Friday, March 5, 2010
Too Deep To Dream
Something about an epic Gaga-esque pop song, and laying in bed, it's really just flashes, I slept deep last night, too deep to even see but snippets of dreams.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Ruckus (Bringing & Brought)
This dream is fairly hazy in my memory, and not having time to write it out for 3 days hasn't made it any clearer in my mind. There may have been a preamble to where my recollection starts, but it has since faded.
I open a wooden gate into a large, hedge-rowed backyard. The first thing that strikes my attention is the giant tree in the middle of the lawn. It is a giant oak, the trunk probably twenty-five feet around, and the canopy stretching into the sky, the first branch beyond my reach by at least twenty feet. The sun's rays play softly through the leaves. Then I notice the people.
There are at least fifty or sixty people of all ages sitting around the tree, all looking at something at the back of the yard that is being blocked from my view by the trunk. Sitting among the people are a group of dogs, maybe 2 dozen of all different breeds, big, small, shaggy, well groomed. The people are silent and the only noise is the soft breeze rustling in the leaves.
As I walk toward the tree, I step on a twig with a SNAP! that seems doubly loud in the tranquil silence of the yard. At the sound the dogs hop up and begin to fight and growl, snapping at each other and the people indiscriminately, pouncing on people and tearing at them with their jaws.
The crowd panics at the sudden violence and begins running en masse toward the house, toward me. As the panicked crowd pushes past me, I notice that everyone in the group is greyish-white in all features. Grey frizzy hair, ashen faces, and pale clothing, every one. The only color on those rushing forms is the occasional crimson smear from the dogs' savagery.
Suddenly, from out of the house, men in full riot gear charge out toward me, pushing their way past the rushing horde with their shields. I start to back away, but the dense crowd prevents me making any headway. The black-clad men fall on me with their nightsticks and I soon lose consciousness.
I awake on a wooden bench on the patio behind the house, and judging by the sun it is morning. I sit up and check myself for injury when the sliding door of the house opens up and two pairs of the grey people come out, carrying two men in blue swim trunks on stretchers. When they get to the edge of the patio the unceremonially upend the stretchers and the limp, betrunked bodies crumple to the floor like sacks of rice as the men head back inside without a word.
I rise from the bench and head over to where the bodies lay. I turn them face-up and to my horror the two men are my father and my uncle Mitch. They are both pallid and my dad is covered in a crusted red substance I take for blood. I start to back away when they begin to stir.
Mitch sits up first, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, and immediately the color begins to return to his face. My dad sits up next and looks over at me, slightly bewildered.
"I-I thought you were dead." I say to my dad, who laughs.
"No way, we just drank way too much last night and passed out on the floor so they threw us out!" Mitch replied.
"But what about the blood?" I ask, confused.
"Oh, this?" my dad asks, pointing to the red crust clinging to his bare throat and chest, "We were making margaritas and salsa, and things got a little out of hand with the blender! This is salsa!" He and Mitch start to laugh. I start to laugh too at the absurdity of it all when my alarm wakes me up.
I open a wooden gate into a large, hedge-rowed backyard. The first thing that strikes my attention is the giant tree in the middle of the lawn. It is a giant oak, the trunk probably twenty-five feet around, and the canopy stretching into the sky, the first branch beyond my reach by at least twenty feet. The sun's rays play softly through the leaves. Then I notice the people.
There are at least fifty or sixty people of all ages sitting around the tree, all looking at something at the back of the yard that is being blocked from my view by the trunk. Sitting among the people are a group of dogs, maybe 2 dozen of all different breeds, big, small, shaggy, well groomed. The people are silent and the only noise is the soft breeze rustling in the leaves.
As I walk toward the tree, I step on a twig with a SNAP! that seems doubly loud in the tranquil silence of the yard. At the sound the dogs hop up and begin to fight and growl, snapping at each other and the people indiscriminately, pouncing on people and tearing at them with their jaws.
The crowd panics at the sudden violence and begins running en masse toward the house, toward me. As the panicked crowd pushes past me, I notice that everyone in the group is greyish-white in all features. Grey frizzy hair, ashen faces, and pale clothing, every one. The only color on those rushing forms is the occasional crimson smear from the dogs' savagery.
Suddenly, from out of the house, men in full riot gear charge out toward me, pushing their way past the rushing horde with their shields. I start to back away, but the dense crowd prevents me making any headway. The black-clad men fall on me with their nightsticks and I soon lose consciousness.
I awake on a wooden bench on the patio behind the house, and judging by the sun it is morning. I sit up and check myself for injury when the sliding door of the house opens up and two pairs of the grey people come out, carrying two men in blue swim trunks on stretchers. When they get to the edge of the patio the unceremonially upend the stretchers and the limp, betrunked bodies crumple to the floor like sacks of rice as the men head back inside without a word.
I rise from the bench and head over to where the bodies lay. I turn them face-up and to my horror the two men are my father and my uncle Mitch. They are both pallid and my dad is covered in a crusted red substance I take for blood. I start to back away when they begin to stir.
Mitch sits up first, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, and immediately the color begins to return to his face. My dad sits up next and looks over at me, slightly bewildered.
"I-I thought you were dead." I say to my dad, who laughs.
"No way, we just drank way too much last night and passed out on the floor so they threw us out!" Mitch replied.
"But what about the blood?" I ask, confused.
"Oh, this?" my dad asks, pointing to the red crust clinging to his bare throat and chest, "We were making margaritas and salsa, and things got a little out of hand with the blender! This is salsa!" He and Mitch start to laugh. I start to laugh too at the absurdity of it all when my alarm wakes me up.
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