on the asphalt several feet later. We're kinda laughing about my mom being a speed demon (in real life, she's anything but), and she continues to push the pedal as we vroom over still more Lexington hills. Except this time, something's off and we slide off the road and into the woods and the car loses its balance and we begin flipping, side over side, end over end, flip after flip after flip, our faces coming within inches of the damp forest floor, our car crunching on top of rotting logs and musty piles of leaves. The roof of the car has either been obliterated or my Alero acquired a sunroof (or would it be moonroof? and wtf is the difference?) in the dream, because I can look up and see the earth as our heads go rushing toward it on each flip.
I look over at my mother to make sure she's okay — she seems to be — and wince upon each new impact because at any minute a rogue branch or something could come crashing through the windshield or roof and plunge right into our faces.
We finally, after what seems like dozens of harrowing flips — land bottom-side-up and somehow we're both able to climb out the side — either through the window, which has been busted out, or through where a door was ripped off. How we're both able to walk, I'll never know. "I'm never riding in a car again," I wearily tell my mother, with thoughts of my real-life previous wreck in my head.
Apparently in order to get to safety and to get to where we can call 911, we have to swim through this murky black lake. We're already wet, I imagine from sweat and the dampness of the forest, so we just wade in and head for the far shore, which, I notice, is my great-grandmother's yard and house (which means we flipped in that damn car for at least 13 miles). My mother swims ahead of me. It's almost like in the dream my mother is me, or a different version of me, because every time I look at her, I see her, but it feels like I'm looking at me. She certainly acts more like me than she does my actual mother.
Anyway, we're swimming through this gross stagnant lake in the middle of the night (what's more terrifying than swimming through some random lake? Doing it at night) and I start thinking about all the gross things that could be in this lake, and my pace slows as I get bogged down with the psychological weight of everything that has just happened. Plus my foot has gotten tangled in some branches from a tree under the water, and I can't get the cluster of branches to fall away so I can swim freely. My mother yells back some encouraging words (like "Hurry up" or "You're gonna make it! Just keep swimming!") and sure enough, we finally make it to shore and I pull the slimy cluster of branches off my foot just in time to hear mom say something about leeches.
Which, I think I should point out, may just be the first time I've ever dreamed about leeches, but I'm fairly sure that it won't be the last.
I'm like, "Um, did you just say you saw leeches on you?" And before I could hear her reply of, "No, I had thought so but I don't see anything," I had already pulled up my shirt and unbuttoned my jeans to have a good look to make sure none had shimmied their way into areas that would have been most painful and embarrassing to address later.
All clear.
We're at my great-grandmother's house (which is not fronted by a lake in real life), soaking wet and exhausted. My mother takes out her phone but I fear that she won't get any reception or that her phone will be waterlogged, so I go inside Granny's house — with the full knowledge that she's dead and no one lives there anymore, or maybe someone lives there but that it's someone I don't know — and am pleasantly surprised to see a portable telephone sitting on the coffee table. I take it outside and realize I don't remember the address of my grandmother's house. Actually, I do remember it — the real-life address — but when I run down to peek at her mailbox, I realize the address is different now.
I dial 911. The operator is a mild-mannered woman who doesn't answer like any 911 operator I have ever heard before. There's some noise in the background — something about the Rev. Sun Myung Moon and his church — but I tune it out and tell the woman that we need to report a wreck. I give her the address I saw on the mailbox.
She is quiet for a bit and then begins treating me as if I am a senile old lady. "Ms. [I can't remember what she called me, but it felt like she was referring to Granny], have you had anything to drink tonight?"
"No, my grandmother has been dead for a year (not true; it's been three years); this is her granddaughter! My mother and I have just been in a bad wreck!" I say emphatically, not believing the 911 woman can't wrap her mind around what's going on.
"This is her granddaughter? Ma'am, has Ms. [Granny] had anything to drink tonight?"
I become delirious with frustration that she is deliberately misunderstanding me.
I'm sobbing, even though we don't seem to have been hurt in the wreck (aside from a gnarly cut on the palm of my hand that seems to be packed with grime and dirt) and don't really need medical attention, but I still feel like we're supposed to get some rescue people there immediately.
"We have been in a really bad wreck and we need some people to come help us," I weep at the stupid 911 lady. "Why won't you send anyone?" I look at my mother, who seems to have gotten through to someone on her phone. Which is a Razr (Motorola best be cuttin' me a check for product placement in my dreams). "They don't believe me!" I wail. My mother looks annoyed yet nonplussed.
The lady offers platitudes and words of false comfort, but ultimately, she's not sending anyone because she doesn't believe me.
Then I get fucking angry, even though I'm still shaking and sobbing.
"Ma'am, what is your name?" I bark at the 911 lady. I can feel her getting nervous. She mumbles something that I have trouble hearing. "WHAT?! Say that again, please." She says it again but I can't for the life of me make it out. It sounds like a jumble of syllables not meant for English-trained ears. I ask her to spell it, but I can't hear what she says in reply. It's like my ears have stopped working. I can hear, but I can't understand.
I've almost reached the end of my rope with this woman, and I yell at her that I can't wait until someone important hears about what a bitch she's being. And then I wake up.
I look over at my mother to make sure she's okay — she seems to be — and wince upon each new impact because at any minute a rogue branch or something could come crashing through the windshield or roof and plunge right into our faces.
We finally, after what seems like dozens of harrowing flips — land bottom-side-up and somehow we're both able to climb out the side — either through the window, which has been busted out, or through where a door was ripped off. How we're both able to walk, I'll never know. "I'm never riding in a car again," I wearily tell my mother, with thoughts of my real-life previous wreck in my head.
Apparently in order to get to safety and to get to where we can call 911, we have to swim through this murky black lake. We're already wet, I imagine from sweat and the dampness of the forest, so we just wade in and head for the far shore, which, I notice, is my great-grandmother's yard and house (which means we flipped in that damn car for at least 13 miles). My mother swims ahead of me. It's almost like in the dream my mother is me, or a different version of me, because every time I look at her, I see her, but it feels like I'm looking at me. She certainly acts more like me than she does my actual mother.
Anyway, we're swimming through this gross stagnant lake in the middle of the night (what's more terrifying than swimming through some random lake? Doing it at night) and I start thinking about all the gross things that could be in this lake, and my pace slows as I get bogged down with the psychological weight of everything that has just happened. Plus my foot has gotten tangled in some branches from a tree under the water, and I can't get the cluster of branches to fall away so I can swim freely. My mother yells back some encouraging words (like "Hurry up" or "You're gonna make it! Just keep swimming!") and sure enough, we finally make it to shore and I pull the slimy cluster of branches off my foot just in time to hear mom say something about leeches.
Which, I think I should point out, may just be the first time I've ever dreamed about leeches, but I'm fairly sure that it won't be the last.
I'm like, "Um, did you just say you saw leeches on you?" And before I could hear her reply of, "No, I had thought so but I don't see anything," I had already pulled up my shirt and unbuttoned my jeans to have a good look to make sure none had shimmied their way into areas that would have been most painful and embarrassing to address later.
All clear.
We're at my great-grandmother's house (which is not fronted by a lake in real life), soaking wet and exhausted. My mother takes out her phone but I fear that she won't get any reception or that her phone will be waterlogged, so I go inside Granny's house — with the full knowledge that she's dead and no one lives there anymore, or maybe someone lives there but that it's someone I don't know — and am pleasantly surprised to see a portable telephone sitting on the coffee table. I take it outside and realize I don't remember the address of my grandmother's house. Actually, I do remember it — the real-life address — but when I run down to peek at her mailbox, I realize the address is different now.
I dial 911. The operator is a mild-mannered woman who doesn't answer like any 911 operator I have ever heard before. There's some noise in the background — something about the Rev. Sun Myung Moon and his church — but I tune it out and tell the woman that we need to report a wreck. I give her the address I saw on the mailbox.
She is quiet for a bit and then begins treating me as if I am a senile old lady. "Ms. [I can't remember what she called me, but it felt like she was referring to Granny], have you had anything to drink tonight?"
"No, my grandmother has been dead for a year (not true; it's been three years); this is her granddaughter! My mother and I have just been in a bad wreck!" I say emphatically, not believing the 911 woman can't wrap her mind around what's going on.
"This is her granddaughter? Ma'am, has Ms. [Granny] had anything to drink tonight?"
I become delirious with frustration that she is deliberately misunderstanding me.
I'm sobbing, even though we don't seem to have been hurt in the wreck (aside from a gnarly cut on the palm of my hand that seems to be packed with grime and dirt) and don't really need medical attention, but I still feel like we're supposed to get some rescue people there immediately.
"We have been in a really bad wreck and we need some people to come help us," I weep at the stupid 911 lady. "Why won't you send anyone?" I look at my mother, who seems to have gotten through to someone on her phone. Which is a Razr (Motorola best be cuttin' me a check for product placement in my dreams). "They don't believe me!" I wail. My mother looks annoyed yet nonplussed.
The lady offers platitudes and words of false comfort, but ultimately, she's not sending anyone because she doesn't believe me.
Then I get fucking angry, even though I'm still shaking and sobbing.
"Ma'am, what is your name?" I bark at the 911 lady. I can feel her getting nervous. She mumbles something that I have trouble hearing. "WHAT?! Say that again, please." She says it again but I can't for the life of me make it out. It sounds like a jumble of syllables not meant for English-trained ears. I ask her to spell it, but I can't hear what she says in reply. It's like my ears have stopped working. I can hear, but I can't understand.
I've almost reached the end of my rope with this woman, and I yell at her that I can't wait until someone important hears about what a bitch she's being. And then I wake up.
2.11.2008
Design tyrant
I woke up earlier to posted about the dream I had last night (well, the one I could remember most clearly), piddled around, and then, in a monumental display of delicious laziness, crawled back into bed and went back to sleep for an hour, during which time I dreamt that I cracked open a paper and began to notice tons of horrible, awful design infractions perpetrated by a particular designer at work. My mother looked on as I scanned the page in disgust, noting incorrect subhead styles, missing column sigs, horrible photo placement, jacked-up head hierarchy, tacky colored type, etc. I grabbed a pen and began angrily circling the things that were wrong with the page, all the while grumbling about the designer's complete cluelessness and dreading bringing up the issues to him because he'd never take me seriously as some sort of authority.
Back to basics
I'm in a location that feels familiar yet seems completely unknown to me. It's expansive, like there are no ceilings are walls and it's dark outside. I'm trying to gather my things for school, and I get the feeling that I'm late.
I'm rifling through a bag of makeup, trying to get ready. I get the acute sensation that I'm unhappy with what I'm wearing but that there's no time for me to change. I realize that I have mere minutes to make it to school, and that my ride — my sister, maybe? — is dragging her feet and I'm going to be late.
That's not the worst of my problems, though. Apparently, all the books and notepads I'm supposed to take with me have been scattered and I can't seem to find them. I'm looking in particular for an abnormal psychology book whose cover I can clearly picture but that isn't turning up anywhere. Someone hands me a yellow legal pad, as if to say, Here, use this, but my anxiety is swelling and the clock is ticking so finally and I erupt and tell the people around me (who and how many, I'm not sure) that I'm just going to take my own car and get going.
My car turns out to be my mother's white Explorer, and as soon as I turn the key and it starts, the sun gets ridiculously bright and I feel like I've accidentally caused a supernova that's going to swallow the earth. Damn Fords. But the sun settles back down and dims to its normal light level, and I realize I'd rather not drive after all. Besides, I don't have all my shit together and I don't like what I'm wearing.
Why does it never occur to me in these stupid anxiety/school dreams to pretend to be sick?
I'm rifling through a bag of makeup, trying to get ready. I get the acute sensation that I'm unhappy with what I'm wearing but that there's no time for me to change. I realize that I have mere minutes to make it to school, and that my ride — my sister, maybe? — is dragging her feet and I'm going to be late.
That's not the worst of my problems, though. Apparently, all the books and notepads I'm supposed to take with me have been scattered and I can't seem to find them. I'm looking in particular for an abnormal psychology book whose cover I can clearly picture but that isn't turning up anywhere. Someone hands me a yellow legal pad, as if to say, Here, use this, but my anxiety is swelling and the clock is ticking so finally and I erupt and tell the people around me (who and how many, I'm not sure) that I'm just going to take my own car and get going.
My car turns out to be my mother's white Explorer, and as soon as I turn the key and it starts, the sun gets ridiculously bright and I feel like I've accidentally caused a supernova that's going to swallow the earth. Damn Fords. But the sun settles back down and dims to its normal light level, and I realize I'd rather not drive after all. Besides, I don't have all my shit together and I don't like what I'm wearing.
Why does it never occur to me in these stupid anxiety/school dreams to pretend to be sick?
2.10.2008
Is that you, Optimus Prime?
I'm sitting in my brother's new-ish, white Ford F-150 with a giant topper thing on the back. I turn and look back over the seat, out of the rear window, and into the bed of the truck. The top is open and the gate is down and I see my brother walking towards me...only it's my brother from the early 90's instead of my current and more up-to-date actual brother. We converse for a moment about his truck, but I can't recall any of it.
The next thing I know I'm pulling my red mustang through the service gate of Country Ford and into an endless field. Country Ford is real. It's where my mustang actually came from many many moons ago. The field behind it, however, is some made up field compiled of different parts of different fields I've been in at...different times. It feels like fall or winter. They sky is gray and the grass, apart from being cut very short...so short you can see the mud beneath it, is also that dead yellow color it becomes in winter. It's also thick...like hay. I can feel it's resistance against my shoes as I shuffle and crunch through it. A large service truck pulls up behind a clone of my brother's truck. I was looking at this truck because I simply liked looking at it. Something about it's lines appealed to me, but only aesthetically. I'm not a truck guy. The service guy, though, starts walking towards me and I realize I have to act interested so he doesn't make me leave or yell at me for being back there or something. He begins to talk about the truck...like he's going to talk it up so I'll buy it when I realize he's a service guy and not a salesman...so I can relax. Still, he starts to comment on how great it looks without the topper. I start to tell him my brother has one with the topper and he changes his story to what he thinks I want to hear and now he thinks they look better with the topper on. I tell him that I actually think my brother's looks better without it and he responds with a blank expression.
Now, we're joined by several other guys...all with late 70's era clothing on...and matching haircuts. One is in a brown, plaid, button-up shirt...only they're those metal snaps with the fake pearl insets. Another guy is in a tight yellow t-shirt with some kind of writing on it which I can't quite make out. We're chatting when out of nowhere I look up and see a tractor-trailer flying through the air. You can hear the wind blowing past it. The thing has to be 100 or more feet in the air. The cab is navy blue and the trailer is the standard aluminum color. It moves almost like a fish through the water...the trailer moving side to side like a tail. It passes us moving towards our right, continues to air-swim, tilts over to the right, then flops over on it's left side, turns, and then plummets straight down towards the ground. There is thick brush that prevents us from seeing the actual impact and there seem to be hills as well. It has to be really far away. I think we should go check on the driver even though I realize he has to be dead. I look to my left and see the dirt ramp he must have jumped. A guy on a dirtbike is jumping, but he just sort of lands in front of us and goes away. The guys I'm with comment on how stupid they are for jumping the dirt ramp.
We go into a single-wide trailer that has now appeared to our left. I don't know what we talk about, but I realize it's 4 p.m. and not only will it be dark at 5...it seems like a storm is coming and I should get home. I notice the serviceman in his blue jumpsuit sitting on a couch and drinking beer from a can. He tells me to have a good day and I ask him his name again. He says it's Mark. He is the young version of my girlfriend's dad...who I've met only once, but have seen pictures of. I tell him I'm going to look at some other trucks, talk to the sales manager, and come back next Saturday. I ask if he'll be back next Saturday and he says yes. I catch a glimpse of his expression as I leave and realize he knows I'm lying...or at least thinks something slightly negative about me.
Walking down the rickety wooden steps of the trailer I notice tractor-trailer parts stacked against it. I realize the driver must have lived and I begin to inspect the parts. There's a running board, part of the side exhaust pipe...which starts to look like a blue robot arm the longer I stare at it, a bathroom medicine cabinet that I discern came from the back living quarters of the cab, and two candelabras. I may or may not have misspelled candelabra. I'm not going to check. As I leave one of the skinny 70's hippy guys walks past me and up the stairs to the trailer. Before he dissapears into the dark doorway I realize it's Robert Plant. He's shirtless, drinking, and we have a conversation I don't understand because he's talking in rock song howls and zeeba zabba sounds.
Walking back to my car I notice a weird rubber shape on the ground. I realize it's a flattened, child's, Halloween pirate costume hat. I notice a large metal building and then I'm awakened by my alarm clock.
The next thing I know I'm pulling my red mustang through the service gate of Country Ford and into an endless field. Country Ford is real. It's where my mustang actually came from many many moons ago. The field behind it, however, is some made up field compiled of different parts of different fields I've been in at...different times. It feels like fall or winter. They sky is gray and the grass, apart from being cut very short...so short you can see the mud beneath it, is also that dead yellow color it becomes in winter. It's also thick...like hay. I can feel it's resistance against my shoes as I shuffle and crunch through it. A large service truck pulls up behind a clone of my brother's truck. I was looking at this truck because I simply liked looking at it. Something about it's lines appealed to me, but only aesthetically. I'm not a truck guy. The service guy, though, starts walking towards me and I realize I have to act interested so he doesn't make me leave or yell at me for being back there or something. He begins to talk about the truck...like he's going to talk it up so I'll buy it when I realize he's a service guy and not a salesman...so I can relax. Still, he starts to comment on how great it looks without the topper. I start to tell him my brother has one with the topper and he changes his story to what he thinks I want to hear and now he thinks they look better with the topper on. I tell him that I actually think my brother's looks better without it and he responds with a blank expression.
Now, we're joined by several other guys...all with late 70's era clothing on...and matching haircuts. One is in a brown, plaid, button-up shirt...only they're those metal snaps with the fake pearl insets. Another guy is in a tight yellow t-shirt with some kind of writing on it which I can't quite make out. We're chatting when out of nowhere I look up and see a tractor-trailer flying through the air. You can hear the wind blowing past it. The thing has to be 100 or more feet in the air. The cab is navy blue and the trailer is the standard aluminum color. It moves almost like a fish through the water...the trailer moving side to side like a tail. It passes us moving towards our right, continues to air-swim, tilts over to the right, then flops over on it's left side, turns, and then plummets straight down towards the ground. There is thick brush that prevents us from seeing the actual impact and there seem to be hills as well. It has to be really far away. I think we should go check on the driver even though I realize he has to be dead. I look to my left and see the dirt ramp he must have jumped. A guy on a dirtbike is jumping, but he just sort of lands in front of us and goes away. The guys I'm with comment on how stupid they are for jumping the dirt ramp.
We go into a single-wide trailer that has now appeared to our left. I don't know what we talk about, but I realize it's 4 p.m. and not only will it be dark at 5...it seems like a storm is coming and I should get home. I notice the serviceman in his blue jumpsuit sitting on a couch and drinking beer from a can. He tells me to have a good day and I ask him his name again. He says it's Mark. He is the young version of my girlfriend's dad...who I've met only once, but have seen pictures of. I tell him I'm going to look at some other trucks, talk to the sales manager, and come back next Saturday. I ask if he'll be back next Saturday and he says yes. I catch a glimpse of his expression as I leave and realize he knows I'm lying...or at least thinks something slightly negative about me.
Walking down the rickety wooden steps of the trailer I notice tractor-trailer parts stacked against it. I realize the driver must have lived and I begin to inspect the parts. There's a running board, part of the side exhaust pipe...which starts to look like a blue robot arm the longer I stare at it, a bathroom medicine cabinet that I discern came from the back living quarters of the cab, and two candelabras. I may or may not have misspelled candelabra. I'm not going to check. As I leave one of the skinny 70's hippy guys walks past me and up the stairs to the trailer. Before he dissapears into the dark doorway I realize it's Robert Plant. He's shirtless, drinking, and we have a conversation I don't understand because he's talking in rock song howls and zeeba zabba sounds.
Walking back to my car I notice a weird rubber shape on the ground. I realize it's a flattened, child's, Halloween pirate costume hat. I notice a large metal building and then I'm awakened by my alarm clock.
2.07.2008
Time Travel
I am at a big convention with lots of people around. I am struggling to get to where I'm supposed to be. I know I have a room somewhere, but I don't know where, and all the room doors are outside the building, like a motel. It's dark, it's pouring down rain, and I am carrying a large load that is very heavy. I walk to the end of the block and don't see my door, so I shout at the top of my lungs. I turn back and realize that I have a bari sax in its case, and a tenor out of it's case about to have its pads ruined because it's unprotected in the rain. As I approach the brick stairs to the promenade my sister Brooke stands up from above me, and I realize that she has been the one yelling, not me. I find her and set the saxes down. We head up the stairs together, and that's when I run into Megan B. (now W) from high school. She looks exactly like she did back then, with braces and blondish hair. I look over at Brooke, anxious to see how the former friends would get along since Megan hadn't seen Brooke since she was as meek as a farm mouse and mentally checked out to God Camp 24/7. They both say, "Hey!" and hug and air kiss, but that's all. The reunion just peters out because Megan cups her little hands around a little bump on her belly and says, in vintage Megan style, "I made somethin', y'all!!!" I realize that she's been pregnant before, and now that she's outside in the downpour, pregnant, that something might be amiss, and I need to take care of her. I look down and all the people who had been milling around have disappeared, and the downpour has become a torrent. I notice a big, brown, expensive-looking bari case on the sidewalk with a brushed-brass tenor sax propped against it. The color of the tenor is darker than usual, and I long to play it, and feel the craving for it physically. I think that because of the color it will have a darker, warmer, plumper sound. Then I realize it's my tenor and I'm the jackass that left it sitting in the pouring rain. Then I hurry Megan away with me. Brooke has gone.
There is a scene in a rainy parking lot at night that is chaotic. It's as if a concert at an arena has just let out, and we're ass-deep in a sea of humans. There is much fumbling with keys, and slickers, and people all around me are trying not to step in puddles - but the whole ground is a puddle. Yet, when they do step in it, they stomp their feet against the pavement, and water jets up and makes big wet splotches on their chinos and dress shirts, and I wonder why they're pissed because they did it intentionally. I understand that there is a group of us together, and we're trying to divide people between cars to get somewhere important. I try to get in the car with Brooke, but she leaves without even looking at me, lost in a conversation with other people. I get in a car with Megan and her husband, and they make me drive. I'm pulling around in circular parking lots looking for her room. She's talking about something very positive in her life, and about how things just keep working out for her. I finally find it, and some person escorts us to the door and gives us a key. "Now, since you're pregnant," the doorperson says, "you get a whole apartment, instead of a room, that is guarded by wolves." Megans mouth opens and she turns to look at me excitedly, as if to confirm her theory that good things keep happening. But I look down and there is a rabid-looking wolf at my feet, who seems to think I'm the only person around. He is jumping and snipping and a couple of times he locks down on my thigh, but it feels like he has no teeth. I see that his "yard" is a little wooden fence built in the foyer to the apartment that is no more than three feet high. The gate pushes open and has no latch. I wonder how the hell that's supposed to work. Then we're in the apartment and Megan's on the couch, squirming in excitement and looking back and forth. "Do you see what I mean? Getting an apartment like this when everybody else just gets a room?" I start looking around like her husband is doing. "Oh, this place has everything," she says, as I open a tall armoire. It is lined with shelves, and those shelves are lined with samples of sex lotions and oils. There are trinkets and outfits hanging all around like a store. I start fiddling through the sex lotions and realize most of them have been used. "I put on these outfits before I go to the clubs," she informs me, pointing to the designer underwear and accessories. I am trying to look more closely at a bottle with a purple, glittery gel inside when I realize that the armoire is rocking forward and back and is about to fall on me. I try to hold it steady, but also to keep browsing the lotions. But it's impossible, and the tiny bottles keep falling over. I begin to get irritated because it's very important that I keep them all lined up in a straight line with their labels facing out, but the armoire rocking around on its legs is not making it easy.
Then Megan is standing and the walls have disappeared and it's daylight. "We're gonna miss it!" she screams, and I turn to see what she's pointing at. It appears that I was supposed to have acquired a monster truck with bales of hay in the back so that I could drive through a sphere of light, inside which a laser beam would strike my truck and transport us back in time. Other monster trucks with bales of hay in the back are doing so, and Megan is looking at me like, "And just why the hell aren't we?" I realize, with a crashing sense of horror, that I was supposed to be taking care of her and ushering her back in time, but I'd become enamored by sex lotions and buggered the whole thing up. I am running in the general direction of the laser, and I hear a committee that has been appointed to observe the time-traveling. One person says, "I'm here adjudicating every year." Another says, "That one had nice form." Then, I realize, our window of time has almost elapsed. "Come on!" I yell to Megan, and jump in a monster truck that I must've had all along. I careen down the hillside, bouncing and bumping, toward the dirt road between the two trees where the laser will send us back in time.
And then Jeff kisses me goodbye and I'm awake.
There is a scene in a rainy parking lot at night that is chaotic. It's as if a concert at an arena has just let out, and we're ass-deep in a sea of humans. There is much fumbling with keys, and slickers, and people all around me are trying not to step in puddles - but the whole ground is a puddle. Yet, when they do step in it, they stomp their feet against the pavement, and water jets up and makes big wet splotches on their chinos and dress shirts, and I wonder why they're pissed because they did it intentionally. I understand that there is a group of us together, and we're trying to divide people between cars to get somewhere important. I try to get in the car with Brooke, but she leaves without even looking at me, lost in a conversation with other people. I get in a car with Megan and her husband, and they make me drive. I'm pulling around in circular parking lots looking for her room. She's talking about something very positive in her life, and about how things just keep working out for her. I finally find it, and some person escorts us to the door and gives us a key. "Now, since you're pregnant," the doorperson says, "you get a whole apartment, instead of a room, that is guarded by wolves." Megans mouth opens and she turns to look at me excitedly, as if to confirm her theory that good things keep happening. But I look down and there is a rabid-looking wolf at my feet, who seems to think I'm the only person around. He is jumping and snipping and a couple of times he locks down on my thigh, but it feels like he has no teeth. I see that his "yard" is a little wooden fence built in the foyer to the apartment that is no more than three feet high. The gate pushes open and has no latch. I wonder how the hell that's supposed to work. Then we're in the apartment and Megan's on the couch, squirming in excitement and looking back and forth. "Do you see what I mean? Getting an apartment like this when everybody else just gets a room?" I start looking around like her husband is doing. "Oh, this place has everything," she says, as I open a tall armoire. It is lined with shelves, and those shelves are lined with samples of sex lotions and oils. There are trinkets and outfits hanging all around like a store. I start fiddling through the sex lotions and realize most of them have been used. "I put on these outfits before I go to the clubs," she informs me, pointing to the designer underwear and accessories. I am trying to look more closely at a bottle with a purple, glittery gel inside when I realize that the armoire is rocking forward and back and is about to fall on me. I try to hold it steady, but also to keep browsing the lotions. But it's impossible, and the tiny bottles keep falling over. I begin to get irritated because it's very important that I keep them all lined up in a straight line with their labels facing out, but the armoire rocking around on its legs is not making it easy.
Then Megan is standing and the walls have disappeared and it's daylight. "We're gonna miss it!" she screams, and I turn to see what she's pointing at. It appears that I was supposed to have acquired a monster truck with bales of hay in the back so that I could drive through a sphere of light, inside which a laser beam would strike my truck and transport us back in time. Other monster trucks with bales of hay in the back are doing so, and Megan is looking at me like, "And just why the hell aren't we?" I realize, with a crashing sense of horror, that I was supposed to be taking care of her and ushering her back in time, but I'd become enamored by sex lotions and buggered the whole thing up. I am running in the general direction of the laser, and I hear a committee that has been appointed to observe the time-traveling. One person says, "I'm here adjudicating every year." Another says, "That one had nice form." Then, I realize, our window of time has almost elapsed. "Come on!" I yell to Megan, and jump in a monster truck that I must've had all along. I careen down the hillside, bouncing and bumping, toward the dirt road between the two trees where the laser will send us back in time.
And then Jeff kisses me goodbye and I'm awake.
2.06.2008
Ghost House
I am in an old house with three floors and lots of rooms. The stairway railings are all wearing tee shirts and other bits of laundry, as if someone painstakingly dressed each pole and rail before assembling them so the tee shirts and boxers and socks held their shape once the rails were in place. There are lots of people around that I feel like I know, but I'm not sure if I know them outside of my dream. There is a ghost cat with a white face that keeps appearing and disappearing as I hurry through the house trying to avoid whatever malevolent presence seems to be after me. He is always crouched and hidden and peering at me from almost-total obscurity; from between the spokes of a bicycle, from atop a cabinet, from under a chair. I am walking fast and powerfully, and I can tell I'm tired from the physical exertion. There is an evil housekeeper who keeps finding things that belong to me and shouldn't be there and then looking at me strangely, as if she's building a case against me and each thing that I've accidentally left out of place is fueling my impending inquest. She reminds me of Mrs. Danvers from Rebecca, but also of a wicked head maid from the soap my mother watched when we were kids (her name was Helga and she was always up to fuckery). I keep trying not to meet her gaze and to appear innocent of whatever infraction she has in mind. Then I'm trying to herd people out of the house, because it becomes apparent that whatever paranormal entity I've been fearing is done cooling its heels, and the preternatural shit is about to hit the fan. No one is listening. I open a side door to look off the back porch, and notice that my housemates are dangerously close to sinking in the muck at the bottom of the flood water that has surrounded the house. I caution them to keep out of it, but they laugh at me like I'm uncool and continue to sink. I glance over the porch rail and notice that the sky is dark, but I can still see clearly. There is a flooded ditch out by the road, and I decide that it looks like the perfect place to park my car. I turn back inside and go back up to the attic. Jeff and John are putting up wallpaper. I tell them that they should watch their shit because this is the most haunted room, and if I can't satisfy the spirit causing the ruckus there will be bloody hell to pay. Jeff looks at John and appears to be considering it. "I like bloody hell," he concludes, and takes a drag off his cigarette. I turn to go back downstairs, noticing the ghost cat on the ceiling beam (his tail is hanging off, but his face is hidden). I am halfway down the stairs when I realize that the ghost will wallpaper Jeff and John to the walls if I don't get them out of there. But then I look down and see a young blonde's torso lying across a stair. She has perfect teeth and looks up at me blankly. Her lips are deep purple and drawn way up away from her face, as if she died with a torture device that held her mouth open far wider than it is meant to open. Then I realize that she is the one I've been looking for to save the day. "Jessica?!" I ask, and her eyes brighten and she lifts her ghost arms to me, looking utterly relieved. I reach down to touch her, but can't. "I'm going to save you," I tell her, and step down toward the floor. The evil housekeeper turns to give me a scathing glare, as if to say, "The hell you will!" Then I'm back with Jeff and John, and they have made gigantic Japanese lanterns out of newspapers that are bobbing and rolling on the floor, and I suddenly feel like I've royally fucked up somehow. I never know why, however, because then I wake up and have slept for an hour longer than I wanted to.
2.05.2008
The antiques store
I'm in an antiques store of sort — there's stuff everywhere, but it's not clutter; it actually has some kind of organization to it. My companion, a woman I don't think I know in real life, is telling me that I am to move a video camera over all the goods in one take, almost like it's a tracking shot (but I don't remember seeing any of the equipment required for a tracking shot). The camera I'm using is some wacky combination of a mounted stop-motion camera and an old-timey folding camera, but it moves smoothly and takes video, not still photos. I focus the viewfinder on one item, then another, the another, taking care to transition between the items with ease in one take. I nudge the camera a little hard and the picture goes shaky. We have to cut. But the woman with me isn't mad. In fact, she seems surprised I managed to get as long a take as I did.
We move on to our next task, which is finding the items in the store that have big tags on them. She tells me that these items need their Christmas cards signed. There's a clustered of tagged items hanging near the ceiling. Somehow we get one down, and she shows me what to write in the cards.
[line I can't remember]
The Citizens
I get my own tagged item and begin to write in the card, and am taken aback when my handwriting looks nothing like what I know it should. It's sloppy and childish. I'm embarrassed. I finish one card and then notice a little wrapped gift sitting on the counter next to me. It has my name on it. I realize that it's from my sister and I'm probably not supposed to see it.
[I think I lost some stuff here. Feels like I did, but I don't know what.]
I hear a baby crying, and turn to see where it's coming from. My eyes snap open and I realize the crying is coming from downstairs. The neighbors' new baby says hello.
We move on to our next task, which is finding the items in the store that have big tags on them. She tells me that these items need their Christmas cards signed. There's a clustered of tagged items hanging near the ceiling. Somehow we get one down, and she shows me what to write in the cards.
[line I can't remember]
The Citizens
I get my own tagged item and begin to write in the card, and am taken aback when my handwriting looks nothing like what I know it should. It's sloppy and childish. I'm embarrassed. I finish one card and then notice a little wrapped gift sitting on the counter next to me. It has my name on it. I realize that it's from my sister and I'm probably not supposed to see it.
[I think I lost some stuff here. Feels like I did, but I don't know what.]
I hear a baby crying, and turn to see where it's coming from. My eyes snap open and I realize the crying is coming from downstairs. The neighbors' new baby says hello.
2.04.2008
You say potato
I'm inside some kind of a convenience store in a line-up with several other teenagers. I guess that means I'm a teenager. Something moves from out of the corner of my right eye and I turn to see the store owner stepping from the line. He's a large, burly man and he reminds me of beef. He has thick, curly black arm hair and a tangle of the same kind...only thicker...on the top of his head, but towards the back. Light streams in from dingy, yellow, horizontal windows that sit just above the shelving and extend about 1 foot upward towards the ceiling. The light frames his head. It's an odd shape and I see that the hair I previously noticed is receding. It's long and greasy. His face is clown-like, but the parts seem as if they're just sitting on his face and not actually connected. His nose is huge, red, and very porus. I can't tell what his clothes are like, but from the neck down he is striped with red and white. It seems like an apron, but I can't tell where it ends and shirt begins. He's holding a mop and he moves around to study us. I feel like we're being accused of stealing something. One of us is guilty, but I can't figure out which one. There's a red-haired boy with freckles to my right now.
I'm not sure if I can leave, but I step towards the door and then I'm outside in a tiny courtyard. Within the tiny courtyard there rests an upturned tree. It's an old tree, but it isn't all there. I'm studying the roots. The ground is damp from a previous rain, but not muddy. An earthy smell wafts up from the wet leaves on the ground. I'm looking for something. There's a clear, plastic bag in the hole where the roots of the tree once occupied. It seems like food, but my mind isn't sure if it should be drugs or not. There's peanut butter and there is a banana peel and a damp wad of white paper towels. I discern that it belongs to the shopkeeper's son, but my mind tells me it belongs to me and that I've used it for something sexual. I'm only momentarily embarrassed. The red-haired boy is standing with me and now we're on top of an old, dry-rotten picnic table. We walk towards the edge, but it seems to continuously extend as we move around the tree inspecting it.
We're out of the courtyard and on top of a hill. I look down and realize it's my parents' house from about 15 years ago. I can't tell if we still live there, but my Herbie VW is still in the garage. Something has scraped the ground down the hillside and turned into muddy tracks leading into the garage. I decide that the tree has been drug out of the garage, up the driveway, and up onto the hill...and that it most definitely should be put back in the garage before my dad gets home. It's suddenly sunny and the red-haired boy (who I must admit has more orange-ish hair. I don't know why people call it red when it's orange...but that's another story) anyway, he says something and I respond with some comment about my girlfriend Angela. He makes fun of me and says that I'm saying her name wrong.
"It's Angela like Ongella."
"No, it's not."
"Yes, it is"
"She's been my girlfriend for two weeks. I think I know."
"You're wrong"
"I think if I were saying her name wrong she would have told me"
Red starts doing some kind of weird, pelvic thrusting dance. He pulls his unbuttoned, plaid, short-sleeved shirt back with his hands as if they were some kind of wings and I can see that despite being pale, he's got abs. He's also the older brother from Pete and Pete now. He says something in another language and I turn from him to see where it is that the kitten meow is coming from.
Then my kitten's meow wakes me up.
I'm not sure if I can leave, but I step towards the door and then I'm outside in a tiny courtyard. Within the tiny courtyard there rests an upturned tree. It's an old tree, but it isn't all there. I'm studying the roots. The ground is damp from a previous rain, but not muddy. An earthy smell wafts up from the wet leaves on the ground. I'm looking for something. There's a clear, plastic bag in the hole where the roots of the tree once occupied. It seems like food, but my mind isn't sure if it should be drugs or not. There's peanut butter and there is a banana peel and a damp wad of white paper towels. I discern that it belongs to the shopkeeper's son, but my mind tells me it belongs to me and that I've used it for something sexual. I'm only momentarily embarrassed. The red-haired boy is standing with me and now we're on top of an old, dry-rotten picnic table. We walk towards the edge, but it seems to continuously extend as we move around the tree inspecting it.
We're out of the courtyard and on top of a hill. I look down and realize it's my parents' house from about 15 years ago. I can't tell if we still live there, but my Herbie VW is still in the garage. Something has scraped the ground down the hillside and turned into muddy tracks leading into the garage. I decide that the tree has been drug out of the garage, up the driveway, and up onto the hill...and that it most definitely should be put back in the garage before my dad gets home. It's suddenly sunny and the red-haired boy (who I must admit has more orange-ish hair. I don't know why people call it red when it's orange...but that's another story) anyway, he says something and I respond with some comment about my girlfriend Angela. He makes fun of me and says that I'm saying her name wrong.
"It's Angela like Ongella."
"No, it's not."
"Yes, it is"
"She's been my girlfriend for two weeks. I think I know."
"You're wrong"
"I think if I were saying her name wrong she would have told me"
Red starts doing some kind of weird, pelvic thrusting dance. He pulls his unbuttoned, plaid, short-sleeved shirt back with his hands as if they were some kind of wings and I can see that despite being pale, he's got abs. He's also the older brother from Pete and Pete now. He says something in another language and I turn from him to see where it is that the kitten meow is coming from.
Then my kitten's meow wakes me up.
2.03.2008
So frustrating
Know what I hate (besides dreaming about being pregnant, yeeeesh)? Lying in bed, kind of half-asleep, holding on to a dream you just had — not necessarily a good one or a bad one, just an average dream — and mulling it over, thinking about the details, pushing them around in your mind like they're Skittles in your mouth or something, when something happens — a bird chirps a little too close to your window, for instance — and you can feel your brain switch on from dream mode to reality mode, and in the split-second transition, it's as if someone pushes an "erase" button and that dream just evaporates. And no amount of sitting there thinking about it will bring it back.
Expectant
I'm pregnant again. I've got a bump, sure enough, but it's a small one. I figure I'm four months along. I keep reaching down to hold my belly because it feels fragile. I'm afraid that every movement and every surge of emotion is going to hurt what's in there.
My middle-school best friend Wendy S. and I are making our way through a run-down Goodwill, looking at the wares and talking about the baby. I get the sense that Wendy is wise when it comes to the ways of childbearing (this is probably true, since she has at least one kid in real life), even though she is the spitting image of how she looked in middle school — buoyant dirty blonde hair, flirty blue eyes, cushy lips and big teeth.
Suddenly there is a tumbly fluttery feeling in my gut, over to the right side, down low. I realize the baby has kicked (can babies kick at four months?), and I have a moment where I'm awestruck (it's alive!) and then worried (is everything OK in there?) and then freaked out (something inside me just moved without my permission). It slowly dawns on me that I don't want to have a baby. I'm not ready for the constant round-the-clock mommying or the enormous responsibility. I'm not ready to give birth, period. It's all moving too fast, and I don't remember making the decision to get pregnant anyway.
I'm back in a bedroom — it feels like my childhood bedroom remodeled, with a huge and impractically tall bed — and I get a phone call. It's Tamara. She asks what I'm doing this weekend.
"I'm going home, actually," I tell her with a tinge of remorse, eyeing my belly in the mirror. "I'm expecting again." (And then I realize that I've either had a baby or been pregnant before, or maybe my brain was referring to my last pregnancy dream.)
She's a bit incredulous, and asks me how that happened.
I start to think about it, and realize that I have no idea. Not only do I not know who the father is, but, once again (just like the last dream), I can't even remember the last time I had sex. "I just got off my period, too," I tell her in a final flourish of TMI. It occurs to me that I'm either psychosomatically pregnant or I'm carrying the lord's child. Which is worse, I don't know.
But I felt it kick.
My middle-school best friend Wendy S. and I are making our way through a run-down Goodwill, looking at the wares and talking about the baby. I get the sense that Wendy is wise when it comes to the ways of childbearing (this is probably true, since she has at least one kid in real life), even though she is the spitting image of how she looked in middle school — buoyant dirty blonde hair, flirty blue eyes, cushy lips and big teeth.
Suddenly there is a tumbly fluttery feeling in my gut, over to the right side, down low. I realize the baby has kicked (can babies kick at four months?), and I have a moment where I'm awestruck (it's alive!) and then worried (is everything OK in there?) and then freaked out (something inside me just moved without my permission). It slowly dawns on me that I don't want to have a baby. I'm not ready for the constant round-the-clock mommying or the enormous responsibility. I'm not ready to give birth, period. It's all moving too fast, and I don't remember making the decision to get pregnant anyway.
I'm back in a bedroom — it feels like my childhood bedroom remodeled, with a huge and impractically tall bed — and I get a phone call. It's Tamara. She asks what I'm doing this weekend.
"I'm going home, actually," I tell her with a tinge of remorse, eyeing my belly in the mirror. "I'm expecting again." (And then I realize that I've either had a baby or been pregnant before, or maybe my brain was referring to my last pregnancy dream.)
She's a bit incredulous, and asks me how that happened.
I start to think about it, and realize that I have no idea. Not only do I not know who the father is, but, once again (just like the last dream), I can't even remember the last time I had sex. "I just got off my period, too," I tell her in a final flourish of TMI. It occurs to me that I'm either psychosomatically pregnant or I'm carrying the lord's child. Which is worse, I don't know.
But I felt it kick.
2.01.2008
A neighborly encounter
In real life, my downstairs neighbors recently had a baby, whom I have not yet met (they came home from the hospital a few days ago), but since they've arrived home I've wondered if my every movement was annoying them and/or waking the baby.
Enter dreamland.
I'm on the sidewalk out in front of the apartment when I see S, the mom, walking past. I catch up with her and ask her how she's doing and how the baby is. She tells me they're just fine, and walks me around back to the back yard (yeah, our apartment building does not have a back yard, but a back slab of deeply pitted asphalt called a parking lot) where she opens a set of French doors (from this point on, none of the details of how the place looks are true to life) to reveal the baby lying in a little bassinet. I coo over him politely, and M, the dad, comes over and picks the baby up and hands him to me, then goes over and strips down to a hot-pink Speedo and hops into the shower.
I'm confused.
A) I don't know him or his wife well enough for either of them to be wearing Speedos around me.
B) Who the fuck actually wears Speedos, anyway, and in hot pink?
Then I realize he's rinsing off because he's planning on going swimming. And sure enough, when I turn around, there are two, count 'em!, two pools in the back yard. Both above-ground and fairly small, but big enough for lounging. M makes his way toward the pools and I ask S which one they normally use. She tells me the far one. For some reason it seems weird because that pool seems to belong to people who live in one of the other duplexes (suddenly my apartment building is a standalone set of duplexes next to others just like it).
Out of nowhere, a crowd of people begins streaming into the backyard, serenading S and M (ha) and their new baby (who has kind of disappeared from the dream at this point). I come to realize that it's the rest of my neighbors whom I've never met. They're all old and the men have beards.
I get out a camera — my mother's five-year-old Canon PowerShot — and begin to take pictures. S scolds me. "You're still taking pictures with that old camera?!" she says incredulously. "You need a better camera than that!"
"I've got this too!" I say, pointing to my camera THAT IS GOING UNUSED AROUND MY NECK. I don't know why I'm not using it.
Enter dreamland.
I'm on the sidewalk out in front of the apartment when I see S, the mom, walking past. I catch up with her and ask her how she's doing and how the baby is. She tells me they're just fine, and walks me around back to the back yard (yeah, our apartment building does not have a back yard, but a back slab of deeply pitted asphalt called a parking lot) where she opens a set of French doors (from this point on, none of the details of how the place looks are true to life) to reveal the baby lying in a little bassinet. I coo over him politely, and M, the dad, comes over and picks the baby up and hands him to me, then goes over and strips down to a hot-pink Speedo and hops into the shower.
I'm confused.
A) I don't know him or his wife well enough for either of them to be wearing Speedos around me.
B) Who the fuck actually wears Speedos, anyway, and in hot pink?
Then I realize he's rinsing off because he's planning on going swimming. And sure enough, when I turn around, there are two, count 'em!, two pools in the back yard. Both above-ground and fairly small, but big enough for lounging. M makes his way toward the pools and I ask S which one they normally use. She tells me the far one. For some reason it seems weird because that pool seems to belong to people who live in one of the other duplexes (suddenly my apartment building is a standalone set of duplexes next to others just like it).
Out of nowhere, a crowd of people begins streaming into the backyard, serenading S and M (ha) and their new baby (who has kind of disappeared from the dream at this point). I come to realize that it's the rest of my neighbors whom I've never met. They're all old and the men have beards.
I get out a camera — my mother's five-year-old Canon PowerShot — and begin to take pictures. S scolds me. "You're still taking pictures with that old camera?!" she says incredulously. "You need a better camera than that!"
"I've got this too!" I say, pointing to my camera THAT IS GOING UNUSED AROUND MY NECK. I don't know why I'm not using it.
1.30.2008
Muddy water
I'm walking alone on a paved road up a modest incline toward a cluster of buildings that seem to be part of some kind of tourist trap. There's some commotion up near the entrance to one of the buildings. Turns out some older lady was looking for a restroom and saw a handwritten sign (what it said, I don't know) taped to a door, and alerted the staff, which started this whole complicated process (that was condensed into just a few seconds in the dream) in which a construction crew came out and started demolishing/renovating, and a sinkhole formed and there's lots of confusion about how exactly that happened. 
I kind of wander around and observe for a while, but I keep walking, and I realize that there's a big brown lake (see fig. 1 for the color brown) that people are snorkeling in. Families, single people, lots of people, just diving into and wading around in this opaque nasty brown mess. I wonder what they could possibly see beneath the surface of the water.
I kind of wander around and observe for a while, but I keep walking, and I realize that there's a big brown lake (see fig. 1 for the color brown) that people are snorkeling in. Families, single people, lots of people, just diving into and wading around in this opaque nasty brown mess. I wonder what they could possibly see beneath the surface of the water.
1.29.2008
Shocking
I'm making my way through an old house. It's large and filthy, and has the distinct feeling to it that it's been through some sort of natural disaster. The carpet feels formerly waterlogged, the walls dingy, and as though they're now parched. There are lots of kitchens. None of them come equipped with appliances, oddly, and all of them feature strange and varied layouts. The surfaces inside every room are coated in black dust. There are computer towers sitting around scattershot. I am surprised and kind of freaked out when I realize that they are plugged in and running. I can see their tiny green lights peeking out from beneath the caked-on black dust.
There's some kind of computer hooked up to an outlet that has begun sparking periodically. I try to call everyone's attention to it (though I can't exactly tell who I'm talking to). There is an older guy there — my brain wants to think of him as Mel freaking Gibson, oddly — and he reaches for the plug and it shocks him. He flinches, but I suppose he figures he can take the pain, because he does it again, and when he really grips it and yanks it out of the wall, a big yellow band of electric current zig-zags its way around his person and I start freaking out and trying to find a phone to call 911. My mom picks up and starts trying to have a light-hearted conversation about my sister. And I'm terrified that we've got a dying man on our hands: "Mom! MEL JUST GOT ELECTROCUTED and I'm trying to call 911!"
I don't know if Mel ever recovered because I woke up.
There's some kind of computer hooked up to an outlet that has begun sparking periodically. I try to call everyone's attention to it (though I can't exactly tell who I'm talking to). There is an older guy there — my brain wants to think of him as Mel freaking Gibson, oddly — and he reaches for the plug and it shocks him. He flinches, but I suppose he figures he can take the pain, because he does it again, and when he really grips it and yanks it out of the wall, a big yellow band of electric current zig-zags its way around his person and I start freaking out and trying to find a phone to call 911. My mom picks up and starts trying to have a light-hearted conversation about my sister. And I'm terrified that we've got a dying man on our hands: "Mom! MEL JUST GOT ELECTROCUTED and I'm trying to call 911!"
I don't know if Mel ever recovered because I woke up.
1.25.2008
I knew this was coming
Last night I dreamed that I wrecked the new car. I did some stupid/fancy driving and ended up plowing the back end into a door or something (no idea how I did that). And lo there was much humiliation.
1.23.2008
Nope, no symbolism in this one at all
I take off walking down the road, away from home. The road is open and bustling, and there's stuff happening everywhere around me. Suddenly the sky gets choked with clouds and it gets dark and rain starts falling and soaking me from the top down.
I turn around and head toward home.
I turn around and head toward home.
Michelle Duggar in training
Last night I dreamed that I got a text from Ashley that said, simply: "luke plus new luke," and then another one right after it that said, "this summer."
I was incredulous and amazed, and tried to do the nine-month math in my head. Sure enough, if she and JD had gotten busy the week Luke was born in late November (!!!), they could have put a bun in the oven that would be ready by late August.
Yeesh!
I called Ashley to congratulate her and share my WTF reaction. "What are you going to do?" I asked, sort of half implying that if she didn't want another baby right away (which I sensed she didn't, because she already had her hands full with a newborn), she didn't have to continue with the pregnancy. (I'm sure this was my brain's way of getting me to contribute to Blog for Choice Day 2008, right?) She was like, "What do you mean, what am I going to do?!" I felt like an asshole, and then steered the conversation in a what-are-you-going-to-do-for-childcare-while-you're-pregnant direction. Phew.
I was incredulous and amazed, and tried to do the nine-month math in my head. Sure enough, if she and JD had gotten busy the week Luke was born in late November (!!!), they could have put a bun in the oven that would be ready by late August.
Yeesh!
I called Ashley to congratulate her and share my WTF reaction. "What are you going to do?" I asked, sort of half implying that if she didn't want another baby right away (which I sensed she didn't, because she already had her hands full with a newborn), she didn't have to continue with the pregnancy. (I'm sure this was my brain's way of getting me to contribute to Blog for Choice Day 2008, right?) She was like, "What do you mean, what am I going to do?!" I felt like an asshole, and then steered the conversation in a what-are-you-going-to-do-for-childcare-while-you're-pregnant direction. Phew.
Bait and switch
I'm not going to get into the specifics of my dream night before last, because it's hardly SFW, but I just want to put this question out there: How much does it suck when you fall asleep while thinking warm, fuzzy, sexy thoughts about someone you like and then you end up dreaming a weird, awkward sex dream involving someone who repulses you? I mean, no fair.
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