First... A moment of silence for Richard Pryor. Yep.
So. Here's my dream. I'm going off of notes I jotted to myself, misspelled shit that I tried to get down, so as not to forget, like I probably would have. This shit is so, so, so long... I apologize in advance, people.
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I'm in this huge, oversized, Victorian-style house. For some reason, I'm pretty sure it's my parents' house, even though, in real-life, the house they own is nothing at all like this. If you've seen "The House of Yes", there you go. It's sort of like that. I'm in my room upstairs. To get there, you would walk up the big staircase and cut a left. I'm looking out the window facing the backyard, even though I don't actually remember seeing anything out of the window. The window itself is shattered, with the broken jagged edges of glass just hanging there, held in place only by the pressure of the window frame, forming an odd, mouth-shaped gaping hole for whoever to look out of. I'm sitting on the floor next to the windowsill, and I have my legs curled up underneath me, like a little kid, and there's some man, someone I've never seen before in my life, who has a list of some kind, a neat little stack of papers in his hand. No words of any kind were exchanged, but I had the feeling that I owed him money for something, something to do with the list. Then he produces a box of some sort, with what looks like some sort of half-eaten birthday cake or possibly a fancy cheesecake, in the box, destroyed beyond any recognition.
There is trash and debris everywhere, cigarette butts on the floors. I'm walking around with no shoes and I step on everything. Even though I'm in this house, and it's obviously inhabited by someone other than me, I get the feeling you get when in some abandoned place, somewhere people have been squatting, leaving their shit all around, too lazy or unconcerned to notice. I try to open the window, or at least mess with it a bit, and the jagged fragments of glass fall to the ground. I see them breaking into tinier little shards as they fall down the side of the house, tumbling over and over in the air.
I go downstairs and everyone is there. My dad is standing at the front door, with the door wide open, just staring out into space, with a solemn look on his face. Very stereotypically stoic, in my opinion. I'm playing with my niece as I notice there's a strange man standing next to my dad, a man dressed in some sort of religious uniform, a bit like an Army chaplain almost. This man is carrying something that looks like a flagpole, or possibly a javelin or a spear, draped in yellow cloth and he's making as if to hurl it out the doorway into the front yard. I can't find my other niece for some reason, and look around for her, to see if she's hiding under the couch possibly. The man in the doorway launches the spear-thing into the air and it lands in the yard, standing straight up, it's tip driven completely into the grass. If I looked out the front windows, I could see that everything was underwater, not in a dam-breaking sense, but more as if it had rained and flooded everything. The kind of water that will go away in a few days. The "holy man" goes outside and, standing next to the spear/flagpole, begins to count his steps away from it, gradually turning left, and then left again, and then left again, until he's staked out a little square patch of soggy grass for himself.
I leave and go to some adjoining room, where there's a dog in it. I lay on a countertop sort of ledge, and the dog proceeds to bite into my leg. The dog does this in extreme slow-motion and I see it as every single one of its teeth pierces the pants I'm wearing, and then my leg, but I don't feel anything. All I notice is that the dog has thin, nearly transparent, needle sharp teeth, the kind that you see on deep-sea fishes. Like I said, I didn't feel anything. From out of nowhere, someone fires a shot and the dog falls dead to the floor. I'm looking around because I'm worried that if, in fact, someone had shot the dog, I'm worried that the bullet may have exited and hit me in the leg perhaps, but no. No bullets at all. No exit wounds. No pain in my leg. No blood from the dog. Just me, no shoes, no socks, an empty room, a dead dog, and trash and cigarette butts all over the floor.
Back of the house, to the far right. What appears to be a kitchen, but the ceilings are low. Looks as it this part of the house was made for "vertically-challenged" people. Restaurant-style sinks, old, rusty. Corroded pipes running down into the floorboards. Adjoining room. Lots of kitchen equipment, electric mixers, Foreman grills, egg beaters and such. Little door in the corner. Open the door into a smaller hallway. Door at the end of the hallway. Opens into a steep drop into the backyard, like opening a door onto the edge of a cliff. My mom is there with her hand on my shoulder, and the clotheslines outside look as if they're attached to telephone poles or felled tree trunks. Really big, really high.
I feel the need to leave. Driving away in my car. Don't know where I'm going at all. The roads seem to be getting smaller, the left lane, the oncoming lane disappears. The curbs seem to be closing in on me. I stop the car and get out. I'm standing next to a flat, low building. Lots of blue and white everywhere. Blood everywhere. Blood on the ground, on my feet, dripping from the trees. It's making my feet stick to the cold, hard concrete sidewalk. I'm watching people pull bodies out of what looks like a church van modified to be some sort of ambulance. There's bits of "meat" mixed with the blood on the ground now. It feels as if I'm walking in a field of hamburger, and I know somehow, that those "bits" probably used to be someone. My feet are really sticky and bits of grass and sand are sticking between my toes as I walk and watch the ambulance people. It's like I'm a ghost, they don't notice me at all. The bodies look fine, only with gigantic red spots under the white sheets that drip gooey puddles of blood, individual drops taking forever to fall, like molasses or little kid art and crafts glue. There's a big water/blood filled glass box/aquarium sort of thing there beside the building, and it's churning inside with snakes, or intestines, or worms, or something... Something long, thin, red, and squishy looking. The building, the facility looks about the size of your average auto garage, only (aside from the blood everywhere) is pristinely clean, inside and out...
There is a man in a wheelchair and someone is smashing him in the chest repeatedly with what looks to be a golf club with a rubberized tip. The man in the chair doesn't move, so the attacker increases the frequency and velocity, and still, nothing happens, so I assume he's dead and walk away.
Walk up the sidewalk a little ways, news crews, reporters. Cameras everywhere. The light reflecting off the oversized telephoto lenses makes my eyes hurt. I can overhear snippets of conversation/reportage here and there, about dual homicides. Dual suicides. Gunshots. Exit wounds. Two-inch wide exit holes. The people in the ambulance. Blood everywhere. I put two and two together and it makes sense to me at the time.
Someone's calling my name. I look around. Nothing. Traffic. People. Reporters and news vans and cameramen. My mom is there calling my name, all of a sudden, in traffic, directly in front of me. In her black Toyota Camry. Everyone in my immediate family is somehow able to fit inside. I get in. They ask if I've heard the news. Their neighbors had died suddenly. I tell them I think I saw the bodies, possibly. Maybe, maybe not. They tell me that these people who died, I used to be friends with their daughter, apparently we were close at one time or another. That they shot themselves in the head at some point in time, earlier. That their daughter's name was Desiree/Desirae/Deseray/however-you-spell-it, and her last name was "Weatherall". Desiree Weatherall, daughter of the Weatherall couple, I guess.
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Then I woke up. Shaking and shivering even though the heater was blowing warm air across the top of my head, from where I left it on when I went to sleep. I had a crazy hangover, went to smoke a cigarette, and threw up. Drank a glass of water and then threw up. Threw up again. Went back to sleep. Woke up, off to work, back home, and tired as shit now. I think I'm going to go to sleep relatively early this evening. I haven't had a dream that realistic or vivid in quite some time... My throat burns right now from all the throwing up I did earlier today.
I really don't know what that dream could possibly mean, other than the fact that my mind is fucking gone. I've always been under the impression that dreams were related, connected with your subconscious thoughts, but if so... Hmm.
I don't know any Weatheralls, that's for sure....
Fuck. No more drinking for me. Not for a long time, anyway. No nothing. I'm sticking to coffee and cigarettes, until the weirdness in my head goes away.
On the other hand I could just get it all down, try and make it reasonably coherent, and possibly get a book deal out of it. Who knows. Who cares. I'm going to bed now. See ya.
Hope your day was as interesting as mine...
-Chris-
So. Here's my dream. I'm going off of notes I jotted to myself, misspelled shit that I tried to get down, so as not to forget, like I probably would have. This shit is so, so, so long... I apologize in advance, people.
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I'm in this huge, oversized, Victorian-style house. For some reason, I'm pretty sure it's my parents' house, even though, in real-life, the house they own is nothing at all like this. If you've seen "The House of Yes", there you go. It's sort of like that. I'm in my room upstairs. To get there, you would walk up the big staircase and cut a left. I'm looking out the window facing the backyard, even though I don't actually remember seeing anything out of the window. The window itself is shattered, with the broken jagged edges of glass just hanging there, held in place only by the pressure of the window frame, forming an odd, mouth-shaped gaping hole for whoever to look out of. I'm sitting on the floor next to the windowsill, and I have my legs curled up underneath me, like a little kid, and there's some man, someone I've never seen before in my life, who has a list of some kind, a neat little stack of papers in his hand. No words of any kind were exchanged, but I had the feeling that I owed him money for something, something to do with the list. Then he produces a box of some sort, with what looks like some sort of half-eaten birthday cake or possibly a fancy cheesecake, in the box, destroyed beyond any recognition.
There is trash and debris everywhere, cigarette butts on the floors. I'm walking around with no shoes and I step on everything. Even though I'm in this house, and it's obviously inhabited by someone other than me, I get the feeling you get when in some abandoned place, somewhere people have been squatting, leaving their shit all around, too lazy or unconcerned to notice. I try to open the window, or at least mess with it a bit, and the jagged fragments of glass fall to the ground. I see them breaking into tinier little shards as they fall down the side of the house, tumbling over and over in the air.
I go downstairs and everyone is there. My dad is standing at the front door, with the door wide open, just staring out into space, with a solemn look on his face. Very stereotypically stoic, in my opinion. I'm playing with my niece as I notice there's a strange man standing next to my dad, a man dressed in some sort of religious uniform, a bit like an Army chaplain almost. This man is carrying something that looks like a flagpole, or possibly a javelin or a spear, draped in yellow cloth and he's making as if to hurl it out the doorway into the front yard. I can't find my other niece for some reason, and look around for her, to see if she's hiding under the couch possibly. The man in the doorway launches the spear-thing into the air and it lands in the yard, standing straight up, it's tip driven completely into the grass. If I looked out the front windows, I could see that everything was underwater, not in a dam-breaking sense, but more as if it had rained and flooded everything. The kind of water that will go away in a few days. The "holy man" goes outside and, standing next to the spear/flagpole, begins to count his steps away from it, gradually turning left, and then left again, and then left again, until he's staked out a little square patch of soggy grass for himself.
I leave and go to some adjoining room, where there's a dog in it. I lay on a countertop sort of ledge, and the dog proceeds to bite into my leg. The dog does this in extreme slow-motion and I see it as every single one of its teeth pierces the pants I'm wearing, and then my leg, but I don't feel anything. All I notice is that the dog has thin, nearly transparent, needle sharp teeth, the kind that you see on deep-sea fishes. Like I said, I didn't feel anything. From out of nowhere, someone fires a shot and the dog falls dead to the floor. I'm looking around because I'm worried that if, in fact, someone had shot the dog, I'm worried that the bullet may have exited and hit me in the leg perhaps, but no. No bullets at all. No exit wounds. No pain in my leg. No blood from the dog. Just me, no shoes, no socks, an empty room, a dead dog, and trash and cigarette butts all over the floor.
Back of the house, to the far right. What appears to be a kitchen, but the ceilings are low. Looks as it this part of the house was made for "vertically-challenged" people. Restaurant-style sinks, old, rusty. Corroded pipes running down into the floorboards. Adjoining room. Lots of kitchen equipment, electric mixers, Foreman grills, egg beaters and such. Little door in the corner. Open the door into a smaller hallway. Door at the end of the hallway. Opens into a steep drop into the backyard, like opening a door onto the edge of a cliff. My mom is there with her hand on my shoulder, and the clotheslines outside look as if they're attached to telephone poles or felled tree trunks. Really big, really high.
I feel the need to leave. Driving away in my car. Don't know where I'm going at all. The roads seem to be getting smaller, the left lane, the oncoming lane disappears. The curbs seem to be closing in on me. I stop the car and get out. I'm standing next to a flat, low building. Lots of blue and white everywhere. Blood everywhere. Blood on the ground, on my feet, dripping from the trees. It's making my feet stick to the cold, hard concrete sidewalk. I'm watching people pull bodies out of what looks like a church van modified to be some sort of ambulance. There's bits of "meat" mixed with the blood on the ground now. It feels as if I'm walking in a field of hamburger, and I know somehow, that those "bits" probably used to be someone. My feet are really sticky and bits of grass and sand are sticking between my toes as I walk and watch the ambulance people. It's like I'm a ghost, they don't notice me at all. The bodies look fine, only with gigantic red spots under the white sheets that drip gooey puddles of blood, individual drops taking forever to fall, like molasses or little kid art and crafts glue. There's a big water/blood filled glass box/aquarium sort of thing there beside the building, and it's churning inside with snakes, or intestines, or worms, or something... Something long, thin, red, and squishy looking. The building, the facility looks about the size of your average auto garage, only (aside from the blood everywhere) is pristinely clean, inside and out...
There is a man in a wheelchair and someone is smashing him in the chest repeatedly with what looks to be a golf club with a rubberized tip. The man in the chair doesn't move, so the attacker increases the frequency and velocity, and still, nothing happens, so I assume he's dead and walk away.
Walk up the sidewalk a little ways, news crews, reporters. Cameras everywhere. The light reflecting off the oversized telephoto lenses makes my eyes hurt. I can overhear snippets of conversation/reportage here and there, about dual homicides. Dual suicides. Gunshots. Exit wounds. Two-inch wide exit holes. The people in the ambulance. Blood everywhere. I put two and two together and it makes sense to me at the time.
Someone's calling my name. I look around. Nothing. Traffic. People. Reporters and news vans and cameramen. My mom is there calling my name, all of a sudden, in traffic, directly in front of me. In her black Toyota Camry. Everyone in my immediate family is somehow able to fit inside. I get in. They ask if I've heard the news. Their neighbors had died suddenly. I tell them I think I saw the bodies, possibly. Maybe, maybe not. They tell me that these people who died, I used to be friends with their daughter, apparently we were close at one time or another. That they shot themselves in the head at some point in time, earlier. That their daughter's name was Desiree/Desirae/Deseray/however-you-spell-it, and her last name was "Weatherall". Desiree Weatherall, daughter of the Weatherall couple, I guess.
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Then I woke up. Shaking and shivering even though the heater was blowing warm air across the top of my head, from where I left it on when I went to sleep. I had a crazy hangover, went to smoke a cigarette, and threw up. Drank a glass of water and then threw up. Threw up again. Went back to sleep. Woke up, off to work, back home, and tired as shit now. I think I'm going to go to sleep relatively early this evening. I haven't had a dream that realistic or vivid in quite some time... My throat burns right now from all the throwing up I did earlier today.
I really don't know what that dream could possibly mean, other than the fact that my mind is fucking gone. I've always been under the impression that dreams were related, connected with your subconscious thoughts, but if so... Hmm.
I don't know any Weatheralls, that's for sure....
Fuck. No more drinking for me. Not for a long time, anyway. No nothing. I'm sticking to coffee and cigarettes, until the weirdness in my head goes away.
On the other hand I could just get it all down, try and make it reasonably coherent, and possibly get a book deal out of it. Who knows. Who cares. I'm going to bed now. See ya.
Hope your day was as interesting as mine...
-Chris-
I find it esp. difficult to translate what I see in my head when I dream to on paper.
Book deal perhaps, indeed?
Hope you're feeling better x