There was a scene in Mad Men last night that I was sure was going to play out like so: Man falls asleep on couch, man opens his eyes and is suddenly dreaming, man stands up and things happen that the audience understands are dream things, etc., man wakes up. Except it didn't pan out that way; man woke up. But it's a common scenario in movies and television — the falling asleep and dreaming that one is in that sleep position, "waking", and then doing dream stuff. I thought to myself, that doesn't really ever happen to me, self. I never really fall asleep in my bed and then start dreaming that I am in my bed as a starting point for a dream.
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.
Showing posts with label anxiety. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anxiety. Show all posts
9.15.2008
7.04.2008
How did I get here?
I find myself at my friend A's place. I'm in my grey ARMY T-shirt and nothing else, and I'm unshowered, and it becomes clear that I'm there alone. Let's just say that I don't know A nearly well enough to be at his place in such a state, and I start to wonder where he is and when he'll be back.
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.
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.
5.29.2008
Who needs college when there's Jenny McCarthy?
I am really behind on dream posting. This is from a couple of days ago. I dreamt that I was at Al's, but there was a new manager, and I was effing up everything that I touched. All the knowledge I had had been stripped from my mind - I didn't know what clefs instruments read, I couldn't read a tenor clef, I couldn't work a cash register, and I couldn't turn on any lights. I stood in the dark pressing buttons on the cash register, and the receipt was in a shard of streetlight and just kept coming out wrong. I kept voiding everything, and the manager kept yelling at me. The store was dark, but it was fully staffed with strangers. People gathered around after their shift and I chit-chatted with another employee. The manager walked up to the back counter - which was still the actual back institutional sales counter but was located in a restaurant back room of some sort - and set down the botched up receipt and made a remark. I was fearing that he was about to fire me. He said something quietly that sounded like, "Get the hell out," but I didn't really understand him and I was afraid to ask him to repeat it. He turned to go, but I stood frozen. After a second someone said, "I thought he was going to fire you." Another said, "He told us that he was, so I don't really understand." I was livid that he had gone behind my back. I threw open a back door I've never seen before and stomped out into the rain. I am sloshing across the parking lot when a tall blonde asks me what the matter is. She's partly a character named Lane from Curious Wine, and the rest of her is Jenny McCarthy. I go into the spiel about my boss and the manager being dicks and gossiping about me and she says, "You should come work for me." And I return jokingly, "Yeah, personal assistant to Jenny McCarthy might look really good on a resume." She smiles and looks at me hard. "Really?" I realize that she is offering me a job. I realize I'm about to get fired anyway. "Yeah," I say, summoning my courage and tromping through the downpour to where she's standing under the awning. "Great! You can start tonight!" she says, and my gut sinks in horror as I realize that I will now have to blow off my next shift at Al's because she's Jenny McCarthy. She starts circling things in a planner and looks at me and hands me an umbrella. "First, you hold this umbrella for me while I get to my SUV," she says, and points to a big silver tank of a truck. I realize I have no idea what a "personal assistant" position entails. "You'll do fine," she assures me, reading my mind. I scurry along with her, but keeping the blue umbrella centered over her proves challenging. Then I'm back at Al's, and the unhappy group is surrounding me, and I'm sweating and trying to explain why I blew off my shift.
5.25.2008
The More You Ruv Someone
I'm listening attentively to a kabuki-style lecture series on the persecution of Asian-Americans at the Belcourt Theater in Nashville, Tenn with my high school AP English class.
"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.
"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.
5.24.2008
Late May marathon dreaming
I had another night packed with insane dreams last night.
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.
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.
5.21.2008
FUBAR
I'm changing out the lenses on my camera and I look down and realize I've gotten an amazing amount of dirt and dead leaves in the interior of my little kit lens. I blow into it, thinking I can just dispense with the mess, but when I look down again, there's even more debris inside the lens. I tug on some kind of string, thinking it will pull the bad stuff out, and the entire guts of the lens come tumbling out into a pile.
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.
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.
5.01.2008
Bad weather and a wedding
My father instructs me to get all gussied up; we're going to a wedding in less than an hour, and would I mind getting ready even earlier because we have to stop by the store for something on the way? The wedding is happening at the Parkers' house. I played softball with the Parker girls throughout my school years and we were always good friends (I've not seen or spoken to any of them in years; I don't think they're on Facebook). Apparently Faye (Jo Ann's mom) has cancer (that's true in real life) and even though Jo Ann just met this guy thirty minutes ago, they're getting married immediately and everyone's got to get dressed up to come to the house and watch it.
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.
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.
4.15.2008
Performance anxiety
My dreams were all about the zombie walk again. Specifically, how I've managed to fuck it up or not do a good job.
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.
Yep.
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.
Yep.
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.
Yep.
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.
Yep.
4.10.2008
Dreambitapalooza
It was a veritable carnival of anxiety dreams in my skull last night. Bollocks, I can't remember many specifics of any of them.
1. It's zombie walk day and not very many people have shown up. Worse yet is that the ones that have shown up don't seem too terribly excited, and are underdressed and underwhelming and guess who feels like a total failure? No, come on. You can guess. That's right. THIS CHUMP.
2. I am riding in a car with a blonde-haired European dude who looks like some kind of weird Elijah Wood knockoff. He is being a pretentious asshole about something ... though I don't remember what ... and I'm trying to console him by telling him it's not really as bad as he thinks. And as soon as I reach out to touch him, he acts repulsed and freaks out and wrecks the car. We are careening off the road when I force myself to wake up.
3. I'm in an odd and foreboding version of my great-grandmother's house. It seems like there's some sort of permanent darkness outside. I'm hiding out from someone. Someone who feels drunk and violent. I try to lock myself in the bathroom but spend several harrowing seconds trying to get the door to latch and then lock. It doesn't matter anyway; the door feels thin like it's made out of balsa wood and could be smashed by a single pissed-off fist. Whoever's looking for me gets in the house ... and I remember having to leave the house and get into a car ... feels like there may have been rain. I don't know where we ended up going.
1. It's zombie walk day and not very many people have shown up. Worse yet is that the ones that have shown up don't seem too terribly excited, and are underdressed and underwhelming and guess who feels like a total failure? No, come on. You can guess. That's right. THIS CHUMP.
2. I am riding in a car with a blonde-haired European dude who looks like some kind of weird Elijah Wood knockoff. He is being a pretentious asshole about something ... though I don't remember what ... and I'm trying to console him by telling him it's not really as bad as he thinks. And as soon as I reach out to touch him, he acts repulsed and freaks out and wrecks the car. We are careening off the road when I force myself to wake up.
3. I'm in an odd and foreboding version of my great-grandmother's house. It seems like there's some sort of permanent darkness outside. I'm hiding out from someone. Someone who feels drunk and violent. I try to lock myself in the bathroom but spend several harrowing seconds trying to get the door to latch and then lock. It doesn't matter anyway; the door feels thin like it's made out of balsa wood and could be smashed by a single pissed-off fist. Whoever's looking for me gets in the house ... and I remember having to leave the house and get into a car ... feels like there may have been rain. I don't know where we ended up going.
3.27.2008
My name is Lindsey, and I have an inferiority complex
I am at Amber's place, only it's unlike any actual place she's ever lived in. It's more like a dorm or compound of sorts, where lots of people live crammed into a small space. There's sleeping bags and living accoutrement everywhere. I make my way to a small space behind a curtain — a dressing area perhaps — and hey, there's Chan Marshall (Cat Power), wearing all black. She sees me take a pair of green striped workout pants from my bag, and she gestures to them as if she recognizes them. I tell her they're my ex's.
A flicker of recognition passes over her face. "You're Lindsey," she says, as I realize she somehow knows Phil. She has some kind of muddled nearly British accent, which is weird, because she really doesn't.
"Who do you love now?" she asks me. A hundred thoughts flash through my head, but I tell her that I can't possibly get into that. It's too complicated.
The group — Chan, Amber, and a couple of unidentifiable people my brain sorta made up — heads out for a night on the town. I shove some piece of important paper into my back pocket, throw my purse over my shoulder, and hurry out the door. I feel rushed and unsure. We walk a few blocks (it feels like we are in the city, presumably New York, but what part, I have no idea; later it feels like we're back on Long Island) and get to this outdoor concert space where, apparently, Led Zeppelin is playing. We can't actually see the band, but we can hear them and we can see the lights reflecting off the partial walls around us. Wow, they sound just like they do on the albums I have. Hmm.
The concert venue is oddly shaped — there are big rectangular slabs of slate interrupting the flow of the place. I feel like I need to draw exactly what it looked like to accurately describe it. It doesn't really seem like a music venue at all, but more like a public park art sculpture. Occasionally, and to our subdued amusement, we will see the guitar player — Jimmy Page, presumably — walk on the slate walls for an extended length of time, and the round a corner out of our sight. Ordinarily, people walking on walls would creep me out, but it was a rock show, so it was awesome.
I realize that I don't think I locked my car. I just imagine random passersby trying the handle and being delighted when it opens. I fumble around in my enormous and noisy purse for my keys, and manage to accidentally dislodge the important paper in my back pocket. I quickly hit the lock button on my remote, in the hopes that I'm still within remote range. And then I see the piece of paper skitter along the ground toward a giant fountain. I run away from the group, which has more or less been ignoring me anyway (we don't know each other very well) and chase the piece of paper. Every time I grab at it, it lunges toward the fountain a little quicker. I just know the damn thing is going to end up in the fountain and I'm going to lose whatever essential info was on it. I can feel people watching me and silently judging my stupid ass. I make one final leap and nearly go careening into the fountain, but I catch myself and the note, and for one triumphant second, I don't care what people think.
But then I come back to reality and realize that I am a mess. I feel frazzled and disorganized and uncool and frumpy and unattractive and unworthy of hanging out with these new people (this is a feeling I often have in real life, yay). So I take off walking around this harbor/marina-type thing, gazing off into the misty distance, at the boats and the gulls and the ropes. It's beautiful, and I just sort of take it all in. I feel someone behind me, and turn to see it's Amber, who's come to check on me. She's following close behind me, mimicking my steps, trying to make me laugh.
A flicker of recognition passes over her face. "You're Lindsey," she says, as I realize she somehow knows Phil. She has some kind of muddled nearly British accent, which is weird, because she really doesn't.
"Who do you love now?" she asks me. A hundred thoughts flash through my head, but I tell her that I can't possibly get into that. It's too complicated.
The group — Chan, Amber, and a couple of unidentifiable people my brain sorta made up — heads out for a night on the town. I shove some piece of important paper into my back pocket, throw my purse over my shoulder, and hurry out the door. I feel rushed and unsure. We walk a few blocks (it feels like we are in the city, presumably New York, but what part, I have no idea; later it feels like we're back on Long Island) and get to this outdoor concert space where, apparently, Led Zeppelin is playing. We can't actually see the band, but we can hear them and we can see the lights reflecting off the partial walls around us. Wow, they sound just like they do on the albums I have. Hmm.
The concert venue is oddly shaped — there are big rectangular slabs of slate interrupting the flow of the place. I feel like I need to draw exactly what it looked like to accurately describe it. It doesn't really seem like a music venue at all, but more like a public park art sculpture. Occasionally, and to our subdued amusement, we will see the guitar player — Jimmy Page, presumably — walk on the slate walls for an extended length of time, and the round a corner out of our sight. Ordinarily, people walking on walls would creep me out, but it was a rock show, so it was awesome.
I realize that I don't think I locked my car. I just imagine random passersby trying the handle and being delighted when it opens. I fumble around in my enormous and noisy purse for my keys, and manage to accidentally dislodge the important paper in my back pocket. I quickly hit the lock button on my remote, in the hopes that I'm still within remote range. And then I see the piece of paper skitter along the ground toward a giant fountain. I run away from the group, which has more or less been ignoring me anyway (we don't know each other very well) and chase the piece of paper. Every time I grab at it, it lunges toward the fountain a little quicker. I just know the damn thing is going to end up in the fountain and I'm going to lose whatever essential info was on it. I can feel people watching me and silently judging my stupid ass. I make one final leap and nearly go careening into the fountain, but I catch myself and the note, and for one triumphant second, I don't care what people think.
But then I come back to reality and realize that I am a mess. I feel frazzled and disorganized and uncool and frumpy and unattractive and unworthy of hanging out with these new people (this is a feeling I often have in real life, yay). So I take off walking around this harbor/marina-type thing, gazing off into the misty distance, at the boats and the gulls and the ropes. It's beautiful, and I just sort of take it all in. I feel someone behind me, and turn to see it's Amber, who's come to check on me. She's following close behind me, mimicking my steps, trying to make me laugh.
3.24.2008
The dream parade made a stop in my skull last night and the grand marshall was a demon who tried to possess me
You ever think that maybe certain locations are more fruitful when it comes to dreams? Like your brain feeds on the residue there -- if it can pick it up -- and just runs with the craziness?
I ask because any time I spend the night in my childhood bedroom, I seem to have lots of dreams, and some of them fill me with anxiety. Like, not run-of-the-mill anxiety, but life-and-death-of-my-soul anxiety.
So last night I'm having a sweet fix of a dream about a boy (whose reality I knew was hopeless to be had), when suddenly a metaphorical night falls on me and I feel hunted by evil forces. I wake up -- or do I? -- and realize that my mouth is slightly open and A) I am being observed by something malevolent and B) some evil force is possessing me by pushing itself into my open mouth. I can't move my body (damned night paralysis!) so I exhale to expel the evil -- and I make the craziest moan/growl noise in the process. But I feel the evil leaving me. My heart is racing and I lie there and wonder why I always have these horrible demon-related dreams at my parents' house. Because really, I can't think of a time when I've had a demon-related dream anywhere BUT my parents' house.
I finally fall back asleep (if I was truly awake at all) and go into another dream or two ... which I swear I remembered until I started typing this; maybe they will come to me and I can come back and fill this in (stay tuned).
...
And then I am sitting at a table with The Harmony Brothers -- the full quartet -- and I am apparently drunk. We're at some sort of celebration. I don't know that I've ever been drunk in a dream before, but I am totally drunk and unable to control the volume of voice. When I can focus long enough, I realize that Jeff and Jeremy are giving me the most humiliating looks I can possibly imagine -- it's pure disdain mixed with just a hint of embarrassment at how pathetic I am.
I realize that I shouldn't be around them so I scoop up Felix and run inside my parents' house -- much to Phil's protests about how of course I should be there -- and lock myself in the bedroom where there's a window overlooking the party and where Felix can roam around freely.
I ask because any time I spend the night in my childhood bedroom, I seem to have lots of dreams, and some of them fill me with anxiety. Like, not run-of-the-mill anxiety, but life-and-death-of-my-soul anxiety.
So last night I'm having a sweet fix of a dream about a boy (whose reality I knew was hopeless to be had), when suddenly a metaphorical night falls on me and I feel hunted by evil forces. I wake up -- or do I? -- and realize that my mouth is slightly open and A) I am being observed by something malevolent and B) some evil force is possessing me by pushing itself into my open mouth. I can't move my body (damned night paralysis!) so I exhale to expel the evil -- and I make the craziest moan/growl noise in the process. But I feel the evil leaving me. My heart is racing and I lie there and wonder why I always have these horrible demon-related dreams at my parents' house. Because really, I can't think of a time when I've had a demon-related dream anywhere BUT my parents' house.
I finally fall back asleep (if I was truly awake at all) and go into another dream or two ... which I swear I remembered until I started typing this; maybe they will come to me and I can come back and fill this in (stay tuned).
...
And then I am sitting at a table with The Harmony Brothers -- the full quartet -- and I am apparently drunk. We're at some sort of celebration. I don't know that I've ever been drunk in a dream before, but I am totally drunk and unable to control the volume of voice. When I can focus long enough, I realize that Jeff and Jeremy are giving me the most humiliating looks I can possibly imagine -- it's pure disdain mixed with just a hint of embarrassment at how pathetic I am.
I realize that I shouldn't be around them so I scoop up Felix and run inside my parents' house -- much to Phil's protests about how of course I should be there -- and lock myself in the bedroom where there's a window overlooking the party and where Felix can roam around freely.
3.12.2008
Murder and Botox
I am working in a hair salon with Alicia and another woman, who is the only one allowed to "cut" hair. I think to myself, wow, I finally got into a creative career I can get into. And then I think to myself, but it's hairdressing. I walk in and am having fun goofing off with Alicia and fluffing the locks of happy clients. Then I am at the Hippy Shack, and I am alone playing pool, but I feel like Jeff is around somewhere. I am waiting, hoping someone will show up. I raise the cover of my piano and look at the strings. Inside is a compartment. I open it and my Dad has a secret CD stash there. I wonder why they're secrets and open the padded, zippered pouch to inspect them. I look at the first one, which is a purple disk, and I hear people on the porch. I thrust it back in, quickly, and wince when I realize that Dad will notice it's unzipped. It's Mom and Carolyn, although Carolyn looks like someone else. "What are you guys doing here?" I ask. "We's wantin' to see if you and Jeff wanted to play some pool," Mom answered. I said, "I'll ask him - he's just over in the main house." But I meant another segment of the Hippy Shack that wasn't attached to the pool room, not my parents' actual house. I opened the front door to the Hippy Shack and it was pouring down rain. "Oh, wow," I said, and Mom answered, "I know." I jumped off the front porch and made for the carport but it seemed to take longer than it should've. Mom was in the background, screaming, "Faster, Tamara! Faster!" But when I got under it I was in the middle bathroom of my parents' house. Jeff said, "No, I don't want to play pool." He looked like he was in serious mode (like last night at his high school band's concert). "The last thing I have time for right now is playing pool with you and your mother." Then Mom was beside him, nodding at me as if to say, "Duh, Tamara, why would you even ask him?" Then I realized that I was sitting on a toilet, needing to pee. "Could you guys get out? I'm trying to use the bathroom." Then I was locking up the Hippy Shack, and on the way out I noticed a large blue planter with a coat of maroon paint on the inside. I remembered trying to take it with me once, and a policeman wouldn't let me, saying they were using it to look for evidence of a murder. He was laughing, but I wasn't, because I realized that I had killed my late uncle with an electric drill, drilling a hole in his head, and then chopped it off and faked a car accident. He was still all jokes, staring at me in the rain in his soaking wet police uniform, "You shoulda said to 'em, 'Djew find a head inside of it? Alright, then, I reckon I'm taking this planter.'" I faked a brief smile and headed for my car. I knew he was suddenly suspicious of me, but I looked up at the pear tree's leaves swaying in the rain and thought, I guess these are the feelings you deal with when the choices you make in life include drill-killing and beheading your uncle. Then my dad's friend Hop pulled up in his truck and I tried to rush into my car but he jumped out and said, "Tamara, I need your number. I need to talk to you about this." [In my last dream, my mother told me not to talk to Hop, and I remembered this.] "Let me give you my mom's number," I said. "This is really between you two." Then Mom appeared and they were talking out of my range. I started to drive away, but I thought Dad would be mad that I left her. Then I started to just get in my car and wait to escape the rain, but I thought that would be rude. Then I'm sitting outside of my hair salon, and I inject myself with Botox, right on the chin. I didn't want to - my mind was telling me how I didn't need it and it was poison and there was no rational reason for me to do it - but I just uncontrollably stabbed myself with the needle and pressed the plunger. Then I thought, Oh great, I am SO going to have a bad reaction to this. My mind answered, "You? You of all people will have a terrible allergic reaction to this. There's no way your body will tolerate it. You'd better take supplies." I dig in my purse, realizing with embarrassment that Other Lady in the salon is swamped, and staring at my car outside, wondering what the hell I'm doing. I'll be even more embarrassed when I tell her. I open a set of instructions, like it was a haircolor kit, and notice that what I injected was malleable, and I was supposed to manually sculpt it inside my skin. I look into a mirror and think, Great, just what I need - my lip area to be BIGGER. Then I hop out of the car and hurry around to the passenger seat to grab my stuff. It's dark and raining. I think, Well, Alicia isn't here yet, either, but then I see her maroon car parked there. I think, Shit.
2.14.2008
Space cadet
Amber and I are in a space shuttle. It's weird, because it's just a giant, open, cylindrical space lined with padding and wires and other spacey things. We're not strapped in. We're just kind of hanging out. And whoever is driving the space shuttle — later I'll see that it's one of our photo editors — is having trouble getting the thing into space.
We'll feel a rumble and then see from the tiny windows that we've got liftoff, and we'll see the earth beneath us begin to rotate (I doubt this is how actual shuttles lift off) only to, a few seconds later, find ourselves on the ground, outside the shuttle, waiting on the technicians to fix whatever problem we're having.
At one point, we're sitting near train tracks and I start telling Amber all about how Regina Spektor read a short story written by one of my other friends, and how she loved it, and halfway through, I realize I'm telling Amber her own story and I feel so embarrassed and ashamed.
I look over and see the aforementioned photo editor tossing big crates around outside the cockpit in order to solve whatever takeoff problems we're having.
Then we're back on the shuttle. I have some vague memory of us storing food in a tiny fridge even though none of the other passengers thought to bring anything. I feel slightly gluttonous because of it.
We have liftoff again. It occurs to me that we are probably going to die on this shuttle, and I suddenly want very much to be off the shuttle or to wake up (I realize I'm dreaming, but it doesn't go lucid on me because I can't control anything). Once again, the ground outside starts spinning around us as we rise toward the sky. I imagine with horror of what it must be like to be in a shuttle explosion. One minute things are fine, and the next ... what? Does everything just get white hot and you stop existing? Death makes no sense to me, even in my dreams.
I wince as we meet the horizon and rise up through the atmosphere. Out the window there is blackness and stars. And then everything kind of happens in a montage — as I'm standing there, looking out the window and thinking about the relative pointlessness of space travel, I see what human space traveling has wrought on the galaxy (I see giant oil rig things on distant planets; it's unclear if it's Earthlings who struck out to look for oil, or if it's just the technology we shared with other cultures in the galaxy). And while it's really freaking cool seeing all that crap, I feel that at any minute the whole thing's going to explode and I'm going to die.
We'll feel a rumble and then see from the tiny windows that we've got liftoff, and we'll see the earth beneath us begin to rotate (I doubt this is how actual shuttles lift off) only to, a few seconds later, find ourselves on the ground, outside the shuttle, waiting on the technicians to fix whatever problem we're having.
At one point, we're sitting near train tracks and I start telling Amber all about how Regina Spektor read a short story written by one of my other friends, and how she loved it, and halfway through, I realize I'm telling Amber her own story and I feel so embarrassed and ashamed.
I look over and see the aforementioned photo editor tossing big crates around outside the cockpit in order to solve whatever takeoff problems we're having.
Then we're back on the shuttle. I have some vague memory of us storing food in a tiny fridge even though none of the other passengers thought to bring anything. I feel slightly gluttonous because of it.
We have liftoff again. It occurs to me that we are probably going to die on this shuttle, and I suddenly want very much to be off the shuttle or to wake up (I realize I'm dreaming, but it doesn't go lucid on me because I can't control anything). Once again, the ground outside starts spinning around us as we rise toward the sky. I imagine with horror of what it must be like to be in a shuttle explosion. One minute things are fine, and the next ... what? Does everything just get white hot and you stop existing? Death makes no sense to me, even in my dreams.
I wince as we meet the horizon and rise up through the atmosphere. Out the window there is blackness and stars. And then everything kind of happens in a montage — as I'm standing there, looking out the window and thinking about the relative pointlessness of space travel, I see what human space traveling has wrought on the galaxy (I see giant oil rig things on distant planets; it's unclear if it's Earthlings who struck out to look for oil, or if it's just the technology we shared with other cultures in the galaxy). And while it's really freaking cool seeing all that crap, I feel that at any minute the whole thing's going to explode and I'm going to die.
2.11.2008
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?
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.
12.20.2007
California dreamin'
I have walked into some kind of unconventional classroom headed by Hugo Schwyzer. He seems annoyed that I have walked in late. And annoyed, perhaps, because he's never seen me before and suddenly I'm in his class.
They're all doing elaborate and painful-looking yoga poses. I don't join in, but instead gaze out the huge picture window into the California sunset, dipping into the massive Pacific.
I go outside and it's dark. I can hear the ocean, and even feel its presence, but it's so dark that I can't see it. I walk down the beach toward it, fearing the moment that I feel it overtake me. I know deep down that once I'm in, I can't get back out. I retreat to the beach, and then realize that it doesn't matter how far I retreat; the tide is climbing and the water will greet me anyway.
They're all doing elaborate and painful-looking yoga poses. I don't join in, but instead gaze out the huge picture window into the California sunset, dipping into the massive Pacific.
I go outside and it's dark. I can hear the ocean, and even feel its presence, but it's so dark that I can't see it. I walk down the beach toward it, fearing the moment that I feel it overtake me. I know deep down that once I'm in, I can't get back out. I retreat to the beach, and then realize that it doesn't matter how far I retreat; the tide is climbing and the water will greet me anyway.
12.14.2007
Doing it wrong. Again.
Last night's brief foray into the world of my anxiety-ridden subconscious mind involved me and my camera and the feeling that, once again, I'm not doing things right.
I've been dreaming like this for years and years now. It's getting really tedious.
Anyway, once again, I was at my parents' house, and I had been commissioned to take photographs of my dad and/or my uncle as they simulated working-man activities. Or something. Except, the lighting was low and I wasn't getting good shots inside. There felt like a time limit was looming. I gave up, frustrated, and then realized, stupidly, that they had gone outside to continue posing, and I was missing my chance to get good shots. It was almost like I was competing with someone else for the best shots. This is no doubt because the last thing on TV before I went to bed was that show The Shot, about photogs competing against one another.
I've been dreaming like this for years and years now. It's getting really tedious.
Anyway, once again, I was at my parents' house, and I had been commissioned to take photographs of my dad and/or my uncle as they simulated working-man activities. Or something. Except, the lighting was low and I wasn't getting good shots inside. There felt like a time limit was looming. I gave up, frustrated, and then realized, stupidly, that they had gone outside to continue posing, and I was missing my chance to get good shots. It was almost like I was competing with someone else for the best shots. This is no doubt because the last thing on TV before I went to bed was that show The Shot, about photogs competing against one another.
11.19.2007
My old house.
(*In reality, I have recently moved and there is someone already living in my previous residence.)
I going inside my old duplex to get some of my stuff, apparently before anyone moves in. It's really dark and cold. The light switch in the front foyer doesn't work. I stumble around, my eyes gradually getting used to the dark, and I realize that the duplex has grown new rooms, and that my stuff isn't the only stuff that's there. There are children's toys and books, men's clothing, nasty hairbrushes, etc. Things that absolutely do not belong to me, and that I don't recognize. As I walk through the house, I'm more and more overcome by fear and sadness. The hallway is completely different; it's exposed brick and has dirty stained glass along the top, which of course lets in no light because it's solid wall behind the glass. There's only one bathroom instead of two, and I have a feeling that I need to avoid it. Every time I pass by it, I get scared. My mom shows up to help me gather my stuff, but as we look around, we decide not to take anything because it all seems so nasty and we think my things have been tainted. We look around for anything that hasn't been "tainted" and can't find anything. Along the way, we find a lot of clothes for a young (?) woman who must be a serious barfly. Short skirts, sequined belly-shirts, t-shirts with trashy sexual innuendo, etc. There are used condoms and empty alcohol bottles everywhere, strewn amid the Dr. Suess books and E-Z Bake oven and the tricycle. We keep going past the bathroom, which feels worse every time we pass it. The last time, I stop and look inside. There's an energy-feeling coming from it that's actually audible, like a buzzing. Directly through the doorway is the sink, the toilet is on the left, and the shower is on the right. I don't know this bathroom. I've never been in this bathroom, that I can recall. I start to step inside and my mom slaps my arm and tells me there's an absence of pressure and she doesn't like it. Apparently, this terrifies us and we run through the living room and out the front door. As I'm closing the door and pulling out my keys to lock it, a dark grey cat darts out and disappears into the bushes. That's all.
*This is the second time I've heard that buzzing-energy sound in a dream. Wonder what a recurring buzzing means.
I going inside my old duplex to get some of my stuff, apparently before anyone moves in. It's really dark and cold. The light switch in the front foyer doesn't work. I stumble around, my eyes gradually getting used to the dark, and I realize that the duplex has grown new rooms, and that my stuff isn't the only stuff that's there. There are children's toys and books, men's clothing, nasty hairbrushes, etc. Things that absolutely do not belong to me, and that I don't recognize. As I walk through the house, I'm more and more overcome by fear and sadness. The hallway is completely different; it's exposed brick and has dirty stained glass along the top, which of course lets in no light because it's solid wall behind the glass. There's only one bathroom instead of two, and I have a feeling that I need to avoid it. Every time I pass by it, I get scared. My mom shows up to help me gather my stuff, but as we look around, we decide not to take anything because it all seems so nasty and we think my things have been tainted. We look around for anything that hasn't been "tainted" and can't find anything. Along the way, we find a lot of clothes for a young (?) woman who must be a serious barfly. Short skirts, sequined belly-shirts, t-shirts with trashy sexual innuendo, etc. There are used condoms and empty alcohol bottles everywhere, strewn amid the Dr. Suess books and E-Z Bake oven and the tricycle. We keep going past the bathroom, which feels worse every time we pass it. The last time, I stop and look inside. There's an energy-feeling coming from it that's actually audible, like a buzzing. Directly through the doorway is the sink, the toilet is on the left, and the shower is on the right. I don't know this bathroom. I've never been in this bathroom, that I can recall. I start to step inside and my mom slaps my arm and tells me there's an absence of pressure and she doesn't like it. Apparently, this terrifies us and we run through the living room and out the front door. As I'm closing the door and pulling out my keys to lock it, a dark grey cat darts out and disappears into the bushes. That's all.
*This is the second time I've heard that buzzing-energy sound in a dream. Wonder what a recurring buzzing means.
9.29.2007
The operation
I am in a hospital, alone but surrounded by familiar people, and I am there to have an operation to fix ... something. I keep wondering why my parents or friends or someone isn't there with me. I'm called back but leave my bag in the front room, and have to request it once I get to the back waiting area. The nurses are skeptical that the bag is mine. They request ID with my name on it to match with any ID in the bag. They go to retrieve the bag but take so long that I suspect something bigger is happening.
I amuse myself by farting around in the back waiting area, where it's seemingly empty. On a counter nearby is a giant tub of multi-colored pills of all shapes and sizes, some as big as those nasty orange marshmallow peanut-shaped things my grandmother used to eat all the time. I chuckle to myself that I will be taking the bucket home with me after the surgery. In an instant I am trying to take a photo of the pill bucket for my daily picture. I'm worried that I'll get in trouble for photographing the giant, unprotected bucket of painkillers.
The the paparazzi show up. There are maybe eight of them, including a blonde reporter with a microphone and a dude with a giant light he sticks in my face. And big cameras they shove toward me. I sit down, sure that they're trying to humiliate me, and put my head down as far as possible, taking care to not speak at all. If I don't say anything, they can't use but the most brief clip on the news or whatever they're planning to use the footage for.
It takes a while and some creative footwork, but I finally evade them with the help of some burly dancing men who are apparently starring in an impromptu musical all around me. They gather in droves around the back entrance to the clinic and, with coordinated creative flourishes, erect a big sign over the door that says "Blogger Entrance" to distract the media into thinking that's where I'll be heading. I am grateful for their assistance, but still wondering what the fuck is taking so long with my upcoming surgery. I just want to get it over with.
There's a bit more, but it would be unwise to post it here.
I amuse myself by farting around in the back waiting area, where it's seemingly empty. On a counter nearby is a giant tub of multi-colored pills of all shapes and sizes, some as big as those nasty orange marshmallow peanut-shaped things my grandmother used to eat all the time. I chuckle to myself that I will be taking the bucket home with me after the surgery. In an instant I am trying to take a photo of the pill bucket for my daily picture. I'm worried that I'll get in trouble for photographing the giant, unprotected bucket of painkillers.
The the paparazzi show up. There are maybe eight of them, including a blonde reporter with a microphone and a dude with a giant light he sticks in my face. And big cameras they shove toward me. I sit down, sure that they're trying to humiliate me, and put my head down as far as possible, taking care to not speak at all. If I don't say anything, they can't use but the most brief clip on the news or whatever they're planning to use the footage for.
It takes a while and some creative footwork, but I finally evade them with the help of some burly dancing men who are apparently starring in an impromptu musical all around me. They gather in droves around the back entrance to the clinic and, with coordinated creative flourishes, erect a big sign over the door that says "Blogger Entrance" to distract the media into thinking that's where I'll be heading. I am grateful for their assistance, but still wondering what the fuck is taking so long with my upcoming surgery. I just want to get it over with.
There's a bit more, but it would be unwise to post it here.
8.21.2007
Painkillers
It's weird what taking a Vicodin before bed will do to your brain as it tries to shift from full consciousness to sleep mode. I can't speak for everyone, but for me, it's like it turns off some kind of focus filter in my head, so that every fleeting thought — no matter how random or scary or funny or weird — just goes ahead and voices itself in my mind instead of being stifled by whatever mechanism usually keeps my thoughts fairly consistent and targeted, even just before sleep.
I just wish I could remember some of these fleeting thoughts. They are like bits of fiction I've not yet created. Names and locations and actions and scenarios that aren't from my life or any other life I recall observing. They are almost like pieces of collective consciousness. And maybe they really are, floating in the ether.
So, last night I dreamt a long and epic dream about running from something ... in the dark ... in a car ... though it didn't feel like I was me. I was just there.
And then later I had to choose from a shelf of archetypal outfits to be judged by who, I'm not really sure. Each outfit was contained in a small themed jar of sorts, and each was labeled with a name that was as much a hint as to its contents as it was a confusing bit of extraneous information.
One greenish outfit (that had a lot of weird camouflage-colored plaid) was labeled reporter, while another outfit that was more glammy yet stark white was labeled Interpol (I assume this one and not this one). There were lots of others, and matching handbags to go with each outfit.
I picked the reporter jar and then had to run back to get the right size. Not sure what the hurry was, but I felt I was being timed and would be judged on my choice of outfit. I don't remember actually getting the outfit on or how I looked in it. I just remember frantically thumbing through jars and boxes of the outfit's component, looking for my size.
I just wish I could remember some of these fleeting thoughts. They are like bits of fiction I've not yet created. Names and locations and actions and scenarios that aren't from my life or any other life I recall observing. They are almost like pieces of collective consciousness. And maybe they really are, floating in the ether.
So, last night I dreamt a long and epic dream about running from something ... in the dark ... in a car ... though it didn't feel like I was me. I was just there.
And then later I had to choose from a shelf of archetypal outfits to be judged by who, I'm not really sure. Each outfit was contained in a small themed jar of sorts, and each was labeled with a name that was as much a hint as to its contents as it was a confusing bit of extraneous information.
One greenish outfit (that had a lot of weird camouflage-colored plaid) was labeled reporter, while another outfit that was more glammy yet stark white was labeled Interpol (I assume this one and not this one). There were lots of others, and matching handbags to go with each outfit.
I picked the reporter jar and then had to run back to get the right size. Not sure what the hurry was, but I felt I was being timed and would be judged on my choice of outfit. I don't remember actually getting the outfit on or how I looked in it. I just remember frantically thumbing through jars and boxes of the outfit's component, looking for my size.
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