Sunday, May 07, 2006

[I'll just say, right off, before I post this, that there is no reason for anyone to read the below. I'm just transcribing dreams.]

A long weekend...a tiring weekend. I had the most bizarre dreams last night. In one, I was in some sort of zany, "gen x" comedy (think Wedding Crashers) in which I was one of the rogueish protagonists, except what we trying to do wasn't seduce women under false premises or anything as simple as that...we were trying to cover up the fact that we had murdered one of our friends. (My actual friends in real life, some old ones to whom I haven't spoken in a long time, were co-starring in the dream.) We had poisoned him over a period of time with some sort of slow-acting poison that, in addition to killing him, caused the fingers of his hand to mutate and fuse together (I believe this detail about the hand is from Clive Barker's The Great and Secret Show, which I reread last week) and then we buried him in a swamp. At the end of the dream, somehow, his body showed up, mailed to someone near us (some authority figure) in a large crate. We were afraid, because the appearance of the corpse implicated us, we thought. But then there was a sort of cut to our friend's funeral, and we were the pallbearers, and we were whispering to each other - apparently because his hand had turned into a sort of lumpy tumor, everyone thought he had died of cancer, not of poison. The whole tone of the dream was as if we were just engaging in a sort of boys-will-be-boys mischief.

Then I woke up. It was six a.m. or so. I went back to sleep and had another dream.

In the second one, I was back home in Maryland near the Potomac River, and I was with someone who fell in and presumably died. But for some reason I wasn't supposed to be with that person, so I couldn't tell anyone that he/she had died. Then the police were investigating the disappearance as murder, and they were closing in. Then, somehow, we found the person still alive in the river, and the person was not a person but a small white flimsy bichon frise dog like my grandmother has, except so flimsy and small that it was almost a butterfly. And then, somehow, in the same dream, I was in a house that resembled my high school girlfriend's house, and I was watching a movie of something that was taking place elsewhere in the house: some asian gangsterish villains (like from, say, Hard Boiled) were besieged in a large room by their gun-toting assailants. They were waiting for the attack. But there were tanks of lobsters in the room. Suddenly, instead of a gunfire attack from outside, the lobsters began to explode as if someone had put grenades inside their bodies. The bodies would bulge and the shells would crack and lobster intestines would be suddenly floating around in the tanks.

That was it.

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