In other news: I had a pretty fucked up dream last night.
When I usually have a bad dream (which isn't often), they tend to have a carnival-esque atmosphere. They look like they were filmed by David Lynch after a night of heavy "better living through chemistry". This makes them pretty easy to dismiss. The dream I had last night, though, was like cinema verite: intense and vivid and... authentic. In the dream, I'm walking alongside Scottsdale Rd. I know the road I'm walking on: I used to bike and stomp my way back and forth across it while going to its two biggest draws, sandwiched between Sweetwater and Thunderbird Rd: The Q fitness club and the Mobil Superpumper. I haven't walked down that particular road since I moved out of Sweetwater and 71st when I was 18. In retrospect, there was something uncomfortable about that stretch of pavement merging with a dirt path: I always used to breathe a sigh of relief once I finished walking it and got closer to home, as though I had just run a deadly gauntlet. The worst time to walk that stretch was during the summer, when the dirt portion of the walk became the playground of countless insects. I think they were locusts, or at least grasshoppers; regardless of what they were, they would hop all over me when I trod through their territory, a couple always managing to bounce right off the side of my face.
So, anyway, I'm walking down this stretch of road. On the other side of the street (which, courtesy of Scottsdale's schizo city planning, is draped with an unbroken pavement sidewalk and tons of bright green grass) I see a tall man walking in the opposite direction. He's Caucasian, has dull red hair, wears a navy blue hoodie and jeans. Something about the way he walks, kind of furtive and jittery, like a bird, has me on edge. Every few steps, I look over my shoulder as I walk, to see what the guy is doing. He's looking from side to side too, but he doesn't seem to notice me. There are other people walking on my side of the road, too, but they don't notice the herky-jerky redhead across the street. I turn to look at him again and I see him pulling a gun out of the left pocket of his hoodie and a ski mask out of his right pocket. He slips on the ski mask, clutching the gun that is now pointing skyward, and I break out into a sprint. Dust is kicking off my shoes, I'm putting all my will and energy into moving forward as fast as humanely possible, and I can see the faces of the people walking by me turn towards me in confusion. I glance back and I see Mr. Red, now with the mask firmly on his face, dash across the car-less road (side note: I haven't seen a single car pass by, and it's the middle of the afternoon), curving around to face my direction. I hear gunshots and some shouts, but I don't look back at first, I just keep bolting towards the end of Scottsdale Rd, where I'll hit Sweetwater and head to my old home. As I approach the light by Sweetwater, I glance back and I see Mr. Red hauling ass towards me. He's got his head done and his upper torso angled down, like he's a bull, and I don't see anyone behind him. All those other pedestrians... no bodies, no one running in a panic, no blood on the ground. Nobody else, as though they were never there. He's getting closer and closer and he gets so close to me that all I can see is his face, the ridged blackness of the ski mask, the wide white eye holes with beady eyes glaring at me in their center (I cannot recall what color they were; truth be told, I have very hard time distinguishing eye colors... they all look the same to me) and then.... nothing. I wake up.
When I wake from a bad dream, I don't pant or shiver or break out into a cold sweat. I just have this feeling of heaviness on my shoulders and I feel a bit dizzy, but I get over the physical discomfort fast. I grabbed a glass of water and went back to sleep (it was 4:40 am when I woke up). When I got back up later and went to work, I couldn't shake the vividness of the dream. Most of my dreams I can hardly recall; the ones that are memorable fade in a matter of hours, lest I write them down. I think its because my imagination is already so dream-like and littered with random-ness that my dreams seem mundane to my waking thoughts. It's just that this... dream felt so real, so pure, that it really has me rattled.
I just had to write it down. Its probably nothing, just a little psychic hiccup, but I must confess that I treaded quite lightly as I walked home tonight, even more paranoid in my evening stroll than usual. If Mr. Red is some precognitive flash and not just a dream, I want to be ready for him when we cross paths. I hope not. I would never want to meet any human that walked like that.
That is all.
When I usually have a bad dream (which isn't often), they tend to have a carnival-esque atmosphere. They look like they were filmed by David Lynch after a night of heavy "better living through chemistry". This makes them pretty easy to dismiss. The dream I had last night, though, was like cinema verite: intense and vivid and... authentic. In the dream, I'm walking alongside Scottsdale Rd. I know the road I'm walking on: I used to bike and stomp my way back and forth across it while going to its two biggest draws, sandwiched between Sweetwater and Thunderbird Rd: The Q fitness club and the Mobil Superpumper. I haven't walked down that particular road since I moved out of Sweetwater and 71st when I was 18. In retrospect, there was something uncomfortable about that stretch of pavement merging with a dirt path: I always used to breathe a sigh of relief once I finished walking it and got closer to home, as though I had just run a deadly gauntlet. The worst time to walk that stretch was during the summer, when the dirt portion of the walk became the playground of countless insects. I think they were locusts, or at least grasshoppers; regardless of what they were, they would hop all over me when I trod through their territory, a couple always managing to bounce right off the side of my face.
So, anyway, I'm walking down this stretch of road. On the other side of the street (which, courtesy of Scottsdale's schizo city planning, is draped with an unbroken pavement sidewalk and tons of bright green grass) I see a tall man walking in the opposite direction. He's Caucasian, has dull red hair, wears a navy blue hoodie and jeans. Something about the way he walks, kind of furtive and jittery, like a bird, has me on edge. Every few steps, I look over my shoulder as I walk, to see what the guy is doing. He's looking from side to side too, but he doesn't seem to notice me. There are other people walking on my side of the road, too, but they don't notice the herky-jerky redhead across the street. I turn to look at him again and I see him pulling a gun out of the left pocket of his hoodie and a ski mask out of his right pocket. He slips on the ski mask, clutching the gun that is now pointing skyward, and I break out into a sprint. Dust is kicking off my shoes, I'm putting all my will and energy into moving forward as fast as humanely possible, and I can see the faces of the people walking by me turn towards me in confusion. I glance back and I see Mr. Red, now with the mask firmly on his face, dash across the car-less road (side note: I haven't seen a single car pass by, and it's the middle of the afternoon), curving around to face my direction. I hear gunshots and some shouts, but I don't look back at first, I just keep bolting towards the end of Scottsdale Rd, where I'll hit Sweetwater and head to my old home. As I approach the light by Sweetwater, I glance back and I see Mr. Red hauling ass towards me. He's got his head done and his upper torso angled down, like he's a bull, and I don't see anyone behind him. All those other pedestrians... no bodies, no one running in a panic, no blood on the ground. Nobody else, as though they were never there. He's getting closer and closer and he gets so close to me that all I can see is his face, the ridged blackness of the ski mask, the wide white eye holes with beady eyes glaring at me in their center (I cannot recall what color they were; truth be told, I have very hard time distinguishing eye colors... they all look the same to me) and then.... nothing. I wake up.
When I wake from a bad dream, I don't pant or shiver or break out into a cold sweat. I just have this feeling of heaviness on my shoulders and I feel a bit dizzy, but I get over the physical discomfort fast. I grabbed a glass of water and went back to sleep (it was 4:40 am when I woke up). When I got back up later and went to work, I couldn't shake the vividness of the dream. Most of my dreams I can hardly recall; the ones that are memorable fade in a matter of hours, lest I write them down. I think its because my imagination is already so dream-like and littered with random-ness that my dreams seem mundane to my waking thoughts. It's just that this... dream felt so real, so pure, that it really has me rattled.
I just had to write it down. Its probably nothing, just a little psychic hiccup, but I must confess that I treaded quite lightly as I walked home tonight, even more paranoid in my evening stroll than usual. If Mr. Red is some precognitive flash and not just a dream, I want to be ready for him when we cross paths. I hope not. I would never want to meet any human that walked like that.
That is all.
she's a freak.