meeces

Foto by Man Ray

My dreams are always beautiful and elaborate. Even when I find myself waking up startled and gripped by fear, I recall the way the moon shone so surreal in the daytime or how those impossible spoken tongues seemed to make sense and I feel truly happy. I used to shun my nightmares. I'd call them horrible and lose sleep over them. As a child I was often so afraid of my mind. Now that I'm a bit older, I appreciate every stitch. I can't help myself. Everyone prefers to dream.



It's cold and poorly lit.

I find myself nestled with a group of strangers in a commune. I detest strangers. The area itself leaves much to be desired. There are no furnishings, save for abandoned theater chairs and flimsy metal stairs that fall in bland and uninteresting shapes to the floor of the stadium. In the shadows, everything seems black and red. I don't know why we're here, and neither does anyone else, but it doesn't seem out of the ordinary. As if carried off by some internal schedule, we all decide at once it would be nice to part, and everyone takes their time saying goodbye and exchanging empty pleasantries. It's now that I find a few familiar faces and we leave the dome together.

The world outside is dead. Every plant has withered into a sepia shade and has more thorns and twists than blooms. The earth seems inhospitable and dry. Skinny trees bend and break as we pass and dead grasses that obscure our knees sway gently despite the lack of wind. It's a beautiful day. The sun is shining and birds call to one another just beyond our sight. Everything above is a pretty blue and dappled with fat, fluffy clouds. The air tastes sweet.

We seem to be following a path, although no one can see it through the dirty grasses. I separate from my group without a word, making my way past cutting brush. It pulls at my hair and clothes, seeking blood. It's very difficult to walk this way, but I continue and I don't feel like a martyr. This is simply my path and I must take it. As I walk, the area becomes more sparse. Red Manzanita and black tumbleweeds give way to flat, sandy plains littered with classic trucks. I can't hear the ocean, but somehow I know it's close.

I reach the encampment alone and tired and no one seems to notice me. Just like my true antisocial self, I walk through the small groups of people without a word, but I'm so curious that it's painful not to reach out and touch everything I pass. Now that I'm closer, I have a better look at the property's lone house. It's tall and made from dark wood. The walls seem wet, so I assume it's from the waves breaking nearby. The roof is black scrap metal, neatly riveted into protective panels. The structure was built into a cliff side, so the back end of the roof comes out at the peak. It's a very attractive design. Everyone here is young and somewhat odd looking. Beautiful, even. Ghosts from my past wander about in the background with different faces and seem not to know me. I approach a man about my age and only slightly taller. He looks Gaelic. I assume it's a compound of some sort and ask him to call me should he need help around the house.

He's surprised that I'd want to work there and leads me around his property, showing me all of the interesting views and curious attachments. He built everything by hand and jokingly refers to it as a Pirate House. His slight, red headed friend is following us closely and reaches out to touch my hand or rest his head on my shoulder whenever we stop. I'm annoyed by his desire to claim me, but I ignore him and he doesn't dampen my mood in the least.

The three of us look out over the cliff at hundreds of people below. They're sunbathing, playing, laughing, eating... enjoying the shore. The waves are large, but not frightening. Again, the weather is lovely. We turn away and walk along the border of the 'Pirate House', and I can't help but notice the skeletons of baby armadillos. Dozens of them pile around recently dug soil.

"What happened to them?" I ask, going to my knees to get a better look.

"They dig for mushrooms here. The land is hard, but they're persistent. They died from exhaustion." Replies my nameless Gaelic companion in his impossible accent. He then says something in a native tongue that I can't understand, but it seems tender by it's delivery.

We continue on toward a boardwalk, red headed nuisance still in tow, but now he stays further behind. The floor of the boardwalk is slatted but the planks are close together and easy to navigate. Only a handful of gas lamps light our path on either side. There are no stars in the sky and it's grown cold again. When we finally reach the end of the boardwalk, small cottages line the way, obviously areas designated for business and trade. I look down into the black water, close enough to touch with my hand, and feel more amazed than frightened.

This is strange because I'm terrified of the ocean at night.

It's very still, so I reach into my pocket. I find a single pink Christmas light and, pausing to look at my company, drop it into the water. It sinks for a long time, but stays lit. Soon after, the light wakes a large, fluorescent jellyfish. He moves in strange, symmetrical patterns along the floor of the ocean, mesmerizing me. The others can't see him. The Gaelic man presses his cheek against mine and watches as I trace the fish with my finger, laughing and smiling at the sight of it. We're both elated at the find. Soon, two more jellyfish join the first, spinning and drifting from one end of the boardwalk to the other. Suddenly, the large one surfaces, showing us his back like a great whale.

It hurts to be so close to it. We can feel the poison within it, and it burns. In a panic the three of us run, stumbling over slightly raised planks as the beast follows us below, eager to sting us...



I awoke happy, though somewhat out of breath. A dream hasn't seemed to me so beautifully surreal in a long time and I couldn't help but share it.