Dream Journal: 2014-11-21.02

I have been up since one in the god damn morning. Not because of the delightful thunderstorm that shook the foundations of the house overnight. No, that was a lullaby for me. Because the other occupants of the house had lost their everlasting mind upon being reminded just how loud weather can be for the first time all calendar year.

About three in the afternoon, I finally was able to sneak away for a nap. Immediately upon descending into sleep, I felt desperate hands gripping me while my shoulders shuddered from uncontrollable spasms. Something wet and foul was squirming in my mind and I was crying out from the pain of the possession.

Wait.

Possession? Continue reading

Dream Journal: 2014-11-21.01

In the House of [the Moon], I submit a formal petition to the [Lord of the Moon]. To his annoyed chagrin, the [Lord of the Sun] enters to join the proceedings.

Me: “I’m filing this petition for [Action]. I request that it be approved for [these reasons that are a mix of logical reasoning and emotional egotism]. Yes, I’m aware my feelings are wrapped up in this, and am making the attempt to distance my feels.”

Lord of the Sun: “Aw, isn’t that cute. She’s actually asking permission!” Continue reading

Dream Journal: 2014-11-19.01

The mists part as I start to come to awareness. Dressed in Traveling clothes, I recognize I am dreaming the moment I open my eyes. How else could I explain the wall of glass before me. On my side of the glass was swirling wisps of shadows and drifting tendrils of darkness. From such stuff are the dreams worlds made. On the other side of the glass was a well lit room. Books were opened on the table as a person consulted the diagrams on the paper before reaching up to make wax marks on the glass.

He did not see me, but I saw him. He was muttering to himself about making sure the seal was just right so “that bitch can’t slip through the cracks”.

I smiled and the darkness smiled with me. Continue reading

Ares: The Opera Singer

Ares the opera singer paces his training for maximum effect. He does not push his voice to reach the notes at the edge of his skill at first, but instead trains his lungs for endurance and stamina by practicing holding low notes and learning how to control his diaphragm.

Ares the opera singer does not engage in voice shattering dares and is written off by his fellow students as a stick in the mud. But he has a goal, and destroying his voice for a drunken dare will not bring him any closer. He surprises himself and his peers when he explodes in anger and makes the hall doors reverberate as his tone sobers the flippant youths around him. Continue reading

Dream Journal: 2014-11-17.01

Not feeling good today, so I went to lay down to take a nap. A last second impulse snatched the rosary from its bag as I passed it in the room. I didn’t realize I had grabbed it until I literally slapped myself in the face with it as I adjusted the eyeshield. (Years of nightshift trained me to equate its presence with deep sleep.)

Too comfortable to put the rosary back on the table. Fine. I’ll just lay it here on the pillow just out of drool reach. Continue reading

Dream Journal: 2014-11-15.02

I closed my eyes for five hot seconds…

I’m watching myself going through some motions in the bathroom. I have a travel-size spray bottle half filled with water. I’m holding it over the bathroom sink, also filled with water. On the counter is a box of matches, a fresh basil leaf, and a bottle of high-proof clear liquor. Continue reading

Dream Journal: 2014-11-15.01

Nothing he allows me to see is by accident. Everything is placed for maximum effect. The couch is nine feet long, but he makes it look like a snug loveseat for two. The glass coffee table between us appears fragile and barely able to hold the weight of the glass top. I’m sure if he threw me into it, I would break into a million pieces while it might have a greasy smudge for the trouble.

Nothing he allows me to see is out of his control.

Including myself. Continue reading

Dream Journal: 2014-11-12.01

I hear chanting. I wonder if someone fell asleep with the television on again as I recognize the stereotypical drumming and singing that is supposed to signify the presence of First Nations peoples. Great. Another Get’Em Cowboy movie.

I’m considering if blowing the power to the house to silence the steady influx of warped nostalgia is worth the risk of fire as I turn over.

I don’t stop turning over. Continue reading

Dream Journal: 2014-11-11.01

So yesterday was not a good day, and while I was much comforted by the presence of friends and amused by Sec’s not-quite stand up routine, I still went to bed in a shanking mood.

I dreamt I was sitting on an outcrop of rocks overlooking a still lake. Still pissy, I was throwing pebbles into the water because I didn’t trust myself to be civil around anyone right then.

A woman came up to me. Well, her clothes were a woman’s clothes. But her body was all wrong. No head was mounted on her neck, and her arms were placed under her ribcage. She greeted me loudly and brightly as she approached, so I returned the friendly greeting as best as I could. Which wasn’t well. Continue reading