mad drunk genius

I used to have all sorts of problems. Now there's just the one.

Tag: dreaming

I had a dream about Dakota Fanning last night

It was weird. Someone kidnapped her and took her to a nearly abandoned town in West Texas that had some hidden underground complex hiding her. It was kind of a mix of Silent Hill and Metal Gear Solid, I guess would be the best way to describe the reality of the dream.

I can’t really remember all of it, only that it employed some horror, some intrigue, some surprise allies (a big guy, mechanic, I think). In the end, there was some kind of confrontation and we found her and it was time to go home.

This is the end of the first half of my dream.

In the second half, I discovered that more time had passed while I was gone than I had actually experienced. In the meantime, aliens had conquered the earth and taken the humans that were still alive as servants. My home was occupied by a human servant who was worried because her master was coming home and some my friends (who I do not believe were with me before but somehow arrived without me finding anything odd about them being there) told me we should leave, so we started to. However, then one of the aliens came through the door (with a poodle) and the human servant rushed over to take care of it. My friends and I were hidden, but I wasn’t hidden very well, and the alien spotted me, so I rushed over to it, grabbed it around the neck and slit its throat.

These aliens were milky white and their insides were kind of a milky white goo, but apparently you had to kill them by getting the cognitive portion of their bodies in one section, then cut it off from the rest. What I had done would disable it, but it would survive. So we still needed to flee.

We all got in our various cars and trucks and such and drove away. I was riding on the back of motorcycle along with two other people, and we were being pursued by human lackeys in traditional cars. Typical hollywood carchase through a nearby neighborhood followed. I bailed out when it was clear I was slowing down the motorcycle and preventing them from escaping.

I had been looking for my lost love, wondering if she had survived the worldwide holocaust and what had become of her. I wandered around for a bit, when I saw a band of humans in between some buildings and I ran over to them.

Of course she was with them, and I found her and hugged her and told her I was happy just to know she was alive. She expressed similar sentiments while I held her.

Suddenly, a machine appeared behind us, knocking a building out of the way and pointed something in the direction of band who all began to run except for the two of us. I asked her what it was and she said it was a weapon.

“It erases you from the past, present, and future,” she said, “It makes it so that you never existed. This is what they used on the people who fought back when they took over the earth, but no one can remember who they killed.”

As she said this, in my head I imagined the fabric of reality (green, the fabric of reality looks green) being melted and holes appearing in it like a roll of film. And across every frame holes were burned into each spot covering someone’s body, as I imagined it, my body.

Then I looked at her and back at the beam and it washed over us.

Then I woke up.

Sick. I’m sick.

Sick to the stomach, sick with hunger, sick of life, sick to death. Sick from head to toe, but it’s all psychosomatic, so I guess I’m just sick of myself. I just wish I knew where the problem came from.

My daughter, she came up to me and said, “Daddy, daddy! What are we going to do today?”

“Nothing,” I told her, “You’re no daughter of mine and I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

She started to pout and said, “But why would you say something like that, Daddy?”

So of course I grabbed her round the throat and slammed her head into the wall until it came open and then I turned her upside down and drank her and ate her in pieces until I was full.

I woke up a moment later and found my fever still raging, along with an erection. I felt guilty for a moment but then consoled myself that dreams are dreams and we can’t control them. Can’t control whether we enjoy them or not, for that matter. On the bright side, my throat was dry no longer and my stomach felt sated. My fever still burned hotly, so I called for my dead mother to care for me.

She came in the room and then told me I needed to rest up.

“If you don’t preserve your strength, you’ll never get better.”

“I know that,” I said.

“Of course you do,” she said, “How else would I know it?”

She led me to the field of flowers and told me to lie down. I did, but then I started coughing up blood and then so much came up that there was a black pool beside me, and out of it rose up my daughter-who-wasn’t, reformed perfectly, though only to the waist.

“Hello big brother,” she said, speaking with hairy lips, “What are we going to do today?”

“I’m going to kiss you, little sister,” I replied, and did so, though she giggled when I attempted to do it in the manner of the French. Then I felt my tongue go inside her, face, too, head next, and then it was all wet darkness and I was afraid.

I woke up and turned on my side and threw up in the bucket beside me, but it was only chicken noodle soup and nothing rose out of it, not even a chicken.

I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, I was in the middle of space, gazing at an infinitely large sphere from the outside. All else was darkness, save this sphere, which was blue and cold. I looked and then awoke, and I have never been more frightened than I was then.

Sleep abandoned me after that, and I spent the rest of the day coughing, shivering, and throwing up food I hadn’t eaten.

The mind can cure almost anything, I’ve heard, but I think mine is too weak even to try.

Fifth dream journal entry

Allow me to break character, probably for good.

All of this dream journal nonsense (if you’ve been keeping up with it), is based off of a story idea a fellow named Duskmon came up with at a forum I visit. I liked it, but disagreed with some of what he planned on doing with it, so I figured I’d give it a shot of my own, for shits and giggles (and ego).

I ran into a wall as usual, but that’s not important. What is important is that it actually happened to me several times this week. I fell asleep and fell in love.

I don’t fall in love in real life. If it’s not hate, it’s worship. That’s the only two options I got, and neither approaches love. But in my dreams, I am in love with this girl and we’re completely happy. Not the usual stuff that brings me pleasure in my dreams, actually normal, healthy stuff.

Different nights, different events, same girl, same relationship. Continuity, even though the dreams themselves differ. That’s insane. I mean, it’s wonderful, they’re as good of dreams as you can have, but dear God is that insane. I got the impulse to sleep to be happy. It’s seductive, because it’s idealistic, but real. Or as real as dreams get.

I still think Duskmon’s idea is a great story, but mainly because of the warning the story holds: letting go of reality for the sake of a dream has dire consequences. Wanting to fall asleep and never wake up again is suicidal, but in the context of a dream girl it’s happiness forever. It’s seductive in a way few things are.

Dreams aren’t reality, but they’re a form of reality that gives you something nothing else can. They can help you escape from reality in the same way most drugs can, but I think it gives you something better than that because the process is and feels natural.

Okay, I’m off on a tangent now but the point is, finding happiness in dreams is a dangerous thing. La Belle Dame Sans Merci. But what about when she is merciful?

I can control how things work in my own fiction. Tragedy is fine and poetic in fiction. Don’t much like it when things are out of my control in real life, though.

Fourth dream journal entry

For a couple of weeks, I kept waking up with a vague sense of regret, or maybe longing. I can’t say for sure, but I think it has to do with that girl I keep seeing. My “dream girl.”

I know, I know, bad and very intentional pun, but it seems to fit and besides, I don’t know what else to call her. That, I think, is the whole problem. Not just not knowing what to call her, I mean not knowing her at all. She’s got to be a manifestation of something in my subconscious or some other Freudian idea that I should be able to remember from Introductory Psychology but don’t.

I’ve been reading up on lucid dreaming some, and been trying to remember the things like checking my watch, looking at books. That kind of stuff. So far, nothing that I can really put my finger on, but I’m hoping that soon I’ll be able to do something different.

Even a dream girl is better than what I have now.

Third dream journal entry

I was in my bed and I woke up from a dream and got out of bed. The floor opened up and I fell through. I was in a grey place, and then I was drifting. I drifted somewhere and then I was back in the valley like before. I saw the redheaded girl, but before I could say anything to her, I woke up again.

I don’t know why I keep having this dream or why I care, but I’d really like to know what it means. Or at least get to finish the thing. There’s something about that girl. I’d like to get to know her better, and I mean that in the non-euphemistic sense. There’s something about her that drives me wild, even when I think about her during the day.

Second dream journal entry

I guess I forgot to write my dreams down the past couple of nights or maybe I didn’t have any. Either way, I had the same dream again tonight.

I was riding on a horse down a path into a valley. The path behind me was hidden behind the bend of the hills, and in front of me there was nothing but grass and bushes and trees. I saw a girl sitting beside the path on a fallen tree limb. She was very fair with red hair and  green eyes like the valley. We looked at one another and then…

Something happened. She was riding my horse and I was walking along side her and we were talking. I don’t think she was speaking English, but she was telling me she loved me, and I was saying the same back. She stopped the horse and leaned over to say something in my ear, but I didn’t hear what. I woke up and tried to go back to sleep and finish the dream but I couldn’t.

First dream journal entry

I had a dream last night, one I think I’ve had before. I don’t know, that’s why I decided to start writing them down.

I was in a valley and everything was green. I don’t know how I’d gotten there, but I’d come from somewhere else and I knew the place I was in was not my home, but it was familiar. At some point, I saw a girl and she came over to me and whispered something in my ear. Then I woke up.

For some reason, I felt like I recognized her from somewhere, that I’d heard the words before, but I can’t say exactly why I thought so.

Damn. I wish I remembered more.

I had a conversation with the devil the other day

I sat down at my usual table and ordered my usual a drink. Orange juice, not beer, as it was still early in the morning. I saw him walking up the street towards me wearing a smile, and immediately I knew something was amiss. The devil grins, now and again, but to be happy with me? I had done nothing in his service, so far as I could recall, so he should have no reason for bliss.

“My boy,” he said, as he sat down beside me, “I just had the most wonderful dream, but I can’t remember what it was.”

“Well devil,” said I, asking the obvious question, “if you can’t remember, how do you know that you dreamed at all?”

“I suppose I don’t,” he said, but nothing more. He ordered a drink and I watched him closely for I could sense he was leading me to a place I didn’t want to go.

“You bring up a good point,” the devil said as his drink arrived, “What is the difference between a dream forgotten and one never begotten?”

“One happened, the other did not,” I replied simply. I wouldn’t allow him to lead me astray.

“But a dream is something that exists solely as a memory, that being yours,” he argued, “For you to forget it would almost seem to invalidate its existence entirely.”

“Almost seem,” I agreed, “but it wouldn’t.”

“In practice, though,” he continued, “would there be any difference between a dream that was unremembered and one that never happened?”

“In practice, no,” I admitted.

“Then did I dream last night, or didn’t I?” the devil asked with a grin.

“God only knows,” I said simply.

I had hoped to make him frown, but he only grinned wider. He finished his drink and left some money on the table, then began to go on his way again.

“God only knows, indeed.”