6.xii.2013
I just woke up from the first nightmare I've had in about five to eight years. It was terrible, and though I do not remember it vividly I do believe I have enough here to recount the tale.
I begin in our house, or maybe someone else's. It was dark, but dark not because of anything mystical, but because it was night; I could see the faint light of the streetlamps outside stream in small yellow dots through the gaps between the windows' curtains. The floors were made of a jungle wood pattern parquet, of the same pattern as that of our house's. The room had shelves, cabinets, wood, wood pillars, paint; it looked like our house, yet it reminded me more of the dream of the redhead, my most cherished dream. That's something else
I don't think I can continue. I'm just... I don't know.
After that darkness I felt like I was looking for something, a book in a pile of paper trash. A Bible? A copy of Anne?
I was rushing. I needed to find it.
I found it, but couldn't take it.
And he was behind me.
Kafka's metamorphosis.
Next thing I knew, I woke up. "It was only a dream", I thought to myself. Then realizing that the darkness was still there (my tangible room's light was open at the time) I realized I was still in the dream. In retrospect I think the door
And so I awoke. And yet still darkness.
And again.
And again.
Each a memory too, a memory of me waking up from a nightmare. The nightmare of nightmares.
Until at last, the light broke through. But no. I was only screaming, screaming, with my hands flailing unnaturally in front of me. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. Yet where was I getting the air to scream?
I woke up.
Light. My hands were bound by my fear to my sides. My chest was in pain from the heavy breathing. I wasn't screaming, just hyperventilating in my sleep. I was awake, truly awake. I didn't want to fall asleep again, so I moved, sat up. Realized I was trembling. Trembling. Trembling.
First thing I did: remove the memories. I couldn't, of course; I just drowned them out with music. Calming enough, and yet energetic enough to keep me from sleeping. Here's where's Bjork becomes practical. I opened up my copy of Biophilia, put on my earphones, played the first song.
I was still trembling. I went to the computer. Talk to friends. Not awake; of course, it's fucking midnight.
Get the things I was looking for? What was I looking for?
A Bible. Anne. I take them; I placed them under my bed a few hours before sleeping. I pray, and cry, without a sound, without tears.
I go here. I write. Now I shall read.
And hopefully not fall asleep.
25.iii.2014
Though not really a nightmare, this dream is quite important to me atm, considering my current circumstances.
I had a dream. I was in a car. I was sixteen. I was driving the car, and I had not a driver's license. I was nervous; I didn't really know how to drive, and I didn't want to get caught. I wanted a meal. Or maybe my family did; I don't remember. But yes, I was driving the car to get food. Food from a McDonald's.
The car was my mother's, too. I believe we had some sort of fight the afternoon before that sleep, so I'm supposing the car's identity was somewhat linked to that. When I reached the McDonald's, I parked the car, exited the car, then went to the restaurant. The people I passed by were... looking at me.
It was nighttime, and the moon shone brightly.
I entered the McDonald's. Apparently, the people there thought I was 22. When I woke up from that dream, I realized that I was the only one who saw myself as 16; everyone else saw me as a 22-year-old-me.
At the counter was my lady love, or not. I don't really know if she was my lady love, but strong feelings were evoked in me when she told me she loved someone else. Anyway, I saw her as a 16-year-old, but like me, everyone else saw her as a 22-year-old. We talked to each other.
We were surprised to meet each other there. I asked her about her life. She said she was happy. I looked at her, at her belongings, at her surroundings. Her face gave a general look of contentment, but I somehow felt that she was... well, trapped. The part in me which mocked everyone discreetly mocked her as one of the little people.
Then she asked me about mine. I don't know what I answered, but I answered something. My insides, though, felt trapped, and I believe my face showed that then.
Then came her love. He was a man, 22 both in my vision and in others', and he seemed like a loser. He looked like a poor nerd, knowledgeable in many things but unable to apply them to anything. He wasn't fat, though, and he seemed quite creative a thinker. Now she'd described to me the boy before (in real life, that is), and then I didn't imagine him to look like such. Anyway, the part in me which mocked everyone thought he looked like a real hipster-ish, Greenwich-gentrification-agent loser. The rest of me felt... jealous.
She told me he and she were married. He told her he had a gift for her: it was a cheap little date at some cheap little place. She gleefully asked for leave then left. I took my order.
I returned to the car. I opened up the meal and ate it, while watching her and her hubby take off in a delivery bike. I looked jealous, and once again I felt trapped. Then my whole body started feeling like crap: I suddenly found myself fat, aged, and locked in a couch, doing nothing. I felt like nothing. Then I disappeared, and awoke.
10.v.2014
Not a nightmare, but I think I'll start using this title for every dream-entry I make.
Imagine a world where the last 10-15 seasons of the Simpsons never existed. Where Maude's death actually got the treatment it deserved, and Ned never really became the wacky side-show he was in the latter 15 seasons. Well, such a world was where I was transported: it was, what, 20, maybe thirty years after the "regular" timeline of the season? Ned was an old man, and his two sons were no longer the boys they were, with each son having a son and a family of its own. Ned still remained faithful and grateful to his Lord, even though he was lonelier than ever: now his life mostly consisted of prayerful thought, long devotions, glimpses into the realm of the inevitable macabre, and the occasional bout of the funnies.
In one of these gray-days of his, something really weird happens to him: a flash of light blinds him, and he suddenly sees Maude Flanders descend from the heavens, and becoming a proper, living companion for himself. Maude isn't used to being a person again, hence the source of the funnies of this "episode": yet another source is Ned in his immaculate joy that Maude has returned. He asks his Maude about heaven, the afterlife, and all the things one would expect him to ask if he were to die: Maude at first answers with perfect clarity, but soon starts to forget everything she experienced on high, including the reason for why she even came to earth. Ned, however, doesn't seem to see anything wrong with what's going on with Maude's memory, and he just decides to enjoy his remaining time on Earth with Maude.
At one point of the episode, after some minor crisis with Maude that I don't really remember (perhaps Ned notices that no one else is seeing Maude?), Ned decides to consult the local reverend (No longer Lovejoy, who by this episode is dead) about his current predicament: the reverend, instead of giving a straight answer, gives Ned only answers about hope, comfort, and joy. Ned is confused and conflicted: he doesn't know what he's gonna do with Maude after the crisis. However, at one date with his beloved (a private date, too, at the comfort of one of his sons' houses), Maude suddenly becomes all weird, asking Ned weird things about his life on Earth, his current satisfaction, and ultimately his faith's own process and definition. Ned is startled: at first the answers he gives are long, senseless, and confusing; but as the interrogation draws on Ned's answers become clearer, and at the end, when he's asked to define his faith, he gives a solid answer. Suddenly, a flash of light consumes Maude, and she pulls Ned out from his chair, into the grand light of the skies. Some pop song about transcendence to heaven and death plays, and the episode ends. I wake up.
But as I wake up, a little epilogue: a short, rather macabre scene is shown (reminiscent of The Godfather) wherein one of Rod's (or Todd's) sons comes up to his grandfather (who is, at this point, slouching on his chair, eyes closed as if he were asleep) and asks him for something. "Ned" doesn't reply.
23.v.2014
I see a piece of wood floating in front of me, and it is flowing from my pelvis. It is hard, yet it flows like resin; it is sticky, yet it is as dry as the cold rain. I want to kiss it, I need to kiss it, to put it against my lips or the lips of any other, to have it enter and exit and enter and exit like a train on a long journey in the mountains, to make it explode.
My eyes are open now. I see an odd house, stone and brick and wood and steel and glass, covered in the snowy pylons of eternal sunshine spitting lichen bulbs, a house of wonder, of Harry Potter and Jane Austen and all things British, of ivory skin clothed in an ebony raiment, a house of Israel and his God (yet it is a godless house). I knock on its door, I am answered by her mother, her mother kisses me on the cheek, I shake her coldly by the tongue, I greet her with the palms of my vaginas, and she lets me come inside. My intent is blood and milk and wine. She does not see me, and I do not see her.
She is the daughter of chickens and glasses and an odd camping trip. She is a rumor-spreader, a gossipmongerer: she comes in and tells me that there are two pairs of free lips in the house, one of age and one very young (yet only less than a year younger than me), that I if I am dutiful in the hunt may be freed by. She is wearing thick-rimmed glasses and her hair is in a pony-tail, so I know she means well and true, even if she is ugly and unappealing to my enlightened spirit, which seeks the feces in every woman's mouth. She passes through me, then she goes out the window, like a slithering snake, or a ray of light. And yet she walks out the door, and acts like she was a guest, being courteous to the Mother, and thanking her (in a perplexingly un-English voice) for the sconerdoodles (for she was a guest); then she rubs her feet on the little carpet, and walks out the door, offstage-right: the lights are pointed at her, and now to me.
She is Norman Bates's teacher, and she teaches me to follow her daughters, the twin delights of the oak tree. And like the predator that I am, I follow them, and I ride in their car (without a ticket to ride), and I follow them into their new home, and I learn with them, and I learn of them. The older Galatea acts like a true palindrome, as when I tell her of her charms she rebuffs me, and more things happen, all of which are (however funny) alike and unneeded, with everything being, needless to say, a guide to my mind being near-blowing, being frustrated in her efforts to push the ideas of Pushkin and Kirkegaard out of the door. And I return home defeated!
But the snake comes again, and tells me that the older queen is a prude, and that the younger one can make my day. I rub carefully in the morning, and, following her to her room, I attempt to tempt her into opening her honey-jar, her honeyed car, the life vest to sanctity as defined by Mother Theresa. She rebuffs me: and I am scared because they say she is sick, that she is the Mother of the Red Babylonkinder, that she could very well be a host to those odd yellow pustules that develop on your chest when you are locked in a bad neighborhood in New York. She reeks of reek and muck, of dreams both broken and reached, of that odd tree which I have been looking for for so long (that tree with a pineal bark), of that glass of champagne called Lysurgic Acid: she is filled with stress, she is a kindred spirit? She opens up her breasts, she doesn't talk, yet she talks and teases me: I am no longer with the redhead now.
I am no longer with my red-haired lover now, but she is not dead. Just... dreaming. But I cannot dream with her anymore?
I tease her back, then I seduce her as she seduces me. I open my fly, I put them into her lips, she kisses and sucks as I thrust and blow, yet that is when I am awake, as the inevitable sex scene in Interior: E.F.'s room ends up being in a missing reel, in a reel rotted over or dissolved or stolen by my prudent, prudent, fucking prudent mind. Prudent mind. I miss her.
I do not know what she means, nor why Maleficent's prey was even there. Was it something being transmitted to me by God and the astral world? A channel between me and Missde? I do not know, I want to know, I was not thinking of her weeks and so on before the dream, why, why, why? What is wrong with me, what is right with me, what is right with her and with the world, what is wrong with you, kiss me and finish me!? I sigh, then I collapse in sour slumber.
23.v.2014
Like butter!
Anyways, here is the straightforward description of the dream (by the way, this was a dream I had last Monday, on the night right after a two day camping trip I was in with a few friends):
I feel a little tingling on my groin. I feel, though still deep in the heartland of sleep, my sausage cook into stone (that's not straightforward, but I think the metaphor is obvious). I then explode into darkness (literally) and wake up outside a house that looks like one of those small English apartments.
I knock on the door, and the house's keeper lets me in. She's the mother of the two girls I was apparently visiting. Inside is a camping buddy of mine, who tells me that I can seduce anyone of the girls without much rancor. Then this buddy of mine, apparently a guest to the house, leaves, but not before telling me that the younger of the two girls is more promiscuous than the older one.
Both girls go to school. I follow them. Apparently, I go to the same school as them. (Note that the older girl is much older than me, possibly in her twenties? and that the younger girl is only one year younger than me, so this isn't at all a pedophilic thing) A bunch of sexually frustrating things happen, and I fail to seduce the older girl. The three of us go back to their home.
The mother, oddly enough, encourages me to continue my seduction, reminding me of the younger one's promiscuity. I am scared of seducing the one closer to my age, though, as she may be so promiscuous as to be diseased. Apparently, she also uses drugs, but I think that detail's part of my current fantasy to try out Dimethyltryptamine (just a fantasy, though, done nothing illegal yet).
But I am dicktated by my masculinity to go to her, so I do so: I knock on her room upstairs, and she lets me in. Now this is the really weird part: by this point, I've only noticed the faces of my camping buddy and the mother (I remember her to literally look like Norman Bates's teacher in season 1 of Bates Motel, whatshername). It's weird because at this point I see her face, and realize that these two girls were, eherm, well if you're reading this just ask me about it later. They're rather popular, though, and there are a few hints to their identity in the original post.
She seems sick. At the time, I am sick, so we feel a certain kinship at once: this sickness, by the way, is both physical (allergies, and I've still got it today. As for her illness, I think she looked rather, I dunno, sleep deprived and crashed-from-one-hell-of-a high) and psychological (stress about our futures: she's not sure if she's happy with her current career, I'm not sure if I'm going with the career I'm going to college for). But we ignore each other's diseases and get straight on to my point. I try to seduce her, I fail, she teases me, and I count my seduction as a success. I go to her, she lies down, she unbuttons her shirt, I open up my pants, I reveal to her my unusually large trunk, and
The dream fades to black. EXTREME DISAPPOINTMENT IN MY PART. And also extreme puzzlement. Why this dream? Why her? And most importantly, why her? I wasn't even thinking of her, or anything related to her, at the time... Why the fuck would I nigh-wet dream of her?
27.vi.2014
Because, dammit, I forgot number 6.
Number 5: I am a nearly naked character from a television series, walking around a nuclear power plant, questioning whether I want to continue my life as a working mother or to start a new one as my true passion, a full-on artist. I see her, who oddly enough is in the form of Jennifer Lawrence dressed up in something that reminds me of Russia (although, oddly enough, she is also, in a sense, near-naked), and she looks at me. The dream morphs into number 6.
Number 6: Expletive expletive expletive expletive expletive
Number 7: I am now myself again, and I am living in some sort of dormitory in Brazil. Apparently, I have been in contact with the red-haired woman for a long time, and I have been for quite some time musing to my friends as to how deep our relationship is, and as to how we plan on meeting later. To the meeting, we (by either chance, malice, or mere folly) drag our friends along, and it is in a place I was once familiar with but is now lost to me. There, she moves onto a podium, and we see each other: she looks, to me, quite....inadequate, and I dismiss my romantic notions upon her immediately. But she beats me to the action, and in fact publishes her imediate dislike of my face to the world; I am at first quite shock, then in the end a mixture of anger, humility, romance, and utter embarrassment fill me, which I am not able to really let roam due to the dream's end.
I treat number 7 as either the immediate prelude to or another interpretation of my dream of the red-haired woman, a dream somewhat described in my poem "A Trip in your Library", found in my poetry thread in this very forum. I have (rather incompletely, though, especially because of number 6's disappearance) interpreted these dreams already, although my interpretation may somewhat affect yours in a negative way, so I shall not disclose it; and I consider these dreams as prophecy.
7.ix.2014
I dreamed of her again. I dreamed of her and another woman. The other woman I took out to some sort of date. Nothing happened. She was in white and blue.
Her, I took to the same kind of adventure, though we journeyed more thrillingly. First we ate at a small cafe, filled with Rorshachian art and doozying architecture. Then we journeyed through the evening streets of the city, passing by streets filled with menacing villains and the churches of high-heretics. Eventually, we ended up at Disneyland in a stormy midnight, wherein we managed to bribe a few guards into allowing us passage and enjoyment in the dark. It was all evening. She was in yellow again.
Then I dreamed of an odd convent, wherein I was greeted by three crones, familiar faces seeking to croon a nearby faceless man.
And finally, I dreamed of myself, eating and eating until my mouth was stuffed with rotten horror.
11.ix.2014
The dream begins to fade. The orbs of seawater locked at the corner of my eyes try to revive it, to bring it to life once more, at least for this final recollection.
I see her again, and I weep, for I can feel how distant the two of us have been parted. As she is a woman east of the Atlantic, I am a man of modern America; yet we are both in the same continent, same province, same city, house, chamber, in fact. She is the host to a gathering of the parliament she is a part of, and I am one of her guests.
I am rifled with a machine gun cartridge's worth of questions, and, in an effort to impress her innate Francophile, I respond in French. By the hand of some divine power, my faculties in the language seem expanded into perfection, and all my answers are found worthy. Two glints of her silver soul shine from the edges of her eyes, and, catching them, my vision clouds the party with an azure blanket.
I find myself in blue enchantment, as the said glints slowly consume the entirety of my sight; she approaches me, and soon our whole selves face each other. I can feel her hands cut through the cold air separating the two of us, and gently caress my own. Passion erupts into a frenzied tirade of confessions and condemnations.
I remember asking her, with a rhythm that beat with the heart of the speaker, a multitude of whys. "Why did you leave me behind? Why could you not see...? Why did you give yourself away?" My song was loud, but the way by which it rushed out of my throat was clear in its wholehearted love.
She, however, shrank and shrank away, until the chamber was blackened, and I was left alone. My voice grew into a whisper, as I realized the effect of my failed temper. Oh, if only this boldness was a boldness I had achieved earlier, when the moonlight was clear, when the breezes were free, and when the evening was filled with joy! If only I had touched her, let the electricity flow from my veins into hers, and showed her my truth, then she would have seen what I meant, and, perhaps, have been enlightened! The mind thus wandered: but what if, even without this 'enlightenment', the truth of her matter was that she did not burn as I did? Then, thought I to myself, she would have taken ill to my action, my purpose - alas, what if my secrecy had not been as complete as I had perceived it to be, and she did know my intent, and chose to withdraw herself only to break my heart without lifting a finger?
Ah, but I returned to my point - still was I a coward, still did I not do what I could have done, still did I not take the chance, the opportunity perhaps provided me by Providence! I stirred, an entrapped beast caught in the desperation of survival, until the light of the dawn broke into my countenance, and I was awakened. The dream was over.
Still, my mind pondered - what romance I have lost, I have lost by my own hand. But then, other issues arose, those of prudence, of responsibility, of the patience so sorely needed by the fellows of my generation; ah, but my meditations were not parts of my nocturnal fantasy, and this tale comes to a close.
The dream has truly faded. But the wispy crooks rolling down my cheeks are tears of joy, as the vision is set in stone.
14.ix.2014
Deep in the heart of the night, the carnival of madness rises, gathering information from the farthest of sources to promote 'security' in our realm. I am one of them, the paper-workers, the net-holder, the spies; and in one of our occasions, news of a supposedly impending villainous attack eats at my confidence. I gather the tools to assuage my fear, by fully figuring out the extent of the possible damage, and discovering whether or not the attack is arriving at all: in my pack, I remember, rests paper, writing materials, a few good books, and, most importantly, a map.
I conspire with no one, but many a man, most of whom are friends both long, long gone, or oh so very close yet never actually met, discover my purpose. They all provide their support, while at the same time providing me with a few clues as to both my purposes. I learn (or re-learn) about a massive bunker just below the carnival, in which all the major operations are committed - and, with a fear I couldn't really understand, I decided to hunt down one of the passageways to this bunker, and see if it is in any real danger.
The location of the one gate I find, out of three, is rather strange: a bank full of people. To open the gate therein, said a nearby clerk, I had to drive most of the people out, darken the room, close the shades, then pull something to fully sail downward. Somehow, the same scene reminds me of an earlier dream I had, wherein I was running away in some parking lot.
I do not succeed in the first requirement, but the clerk, reiterating that the people within need only forget, decides to allow me passage anyway. No one notices, though I sense from afar not brooding eyes but sinister hands preparing for an assault.
Down into the earth I go, and as the opening half of the Le Marseillaise plays as the chamber's muzak, I realize that the impossible girth, depth, construction, and secrecy of the passageway renders it impossible to break. When I reach the bottom, a large dome-like environment filled with pastoral life (quite literally, as the area is covered in woods, and from afar I see and hear some people playing with horses), a few of my friends approach me, telling me that the attacks, though they still commenced, were absolutely unsuccessful in their purpose. My fears assuaged, I decided to tie up my shoes, then run up to the horses to play with them. But my laces seemed stuck, and a nearby foal seemed keen in laughing at my failures.
I thought that you would love this new-found home.
Another dream is somehow simpler: by some circumstance, I went swimming in the sea. When I got out, I needed a bath, so I went to the family trailer (which seemed much bigger on the inside, and had, in certain areas, multiple open roofs), opened up a tub, and washed the sea away. Somehow, earlier dreams of the sea fit into the mess, as I realized that the beach I rested in was the very same beach in earlier nachtmahrs. My father told me to hasten, as he wanted to do something more active - the rest of the family, noting that without rest, no one could really find enjoyment, did not stir.
2.x.2014
Do not forsake me, oh my darling...
She is someone I know, and that I have seen on the television. I--I too seem to have changed, though I cannot tell as to whom.
I am in a western. I am a smooth rider, with a gun and a blade and a pack and some gum and a horse. I join a posse of bandits, and after killing a few folks in our way (including some of our own), we decide to gather up cacti. In one of our cactus-runs, I run away; I get shot at, but ultimately, I escape unharmed.
I go to a farm. She is there. I work for her for a long while. Then I propose marriage to her with a plate of metal (which I announce as her ring, once cast by a skilled enough smith). She accepts. On the day of our wedding, as I walk into the chapel, and, oddly enough, she waits for me on the other end, I wake up. Longing now fills my heart, as I wish to return to her arms, and give her peace...
I can see her eyes. They are green. She is waiting for me.
26.iii.2016
Dreamed I was emotionally/socially naked in school (related to a problem I will not tell), then got whisked away to a weird mall.
Second one, started out somewhat same, then I was further whisked away to an Orthodox psychiatrist, whose room was filled with icons (half Orthodox, half the same as my actual psychiatrist's room). He directed me to his assistant, told me he had something urgent to do with me, some discussion to be made somewhere else, and he left, I followed, got lost in the hospital-turned-labyrinth-turned-university-halls, got outside to a strange all-wet mid-air walkway in the middle of the campus, started walking down, never saw him or his car again. When I reached the ground, I was again whisked away, this time into the university halls proper, where a bunch of my Evangelical peeps were discussing the nature of Christian Peace: various answers, all of which left me dissatisfied, as they felt like they made God's kingdom a wholly material one, or they felt simply disconnected with reality (or perhaps my intellectual reality, as some of them were decidedly kinder or more experienced than me) -- I couldn't reply til' I woke up, bladder and colon all full. My reply went something like "Christian Peace is enduring what God sends you, whether good or bad, without regretting the past or anticipating the present, and always with remaining in faithful communion with God" -- and I realized it's been a week since I last continued my (self-imposed, since I haven't a guide in the Orthodoxy yet) prayer rule, and I started crying inside, while somewhat madly and half-consciously reciting the Jesus Prayer: "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, Have Mercy on me, a sinner". Then I stood up to pee, slept again later -- done.
