Off topic, sorry, but I have been having some really weird, really vivid dreams recently. The kind you wake up from going 'wtf?!:' or "NOOO! Get me back there!"
Dream the First:
I'm at my aunt's house, in the kitchen. My aunt's house is behind my grandmother's. (No, it isn't, but in the dream it was and I just knew it.) It's like three in the morning and I'm trying to be quiet b/c the last time I made holiday dinner in my grandma's kitchen inexplicably at midnight, it woke her up and she was angry. I'm making . . .who knows what, but it's a god awful mess, dishes teetering on the sink and counters. Food clings to spatulas, bowls-let's face it-floors. I keep cleaning as I go, but the mess never recedes. Not nightmare level mess, just constant irritation mess. I think I'm working on some sort of giant chocolate log. Like a sheet cake-sized Swiss Miss roll. Also other things, but I keep looking at the roll and not doing anything with it, so much as wondering why it's there. And then my aunt wakes up. "What are you doing here at 3am cooking?" Which is perfectly logical, and I feel totally logical in return, explaining about having woken grandma up last time. Why would I ever cook at my grandma's house, I think, when I have such better equipment in my own? A tiny wiggle of 'well then why am I cooking here?' sneaks in and vanishes. Regardless of my logic, I leave, backing out of my grandmothers' driveway. This driveway is the real deal, an exact replica in dreamland of the one I've backed out of a thousand times. This time, late into the dark, I keep backing all the way out of my lane and into the next and past the next and into the ditch. I can't seem to get the car out of reverse. Which of course is the cue for the policeman to roll up. My first thought is: "Hmmm, will I pass a breathalyzer?" quickly followed by, "Well, luck's run out then." Except that as the cop starts to ask me questions, I figure out that when I answered "have you been drinking tonight, ma'am?" with a "no," I'm not actually lying. I'm stone sober and dead tired. Before I know it, the cop and I are sitting on the hood of my car (which I do not allow) until pinky dawn shows up, talking about how being tired is worse than being drunk, & trading stories about the dumb things we've seen drivers do. Suddenly, I remember that I really, really don't like cops. Why on earth am I hanging out with this one? The truth of which, so starkly in contrast with what's going on, wakes me up instantly. But I'm laying there, super confused, for a lot longer. What the heck was that about? Froid? Anybody?
Dream the Second:
This one’s pretty hazy. I was in prison/jail/bootcamp, but not like normal, more like a fairytale version, or something from early SciFi. It was just girls, and everybody had to have a job to keep them occupied and my job was quilting. (Seriously, why? I’m the least crafty person ever. Can’t even cut paper straight.) There was a thimble on my forefinger, which I learned to wear the hard way because I kept getting cut and my finger was getting . . . let’s just say weird, because it was a dream and while I knew something was wrong with it, the what was unclear. Note that in real life I might have struggled to come up with ‘thimble’ had you asked me what protects seamstress’ hands, but in dreams the knowledge was complete and detailed down to tiny hammered dents in the surface that kept in from slipping off. It was a struggle to learn how to keep in on, and I still poked myself a lot. Eventually, I realized that every time I cut myself, I was dabbing it onto a square of cornflower blue muslin. (WHY with the details, WHY?) As this went on-my sense here is months, maybe years-the blood not only stayed fresh and red, it started to form a heart. The other prisoners started to have a well deserved wtf moment. Which is when I had the DREAM/MAGIC moment of clarity: the blood was how we were all going to escape. Every time I sacrificed my blood, the heart’s power grew. Eventually it would beat. and when it did, the walls would fall before us. But someone snitched to the Warden, as someones always do, and he was coming to destroy the quilt and then . . . and then my alarm went off. Fucking alarm. Snooze motherfucker. No use. Couldn’t get it back. Sooo, contest to finish the story?
Dream the Last:
A lot of things were going on. I’d wake up, go back to sleep, and almost be back in the moment. Where you think it’s the same, but there’s like zero connection points? But the end is what I will NEVER forget. It cuts from a girl whom I know isn’t me having an affair with a senator’s son, to a girl addressing the screen who also isn’t me. I say screen because it felt like a movie, not a dream. She’s blond and cute and perky and a little chubby. She’s got that adult-girl voice where it’s not fake, and every time they say ‘sex’ and ‘I’ve had’ in the same sentence you flinch, because in your head they’re like three. And she’s looking right at me and talking about her dad, who’s this oil tycoon or something, and behind her a la Fox News is a badly green screened video of her parents at some kind of charity gala, laughing and schmoozing. Daddy’s got the hat and the handlebar and the Dallas suit, mom’s a super-blond Texas style. She carries on “Of course then he had to realize that I was sleeping with his aid, and there was this weird smell, kind of like burning and kind of like something that’s been dead and out in the sun so long it’s mostly just a smear. And then I figured out what the smell was. It was the scent of moustache pee. Yeah.” She nods earnestly. Which of course woke me up. Because, well, MOUSTACHE PEE.
Seriously, where does this shit COME from? Thoughts? Theories? Spam?
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