***CONTENT WARNING***THIS IS A TRANSCRIPT OF A DREAM AND HAS NOT BEEN SANITIZED FOR CONTENT, GRAMMAR, ETC.
I call a car service. A hovercar arrives, Harry Connick is the pilot. We take an express tube across the bridge into the city - I am feeling the Golden Gate Bridge, but an entry into lower Manhattan. He is laughing and driving very fast. I think about it being the fastest hovercar ride I'd ever had - and it charged to my company card.
He drops me off at a small German bakery, wooden floors and glass display cases. Jessica is there already, picking out sweets. She has numerous to recommend. We go to the register to pay and she reminds me that she used to work there - we could work for a little while in exchange for the baked goods. She will funnel the workers to the register and I will process them before they are paid. It is like a welfare line - who are you, what have you done today, how much do we owe you, etc. A man comes up, said it had been a hard day. The bakery goes quiet and someone whispers, 'Fin's here. The finman is here.' I turn to look - he looks like Mark Wahlburg in Four Brothers - slick back hair, goatee, older.
He tosses his guns on the table. I asked someone what the finman did, but I never received and answer. Fin sighed, drew a smoke and started picking dirt from the barrels. I looked at him and was transported into his reality.
I was dressed in military gear. I had a large gun, an orange safety vest on and a pair of thin white cables hanging from my helmet to a battery pack in my vest. Unplugging it would immediately cause cardiac arrest - it was like a life support monitoring system, but also a power supply for the body. I stood next to my partner - she cartwheeled toward me, did a flip in the air and landed so that our uniforms interlocking systems locked into place. I faced one way, she another, side-by-side. When one moved the other automatically did a corresponding movement to provide instant cover fire. It was like the interlocking mechanism caused mirror image movements in the partner, yet both were individuals who could initiate any action. It's just that the power pack and the interlock caused each to have the ability to pick up additional automatic motions.
We walked onto the battlefield - it was a test environment. There were people watching from all sides. She shot her weapon, I laid down cover. We moved like a 4-armed goddess of war. Suddenly everything went quiet and hazy, slow motion. I looked around and saw my white cables disconnected from both pack and helmet - I should have been dead. I looked at the crowd, at my partner - who was not as close as she had been a moment before. I saw my orange safety vest drift across the ground, dragging up a thin layer of dry dirt. Down at the cables again, at the vert again - then at the ground, which was coming up quickly. I stood back and watched myself slowly fall to the ground, almost lay down - puzzling over the cables, the safety vest, the ground. My eyes shifted as my head hit the ground, jarred by the impact I could still make out the vest blowing toward a tumbleweed. My eyes shut with the slowest speed.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Blue Man and the Truth
***CONTENT WARNING***THIS IS A TRANSCRIPT OF A DREAM AND HAS NOT BEEN SANITIZED FOR CONTENT, GRAMMAR, ETC.
This is an origin story - how a person got the special powers he had.
A man is taking his wife to dinner at a fancy restaurant - they have late reservations but he decides to surprise her by taking her early. Upon their arrival at the restaurant, the chef - Tyler Florence - is prepping to cook for and serve a large table. Apparently, the chef knew the couple was coming and hadn't anticipated their early arrival. He had not planned to cook for them - so when they were seated at the table he was taken aback. This is because he was having an affair with the wife - the husband was completely in the dark until he saw them interact. Something in his being just knew this was happening, and it changed him forever.
The man now had the power to show people the truth. He can show them that which they are afraid to see, and he can also force the truth upon people who do not want to see. He goes mad. His body is bright blue, he is bald and naked. He begins to force the truth on people indescriminately.
Fast forward to a bathroom.
A child with special gifts - a boy - has just dropped something on the tile floor and his mother is trying to coach him on using his powers to put the object back together. It is a collage-type piece in a frame, but has come apart like little mosaic pieces all over the floor. There is a noise outside the door. I stay with the child. I am dressed in all white, as is the mother and the child. Almost like a bodysuit, but it covers our hair too. The mother looks at me - she wants to continue to encourage the child, but she needs to investigate the noise. I stay with the boy - he is about 8 years old.
Outside, the blue man grabs the mother's head - he is going to force his truth, his pain on her. She is pure of mind, only thinking of her child. The man does not understand why she resists so. The child pieces back together the object, his head swelling from the effort. I know what is happening outside - there is a horrible scene as the mother struggles to maintain her mind. I open the door, exposing the child to the man and the man to the child. The man drops the mother, who is irrevocably damaged from the transfer. He stares at the child in shock and shame, crying, 'I'm so sorry, I didn't know...I didn't know.' The child stares into his eyes, forcing the man to experience the child's own truth. The man runs from the room.
This is an origin story - how a person got the special powers he had.
A man is taking his wife to dinner at a fancy restaurant - they have late reservations but he decides to surprise her by taking her early. Upon their arrival at the restaurant, the chef - Tyler Florence - is prepping to cook for and serve a large table. Apparently, the chef knew the couple was coming and hadn't anticipated their early arrival. He had not planned to cook for them - so when they were seated at the table he was taken aback. This is because he was having an affair with the wife - the husband was completely in the dark until he saw them interact. Something in his being just knew this was happening, and it changed him forever.
The man now had the power to show people the truth. He can show them that which they are afraid to see, and he can also force the truth upon people who do not want to see. He goes mad. His body is bright blue, he is bald and naked. He begins to force the truth on people indescriminately.
Fast forward to a bathroom.
A child with special gifts - a boy - has just dropped something on the tile floor and his mother is trying to coach him on using his powers to put the object back together. It is a collage-type piece in a frame, but has come apart like little mosaic pieces all over the floor. There is a noise outside the door. I stay with the child. I am dressed in all white, as is the mother and the child. Almost like a bodysuit, but it covers our hair too. The mother looks at me - she wants to continue to encourage the child, but she needs to investigate the noise. I stay with the boy - he is about 8 years old.
Outside, the blue man grabs the mother's head - he is going to force his truth, his pain on her. She is pure of mind, only thinking of her child. The man does not understand why she resists so. The child pieces back together the object, his head swelling from the effort. I know what is happening outside - there is a horrible scene as the mother struggles to maintain her mind. I open the door, exposing the child to the man and the man to the child. The man drops the mother, who is irrevocably damaged from the transfer. He stares at the child in shock and shame, crying, 'I'm so sorry, I didn't know...I didn't know.' The child stares into his eyes, forcing the man to experience the child's own truth. The man runs from the room.
Sunday, September 04, 2005
Albert and Death
***CONTENT WARNING***THIS IS A TRANSCRIPT OF A DREAM AND HAS NOT BEEN SANITIZED FOR CONTENT, GRAMMAR, ETC.
I went to bed early last night - before 8:30 in fact, sick to my stomach and feeling bleary from spending the day in the sun. I think I have food poisoning or a kidney infection. Everything aches. From all of those growls and pains I had an incredible sleep, just awake from hours of traveling, visiting people I don't know and nearly dying. Here's the scoop.
At some point last night, I started with a tour of a gallery. It was a private viewing, something a little unusual for me - the artist as my tour guide. Martha, in a smart pink suit, showed me her very Rothko-esque work, panels of silver and gray and red with small accents along seams between the color blocks. She was not the Martha we know now, but was a snobbish artiste-type, Soho-featured, schooled but naturally talented (and with an amazing business acumen). I wasn't walking fast enough for her - she left me behind while I finished the exhibit myself.
From there I walked to an adjoining hotel - I don't know where I was going or why, but I went through the lobby and found myself entering a suite of rooms on a low floor. There was a young man resting on one of the couches - all of the furniture was of the Baroque or Rococo style. There was another woman in the room - older, dressed as a maid or a servant. She was fussing about the young man who wasn't feeling well. I looked at her, took a wet washcloth from her and went to his side, gently easing him down on the couch. He was flush, his curly blond hair wet. I made him comfortable - removed his sneakers and socks, loosened the collar to his shirt, and wiped his brow and his neck with the cloth. He dozed quietly, appearing to feel better. I leaned over and kissed him on the forehead and stood to leave, but he opened his eyes and held my hand. He asked me to stay, saying that he would feel better with an angel by his side. I smiled - I am no angel, I replied - but I would stay with him. I knew him as Albert. His family came home later and shooed me out - being neither family nor a servant paid to do the job, they could not understand my attention to him. I left.
It was then that I was with my brother in the lobby of our old restaurant - waiting for the right train to come by. The counter was gone - the restaurant was no longer a restaurant but was a sort of refugee station. This must be in response to all that I have seen on the news in the last few days. Trains came by - their subjects shouted by the conductors when the doors opened. 'History!' shouted one. 'Poetry,' another. One only had a few moments to gather belongings before hurling into the train - and I did not want to miss my train. I knew there was more than one train I would have to take, but I was not packed and I was not ready to leave my brother behind. When 'Literature!' came roaring through, I told him that I would take a later train, that I wanted more time to pack. He said he would come with me, but he was not ready to leave either. We stood on the platform watching the train leave.
When I turned around, it was nighttime and I was staring into the lobby of a clinic on the corner of two streets. The building looked like a yellow bungalow-type house, wood paneling on the side with a wide glass door in the front. To my left stood a friend - I don't know who she was, but I had the sense that she was a friend. We were talking about entering the building. Conspiring, actually. We walked into the building - and from this point on, I am in flashback in the dream. I recall her telling me that unless we believed in bad happening, nothing bad would happen. She wasn't sure she believed it. I had just walked away from a fire that should have killed me - and she insisted that it was because I believed it not happening. I don't recall what I believed. She took a blowtorch to her hands - and sure enough, she did not burn. But there was doubt in her eyes. She looked directly into the flame, yet nothing happened. When she switched off the blowtorch, we saw the damage. She immediately started dying, her arms and hands burned black, her throat crunchy, her jaw taut. In the glow of the flame she did not believe she would die, but she did not have faith. I called an ambulance as I cradled my friend in my arms. She spent her last breath whispering that it wasn't possible...and when I looked closely I saw her eyes were aglow the same color as the flame from the blowtorch. I dropped her immediately, laid back and closed my eyes. She stood up, demanded I look at her - screaming that it couldn't be possible that she was dead when I was not. She shook me, took my head in her hands and tried to get me to see. I believed completely that she was dead - this was not possible, I was not hearing her voice and I was not feeling her next to me. After a few minutes, she stopped moving - accepting death herself, I imagine.
A police car pulled up. I stood and walked to it, expecting an ambulance but happy to have anyone there. Their flashlights came out - they were pointing them to the sizzling mass inside. They explained they had been called on an alarm, and that security cameras had shown four older men sitting in the lobby of that small clinic, passing cigars and making deals. Immediately, I stood amongst them, looking from face to grizzled face, wondering what their disturbance had to do with the death of my friend. When I looked to where my friend had been laying, I was transported back to my spot on the curb - looking in at her as her eyes were aglow again, a gun in her hands. She fired, the police couldn't see where the shots were coming from. She was shooting at me. bullets whizzed past in slow motion as if shot into a barrel of water - blue flame around the tip of the bullets. I closed my eyes, dropped to the ground and rolled - trying to avoid the bullets but also trying to recall that feeling of faith in which I knew she was dead - that was the only way she would stop firing and that I would survive the hail. The firing stopped. I stood and was alone on the street under a streetlamp, looking into an empty yellow house with a big glass entry window.
I went to bed early last night - before 8:30 in fact, sick to my stomach and feeling bleary from spending the day in the sun. I think I have food poisoning or a kidney infection. Everything aches. From all of those growls and pains I had an incredible sleep, just awake from hours of traveling, visiting people I don't know and nearly dying. Here's the scoop.
At some point last night, I started with a tour of a gallery. It was a private viewing, something a little unusual for me - the artist as my tour guide. Martha, in a smart pink suit, showed me her very Rothko-esque work, panels of silver and gray and red with small accents along seams between the color blocks. She was not the Martha we know now, but was a snobbish artiste-type, Soho-featured, schooled but naturally talented (and with an amazing business acumen). I wasn't walking fast enough for her - she left me behind while I finished the exhibit myself.
From there I walked to an adjoining hotel - I don't know where I was going or why, but I went through the lobby and found myself entering a suite of rooms on a low floor. There was a young man resting on one of the couches - all of the furniture was of the Baroque or Rococo style. There was another woman in the room - older, dressed as a maid or a servant. She was fussing about the young man who wasn't feeling well. I looked at her, took a wet washcloth from her and went to his side, gently easing him down on the couch. He was flush, his curly blond hair wet. I made him comfortable - removed his sneakers and socks, loosened the collar to his shirt, and wiped his brow and his neck with the cloth. He dozed quietly, appearing to feel better. I leaned over and kissed him on the forehead and stood to leave, but he opened his eyes and held my hand. He asked me to stay, saying that he would feel better with an angel by his side. I smiled - I am no angel, I replied - but I would stay with him. I knew him as Albert. His family came home later and shooed me out - being neither family nor a servant paid to do the job, they could not understand my attention to him. I left.
It was then that I was with my brother in the lobby of our old restaurant - waiting for the right train to come by. The counter was gone - the restaurant was no longer a restaurant but was a sort of refugee station. This must be in response to all that I have seen on the news in the last few days. Trains came by - their subjects shouted by the conductors when the doors opened. 'History!' shouted one. 'Poetry,' another. One only had a few moments to gather belongings before hurling into the train - and I did not want to miss my train. I knew there was more than one train I would have to take, but I was not packed and I was not ready to leave my brother behind. When 'Literature!' came roaring through, I told him that I would take a later train, that I wanted more time to pack. He said he would come with me, but he was not ready to leave either. We stood on the platform watching the train leave.
When I turned around, it was nighttime and I was staring into the lobby of a clinic on the corner of two streets. The building looked like a yellow bungalow-type house, wood paneling on the side with a wide glass door in the front. To my left stood a friend - I don't know who she was, but I had the sense that she was a friend. We were talking about entering the building. Conspiring, actually. We walked into the building - and from this point on, I am in flashback in the dream. I recall her telling me that unless we believed in bad happening, nothing bad would happen. She wasn't sure she believed it. I had just walked away from a fire that should have killed me - and she insisted that it was because I believed it not happening. I don't recall what I believed. She took a blowtorch to her hands - and sure enough, she did not burn. But there was doubt in her eyes. She looked directly into the flame, yet nothing happened. When she switched off the blowtorch, we saw the damage. She immediately started dying, her arms and hands burned black, her throat crunchy, her jaw taut. In the glow of the flame she did not believe she would die, but she did not have faith. I called an ambulance as I cradled my friend in my arms. She spent her last breath whispering that it wasn't possible...and when I looked closely I saw her eyes were aglow the same color as the flame from the blowtorch. I dropped her immediately, laid back and closed my eyes. She stood up, demanded I look at her - screaming that it couldn't be possible that she was dead when I was not. She shook me, took my head in her hands and tried to get me to see. I believed completely that she was dead - this was not possible, I was not hearing her voice and I was not feeling her next to me. After a few minutes, she stopped moving - accepting death herself, I imagine.
A police car pulled up. I stood and walked to it, expecting an ambulance but happy to have anyone there. Their flashlights came out - they were pointing them to the sizzling mass inside. They explained they had been called on an alarm, and that security cameras had shown four older men sitting in the lobby of that small clinic, passing cigars and making deals. Immediately, I stood amongst them, looking from face to grizzled face, wondering what their disturbance had to do with the death of my friend. When I looked to where my friend had been laying, I was transported back to my spot on the curb - looking in at her as her eyes were aglow again, a gun in her hands. She fired, the police couldn't see where the shots were coming from. She was shooting at me. bullets whizzed past in slow motion as if shot into a barrel of water - blue flame around the tip of the bullets. I closed my eyes, dropped to the ground and rolled - trying to avoid the bullets but also trying to recall that feeling of faith in which I knew she was dead - that was the only way she would stop firing and that I would survive the hail. The firing stopped. I stood and was alone on the street under a streetlamp, looking into an empty yellow house with a big glass entry window.
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