Incidentally, this dream log suffers from potential unrealized - that being because like a lazy bones I insouciantly put off jotting them down, and like a fugitive, the clarity of those dreams were paroled by the fleetings of memory. There were 3, all incandescently brilliant, and strangely with each transmission into the next dream, the intonations became more dark and severe - dark in the sense of how my dream realm draws: sheer, overwhelming resolve in apocalyptic tumult. I wish I could've indulged you in the latter 2, but we'll have to suffice with the one I recall, a domestic heart-warmer:
I'm throwing a house party, an enchanting, winning house party. The corridors and hallways of the house are infinite, they go on forever like sprawling portals. Everyone is here, and I can't recount most of the names or faces, but let's simply say everyone who has ever stamped himself in my memory, from Allen Ginsberg to my best bud in 3rd grade. And, of course, that one romantic meta-charmer whom always seems to pop here beautiful expression around even when she's far removed from my thoughts. She was there too, and we shared company, flirted, became close, and I felt we were meant to be coupled as one. As the night roared on, then lulled down to an end and my friends dispersed, the house became barren of what was just moments ago an infectious vitality. The portals receded and became immediate, the house dimmed and felt closeted. This manifestation most positively one derived from my current apartment situation, a vagabond living alone in a 4 bedroom.
As I drifted the emptied hallways, struck by a case of abandonment, a noise coming from downstairs rattles me. I hesitantly set out, arming myself with closest metal object, tip-toeing hesitantly to find out what the sound might be, milieu or menace. Standing in front of the glass sliding door, the noise declares itself, and as my attention turns toward it, a man emerges from the shadow of the computer room. I pounce back, startled, and reflex defensively. But, then, I notice behind him are also women and other men, and realize the tenderness exuding from all their eyes, and release my defenses.
Cluttered in that small space are about 25 of them, of various ages and backgrounds.
- How'd you get in?
- We were working the party and discreetly stuck around. We're part of the Painters' Union. We'll leave if you want. We're just looking for shelter.
- No! Stay until Friday. I have the place for 2 more weeks. Maybe if all goes splendid you can stay until then.
And so they stay. My only requisite is that they don't disturb my bathroom situation, meaning I ain't sharing my bathroom space. Their presence invigorates me, transforms the house into a home, and we become a family, a circus juggling one another's distinctions and learning to love them. And me, I am the guiding patriarch: warm, gentle, empathetic.
Showing posts with label Living Memory. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Living Memory. Show all posts
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
dream log: bowie and jesus
Probably my most viscerally enjoyable dream in recent memory. Historic. I had it in some Comfort INN in Amarillo, Texas on the first night of our journey through the American Midwest and into Montreal, Quebec.
The stage is set, the crowd awaiting Bowie under the starlight sky of an open field. He comes on, circa Diamond Dogs era, and the feeling's kinetic. Andy and I are close, if we wanted we could reach out pass a couple concert-goers and touch the stage. Bowie begins, and inexplicably, the crowd turns on him. A cup of water cuts through the air aimed in his direction. Then, another and the cups don't stop coming.
He falls to the floor, helpless. I hop on stage, Andy behind me, stepping in front and shielding him from the hostile collective. I look at him, my back rampaged by cups of water awry. He makes no attempt to meet my eyes, shattered in dejection. Intently, I say, "Bowie, have you heard of new sincerity?" It triggers something in him, he slowly raises his eyes.
I elaborate, "the age of humanity?"
He replies, spirit piqued "age of humanity?"
I see this and continue, "compromise."
His body guard rushes onto the stage. Bowie puts out his arms, and we help him to his feet. He's the Bowie we all love again, inspired. We ready for our escape. But, there's a problem, the stage is now elevated near the moon. I lean forward, look over the edge, and my knees go weak from vertigo. We all simply understand, unspoken, that the best plan is to jump, so I overcome my fear and take the long plunge.
The crowd, watching this transpire, is worried for us, or ashamed (they booed Bowie, man). We're falling, a long way down. So long it's slow and thinking has subsided to being. Andy, Bowie and his bodyguard land before me. As I near the ground, I sense doubt, this skepticism pervading from the crowd watching me below, telling me with their esteem I can't fly. There's this feeling in me that I can, as if it's always been there, just forgotten and built over. I believe, and it is, me flying given strength from an innate understanding. Something Robert relates in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance as Quality.
The crowd watches, all disbelief abstracted. Jealousy gone because they are up here with me, flying. This, a moment for all of us. I finally land, feet landing bare in the plush grass, and I see Bowie leaving with the help of his bodyguard.
"Watch out, they've got new sincerity" he says with that lovable British grin of his, talking to Jesus, who's apparently present in the crowd. Jesus steps out into sight, like hey man. I'm still perpetually smiling from my flight, "Jesus Christ!"
"Yeah?" he thinks I'm speaking to him. We laugh about it.
I've mentioned before, I experience my dreams very consciously and post-existentially, simultaneously experiencing the dream's emotion and weaving it. So, I'm laughing my ass off, the funnest dream ever. I hear Jake, a college buddy, "I don't know, it's good, but I don't know if I'd go see it, it's silly." I feel challenged, I can sense this raises some questions from the crowd and now they're caught in between.
"prophecy and comedy, what would this all be if it wasn't funny?" I reply. I can feel the collective esteem shift, agreeing with me. Jake, too.
The stage is set, the crowd awaiting Bowie under the starlight sky of an open field. He comes on, circa Diamond Dogs era, and the feeling's kinetic. Andy and I are close, if we wanted we could reach out pass a couple concert-goers and touch the stage. Bowie begins, and inexplicably, the crowd turns on him. A cup of water cuts through the air aimed in his direction. Then, another and the cups don't stop coming.
He falls to the floor, helpless. I hop on stage, Andy behind me, stepping in front and shielding him from the hostile collective. I look at him, my back rampaged by cups of water awry. He makes no attempt to meet my eyes, shattered in dejection. Intently, I say, "Bowie, have you heard of new sincerity?" It triggers something in him, he slowly raises his eyes.
I elaborate, "the age of humanity?"
He replies, spirit piqued "age of humanity?"
I see this and continue, "compromise."
His body guard rushes onto the stage. Bowie puts out his arms, and we help him to his feet. He's the Bowie we all love again, inspired. We ready for our escape. But, there's a problem, the stage is now elevated near the moon. I lean forward, look over the edge, and my knees go weak from vertigo. We all simply understand, unspoken, that the best plan is to jump, so I overcome my fear and take the long plunge.
The crowd, watching this transpire, is worried for us, or ashamed (they booed Bowie, man). We're falling, a long way down. So long it's slow and thinking has subsided to being. Andy, Bowie and his bodyguard land before me. As I near the ground, I sense doubt, this skepticism pervading from the crowd watching me below, telling me with their esteem I can't fly. There's this feeling in me that I can, as if it's always been there, just forgotten and built over. I believe, and it is, me flying given strength from an innate understanding. Something Robert relates in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance as Quality.
The crowd watches, all disbelief abstracted. Jealousy gone because they are up here with me, flying. This, a moment for all of us. I finally land, feet landing bare in the plush grass, and I see Bowie leaving with the help of his bodyguard.
"Watch out, they've got new sincerity" he says with that lovable British grin of his, talking to Jesus, who's apparently present in the crowd. Jesus steps out into sight, like hey man. I'm still perpetually smiling from my flight, "Jesus Christ!"
"Yeah?" he thinks I'm speaking to him. We laugh about it.
I've mentioned before, I experience my dreams very consciously and post-existentially, simultaneously experiencing the dream's emotion and weaving it. So, I'm laughing my ass off, the funnest dream ever. I hear Jake, a college buddy, "I don't know, it's good, but I don't know if I'd go see it, it's silly." I feel challenged, I can sense this raises some questions from the crowd and now they're caught in between.
"prophecy and comedy, what would this all be if it wasn't funny?" I reply. I can feel the collective esteem shift, agreeing with me. Jake, too.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
dream log: outdoor ed
It's been awhile...
Whenever a dream I have has moments inside a house there's always undertones of recurrence, an understanding between me and my dreamworld that this house is a composite of all the houses that have found place in my memory's universe -- houses I've lived in, I've been in, stayed in, seen and that have blended and blurred into various incarnations to form location in the dreams my memory chooses to orchestrate for the night. And so it always feels like I've already been there.
It's beautiful, the memory within our infinite mind, and so grandly revealing to us within this universe. Our memories are always present -- not always remembered, but never forgotten, drifting in the vast, shapeless, perpetuating space of our mind. In a way, these are ours only. Memories, we as individuals, uniquely experienced. Yet, they are also touched and influenced by all, shared in creation and cultivation. So abstract and indirect, they may seem chaotic and random. But, at night in our dreams, they leave, return, disappear, reemerge, and ultimately come together to author a pattern, a story and song of sometimes overwhelming feeling and truth. As in life.
I am with two friends, a couple, lounging on an expansive white couch. The ceilings are high. The rich, velvety carpet like Pacific sand between toes. In the background are wide stairs with oak railing and a landing. Politely, my friends sitting across me are romancing, enjoying each other. While I slouch into the cushion, sadly content about being the lovelorn 3rd wheel. Watching them, there's a rebellion in me, as if they questioned my ability to love, dared that this is my fate, to be without.
Then she walks in. In waking life, a college crush. Someone I still see, albeit on occasion -- strange and somewhat stinging how you can be in such close quarters with a person, but be so distant from their warmth. She approaches, as I look to my friends. This, my moment of redemption, to prove my heart's lonesome demons wrong. She sits, finding her place beside me on the couch, her soft limbs close enough for her knee to brush mine. And I feel open, comfortable. the charming man I naturally am finds expression. And it's easy love, as she gets up and invites me back to her room. I boldly smile goodbye to my friends, inside secretly relieved.
We are outside, it's the porch of a cabin. The scene reminds me of my faint memories of 6th grade outdoor ed in Arrowhead, bordello moonlight and the afterglow of snowfall. We stand still walking, and emotions run rapid -- some spoken, which I can't recall, most emoted. I hint I love her, guarded but still honest. And she returns the sentiment. The revelation I see in her eyes, that shared intimation, washes over me like soul power. This is it. This is REAL.
As we continue on through the scenes, the silhouette stars and trees become streetlights and concrete. A dilapidated boutique appears, and we go in. It looks even worse inside, splintered and vandalized. But, cool collectibles are shown off on the shelves. She sees a corridor leading to another room, and heads in, looking back and beckoning me to follow. As she disappears into the deep corridor, I'm still graced. I follow after her, but when reaching the corridor, she's gone. It's a darkly cavernous, suffocating passageway, and when I call for her only my echo responds. I'm worried. Did something happen to her? She wouldn't just leave me. So I wait, left there alone. She never returns. I mildly feel comforted that if something did happen to her she would return to me upon its resolution.
As the space of my dream elapses, she never does. Until I see her taking instruction in class, unscathed, fine. And she just glances at me.
Whenever a dream I have has moments inside a house there's always undertones of recurrence, an understanding between me and my dreamworld that this house is a composite of all the houses that have found place in my memory's universe -- houses I've lived in, I've been in, stayed in, seen and that have blended and blurred into various incarnations to form location in the dreams my memory chooses to orchestrate for the night. And so it always feels like I've already been there.
It's beautiful, the memory within our infinite mind, and so grandly revealing to us within this universe. Our memories are always present -- not always remembered, but never forgotten, drifting in the vast, shapeless, perpetuating space of our mind. In a way, these are ours only. Memories, we as individuals, uniquely experienced. Yet, they are also touched and influenced by all, shared in creation and cultivation. So abstract and indirect, they may seem chaotic and random. But, at night in our dreams, they leave, return, disappear, reemerge, and ultimately come together to author a pattern, a story and song of sometimes overwhelming feeling and truth. As in life.
I am with two friends, a couple, lounging on an expansive white couch. The ceilings are high. The rich, velvety carpet like Pacific sand between toes. In the background are wide stairs with oak railing and a landing. Politely, my friends sitting across me are romancing, enjoying each other. While I slouch into the cushion, sadly content about being the lovelorn 3rd wheel. Watching them, there's a rebellion in me, as if they questioned my ability to love, dared that this is my fate, to be without.
Then she walks in. In waking life, a college crush. Someone I still see, albeit on occasion -- strange and somewhat stinging how you can be in such close quarters with a person, but be so distant from their warmth. She approaches, as I look to my friends. This, my moment of redemption, to prove my heart's lonesome demons wrong. She sits, finding her place beside me on the couch, her soft limbs close enough for her knee to brush mine. And I feel open, comfortable. the charming man I naturally am finds expression. And it's easy love, as she gets up and invites me back to her room. I boldly smile goodbye to my friends, inside secretly relieved.
We are outside, it's the porch of a cabin. The scene reminds me of my faint memories of 6th grade outdoor ed in Arrowhead, bordello moonlight and the afterglow of snowfall. We stand still walking, and emotions run rapid -- some spoken, which I can't recall, most emoted. I hint I love her, guarded but still honest. And she returns the sentiment. The revelation I see in her eyes, that shared intimation, washes over me like soul power. This is it. This is REAL.
As we continue on through the scenes, the silhouette stars and trees become streetlights and concrete. A dilapidated boutique appears, and we go in. It looks even worse inside, splintered and vandalized. But, cool collectibles are shown off on the shelves. She sees a corridor leading to another room, and heads in, looking back and beckoning me to follow. As she disappears into the deep corridor, I'm still graced. I follow after her, but when reaching the corridor, she's gone. It's a darkly cavernous, suffocating passageway, and when I call for her only my echo responds. I'm worried. Did something happen to her? She wouldn't just leave me. So I wait, left there alone. She never returns. I mildly feel comforted that if something did happen to her she would return to me upon its resolution.
As the space of my dream elapses, she never does. Until I see her taking instruction in class, unscathed, fine. And she just glances at me.
Friday, January 11, 2008
dream log: the train station
I had this dream somewhere around 2 years ago, so contextually I was at a different stage than now. But since it was written down, might as well post it.
It begins with me getting caught stealing. In this case, trivial DVDs from a display in some bootleg LA electronics store. A female employee, Mexican, sees me, I get nervous and to cover my malpractice, I approach her, "I found these on the ground." I hand them to her, as she stares skeptically. I tell her I want to look at some camcorders, but she leaves. I know she's leaving to tell a superior about it. I panic inside, desperately trying to stay face. The manager walks over, and I can already sense he doesn't believe me either. I keep repeating my alibi, "I found them on the ground. This is ridiculous. I just wanna buy a video camera." The woman leaves to check the surveillance footage, and I know this is it. So, I confess honestly to the manager, "Look, I did take a couple DVDs from the display. I just wanted to burn Entourage." He smiles, "It's not a big deal. Let's go tell her."
We go down an elevator, exiting and passing through a dark, damp hotel room. A Mexican kid near my age rushes up, and starts badgering the man. I'm not sure about what. But I feel threatened by him. He might distract the manager, and this predicament won't get cleared up. The kid leaves. We continue into another room, even darker than the one before. A woman is having sex, only the dim glow of television images sheds any light. The surroundings change, becoming smaller and more claustrophobic. My eyes race trying to establish a sense of space. It's a squalid, dank bathroom, the types you see in Asian horror cinema. The woman having sex becomes an attractive, but disfigured Japanese girl. The manager looks to me, "do you want to have her?" And all his virtue disappears. I attempt to barter with him, saying I'll work 3 hours for him, scared of his possible underground operations and what he might do. Suddenly, we both sense an impending danger and the setting transmorphs into an elementary school that resembled one I went to. A masked man, unnervingly void of emotion, emerges and pursues us down the hall through the puzzle-like administration offices. Somewhere as I run for cover, sanctuary, my little brother appears, and I swoop him up, and keep running. He's heavy, but I would never leave him behind.
We soon make it to this terminal, a train station. We catch our breaths, a moment of peace. The people here seem unaware that anything has happened. But, we still have a sense that we're not completely safe yet. A fortune teller, diagnostician, calls us over to read our fortunes. He chooses to read my brother's fortune first, gathering that there lies a strong presence within him. I ask him to read mine. He responds, "there is nothing." I'm unconvinced, a little wounded, "Are you sure? Last year I was something." He looks again, and a curios glimmer strokes his eyes, "You are the Mingus." I'm confused what he means by this. He's not sure himself. I ask him what my brother and I are together. But, before he can answer, screams burst out, everyone scattering for their lives. Another creature coming to hunt us down. This one more vicious. We run until we find a room. This one with people sitting inside. It has an aura of homeliness. We barely make it in, squeezing through the fast-closing door. It feels safe here. the lock on the door seems strong, solid. As we enter, I feel an undeniable attraction overcome me, this celestial woman drawing me toward her. She is the Mother of these survivors, their guide. I sit down beside her and she talks to me, perhaps recognizing the spiritual strength I carry. The entire conversation is expressed, emoted, not articulated. I tell her about my transformation from aggressive to sensitive. Still bothered by my fortune I confide, "I don't understand how my little brother may possess more power than me, he's part of the Internet generation." She touches my soul with her eyes, smiling. Comfortingly as possible, she says, "the future may not be how you want it to be." I respond, stubbornly, arrogantly, yet also understanding this possibility, "then I'll make it be." She looks deeper into my eyes, protectively, "if you hold on too tightly to this ideal future, your walls will fall down." I tell her I'm willing to die alone. I'm willing to sacrifice that if its necessary. She strokes me, and the sincerity of her touch soothes all my feelings of anxiety and frustration. My tears, repressed for so long, all cathartically released. She embraces me, and in that moment I feel like I'm cared for, someone understands my torture, my loneliness, and that I am only a child trying to be a man. She kisses me with motherly caress, peering into me like she's never seen so much of this in a single entity - it's a moment of unrequited attraction, love.
It begins with me getting caught stealing. In this case, trivial DVDs from a display in some bootleg LA electronics store. A female employee, Mexican, sees me, I get nervous and to cover my malpractice, I approach her, "I found these on the ground." I hand them to her, as she stares skeptically. I tell her I want to look at some camcorders, but she leaves. I know she's leaving to tell a superior about it. I panic inside, desperately trying to stay face. The manager walks over, and I can already sense he doesn't believe me either. I keep repeating my alibi, "I found them on the ground. This is ridiculous. I just wanna buy a video camera." The woman leaves to check the surveillance footage, and I know this is it. So, I confess honestly to the manager, "Look, I did take a couple DVDs from the display. I just wanted to burn Entourage." He smiles, "It's not a big deal. Let's go tell her."
We go down an elevator, exiting and passing through a dark, damp hotel room. A Mexican kid near my age rushes up, and starts badgering the man. I'm not sure about what. But I feel threatened by him. He might distract the manager, and this predicament won't get cleared up. The kid leaves. We continue into another room, even darker than the one before. A woman is having sex, only the dim glow of television images sheds any light. The surroundings change, becoming smaller and more claustrophobic. My eyes race trying to establish a sense of space. It's a squalid, dank bathroom, the types you see in Asian horror cinema. The woman having sex becomes an attractive, but disfigured Japanese girl. The manager looks to me, "do you want to have her?" And all his virtue disappears. I attempt to barter with him, saying I'll work 3 hours for him, scared of his possible underground operations and what he might do. Suddenly, we both sense an impending danger and the setting transmorphs into an elementary school that resembled one I went to. A masked man, unnervingly void of emotion, emerges and pursues us down the hall through the puzzle-like administration offices. Somewhere as I run for cover, sanctuary, my little brother appears, and I swoop him up, and keep running. He's heavy, but I would never leave him behind.
We soon make it to this terminal, a train station. We catch our breaths, a moment of peace. The people here seem unaware that anything has happened. But, we still have a sense that we're not completely safe yet. A fortune teller, diagnostician, calls us over to read our fortunes. He chooses to read my brother's fortune first, gathering that there lies a strong presence within him. I ask him to read mine. He responds, "there is nothing." I'm unconvinced, a little wounded, "Are you sure? Last year I was something." He looks again, and a curios glimmer strokes his eyes, "You are the Mingus." I'm confused what he means by this. He's not sure himself. I ask him what my brother and I are together. But, before he can answer, screams burst out, everyone scattering for their lives. Another creature coming to hunt us down. This one more vicious. We run until we find a room. This one with people sitting inside. It has an aura of homeliness. We barely make it in, squeezing through the fast-closing door. It feels safe here. the lock on the door seems strong, solid. As we enter, I feel an undeniable attraction overcome me, this celestial woman drawing me toward her. She is the Mother of these survivors, their guide. I sit down beside her and she talks to me, perhaps recognizing the spiritual strength I carry. The entire conversation is expressed, emoted, not articulated. I tell her about my transformation from aggressive to sensitive. Still bothered by my fortune I confide, "I don't understand how my little brother may possess more power than me, he's part of the Internet generation." She touches my soul with her eyes, smiling. Comfortingly as possible, she says, "the future may not be how you want it to be." I respond, stubbornly, arrogantly, yet also understanding this possibility, "then I'll make it be." She looks deeper into my eyes, protectively, "if you hold on too tightly to this ideal future, your walls will fall down." I tell her I'm willing to die alone. I'm willing to sacrifice that if its necessary. She strokes me, and the sincerity of her touch soothes all my feelings of anxiety and frustration. My tears, repressed for so long, all cathartically released. She embraces me, and in that moment I feel like I'm cared for, someone understands my torture, my loneliness, and that I am only a child trying to be a man. She kisses me with motherly caress, peering into me like she's never seen so much of this in a single entity - it's a moment of unrequited attraction, love.
dream log: living memory
Strange, my most engrossing dreams come after retransmission - when I awake momentarily, but decide to reenter the dream state. I remember those. Probably because their still fresh in mind.
The realm of dreams is an indulgence I'm uncertain I need to bridle. I love living under the sheets. But the dreamworld keeps me too long, and it seduces hours from the real, waking life - a place where change needs me.
Most of my dreams channel 2 emotional narratives: romantic heartbreak and the disturbing macabre. Outside of a few very revelatory dreams, I'm not sure what dreams of mine are recurring. They all seem to posses pieces and elements and variate only slightly, all sharing the same root. Originality is an illusion in reality, so why not so in dreams where truth is more honest?
The world of my dreams has been existentialized for some time. The process of my dreams is cinematic in every sense. I am the auteur of my dreams, always having one foot in the experience and the other observing it. I am always conscious that I am in my dream's story - simultaneously, the puppet and the puppeteer. I'm not sure if it's always been that way, but I only vaguely remember when it wasn't, and I'm not sure even then if it wasn't, maybe just less so. I've gained an understanding of my dreams to influence them, manipulate them, but I don't actively try to. Surrendering to your dreams is just more interesting.
From an early age, I was plagued by very intense nightmares, night terrors. But, I don't recall the last one I've had. I no longer have them. The nearest thing to nightmares I have now are the ones where I lose my vision or hearing. Those ones so visceral and terribly affecting. But most of the dreams leaning toward the macabre I take on with an excited sense of adventure. These dreams usually typified by a binding theme: us as metaphorical vampire/zombie - insatiably lusting. On some, very rare occasions, however, the moments in the dream become a little too eerie, a little to ominously intense for me, and I decide to leave it, abort. I had one of those dreams this morning.
It's a difficult task to articulate certain dreams thoroughly. They live in such a carnivalesque world of reason. A world where the rhetorical carries less sway, and space-time has not been labeled. But I'll give it a go.
I'm living in some quaint, rural place. Stepping out onto the driveway of my one-story, brown-tiled, 60s-style house, I can see the mountain range in the distance. I feel younger, teenaged. The evening is fleeting into night, and a thick, almost paranormal, layer of mist begins to envelope the surrounding area. That same kind of blanketing mist as you might encounter on those certain late winter night drives home in Orange County. I enjoy those drives. They make the city-suburbs seem so mysteriously venturous, like the concrete hasn't quite sucked all the magic from the world yet. Then, the night becomes day, or rather, just is. And the mist has retreated back to the distant mountain range, but again making its descent toward us. I fixate on this picturesque view of the mist and the mountains. This image seeming so overglossed, the colors popping so baroquely like 60s musicals. It seemed so Frank Darabont a la his recent adaptation of Stephen King's The Mist (which I've only seen trailers of) - so overproduced and overstated. Intriguing how fractions of your waking life integrate into your dreamworld, even the most insignificant things. Every brushing piece a detail that develops your life vignette.
As I watch the mist maneuvering and descending closer, I can't turn away this distinct feeling that something is wrong, that that mist signifies something threatening. My dad, who's working on a domestic project in the garage (which is one of those old-school pull-out garages), is oblivious. I express to him this unsettling feeling I'm having, "this feels off, this feels like a Stephen King movie." His reaction gets lost in the dream's shuffle. Probably because he was apathetic about my cautionings. To transition into the interior house, the dream takes a break from the building suspense, and revisits one of my most constant dream-state sub-narratives:
I'm in bed, having a dream within my dream. In this "hyperdream", which ensuingly becomes the dream I make a overwhelmingly profound connection with a brunette-haired girl. But, this dream doesn't feel imagined or manifested. It feels as if this girl and this moment when I met her was a memory forgotten and now reclaimed and remembered. It feels that way, but I'm uncertain which is the case. When I wake from this hyperdream, I am still unsure in my dream if this girl really exists or is only a manifestation of my dreamworld. But, it feels so genuine and palpable not to be real. I try calling my friend, Nathan, to confirm if this event, this moment happened. But I can't get a hold of him. I try dialing several times with no luck. Finally I do, and he confirms her existence as a person, that she is not merely a beautiful concept that I drew up. I feel a refreshing relief hearing this reaffirmation. Then, I wake up.
I wake up, and inevitably I feel the letdown, as it's not the case. She's not yet a part of my life, a part of me. Yet, if the human mind can conceive it, then that is proof of its possibility.
"Man is a tiny replica of the Universe. If two things are naturally associated together in the human mind, which is the image of the 'mind' of the Universe, this is evidence of a real connection between the two things in the Universe."
-Cavendish '67, The Black Arts
So, I reenter my dreamworld, seeing if I can continue the dream, milk it a little more. I am in the house. Nathan is with me, and we are talking about that girl, that moment. At the same time, I am getting more and more uneasy about that unsettling feeling I had earlier. I go around the house making sure all the windows are shut and secure. I beckon my dad to close all the gates that hedge our house. He ignores the request. The texture of my dream's images becomes more bleak, more saturated. My mom is introduced to the dream, running around in a foul mood, trying to straighten up the house. Except, my aunt has substituted in the dream for my mom - an aunt I find too caught up in the cogs of The Machine. Her eyebrows overly-shaped and plucked to clown-like proportion. I try to warn her of the impending threat, but she's too busy making sure everything looks nice. Nathan and I here the scurry of 2 strangers in one of the rooms, and in our startled haste somehow a large ceiling bulb falls and shatters. My mom gets more angry. The strangers turn out to be 2 adolescent White girls, who are there and gone from the dream in a glimpse. This is the only symbolic confusion I have about this dream, what was their purpose? The tone continues to intensify, correlating with my mom's malcontent with the condition of the house. Pillow cases and blankets are eerily configured on the sofa by unknown hands. This spooks me, poltergeist-style. My mom sees this mess and becomes, not disturbed, but more irritated, "Where's your father? Why don't you ever blame anything on him?" There's 4 pictures magnetized on the fridge. One of me, my mom, and my dad. The fourth of a celebrity. She throws a dart at my dad's picture. I contest, "we're only supposed to throw those at the celebrities, not each other." She asks for my father. Another pillow heap has appeared on the sofa. She tosses it all aside. My dad, who has transformed into Iggy Pop, lies there. The space-time of the dream begins warping into a slow, drunken-like pace. Celebrities begin appearing around the house. Their faces and skin decaying and the soul behind their eyes vacant. They inescapably surround us. Hannah Montana circles me, looking like she was buried alive and has risen from her grave. I ask her name, and without life she mutters back, "Hannah Montana." This is when I decide to get the fuck out.
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