Ladytron, Quicksand and the General Apocalypse That Is My Dream Life
This is what I remember and all of it seemed to last for several months:
- Playing a show with Ladytron. They taught me songs from Velocifero and let me play the Korgs. But this pleasant setting wasn’t meant to last. We were in the desert and the dead would soon arrive.
- They came by the thousands and flooded the venue until no one was left standing. I managed to escape through a set of double doors and lost my shoe. I flew a great distance, but they were everywhere.
- I rested in a tree. I heard a muffled sound and saw a hand waving back and forth. I waved my hand over the quicksand and watched as the sand, water and clay gave way to a salt explosion. A man’s head was exposed. After I pulled him out, we traveled together the rest of the way. His name was Max.
- We found an abandoned hut and turned it into a safe haven. We removed the bodies and created a massive fire around us. As long as that fire burned we could get some sleep and develop a plan for tomorrow.
- The next morning we found a car and drove it out of the desert. Shortly afterwards, we arrived in the city. Max drove to his house to gather supplies. But not without running down anything and everything that got in his way.
- Finally, a false awakening. I woke up, undressed and jumped in the shower. Anne announced her arrival at the door, but I wasn’t expecting her. I closed my eyes under the hot water and woke up.
I had too much to dream last night. Again.
It began with a very short lucid dream where I walked through Parisian markets. I felt light and free. But my hair was too long. I ran my hands over my head and gave myself a new style. Short and sleek. Then I shopped for fruits and vegetables until something woke me up.
Back to sleep and on the streets of Central America. I’m meeting my father. We haven’t seen each other for years, but agreed we should meet to discuss the terms of our relationship. He met me on a busy road and we walked for hours. By the end of the evening, I loathed him. After I sent him away, I roamed around and discovered an open air restaurant. It was cooking midnight dinners. I ate to my heart’s content.
Before heading home I stopped by a convenience store. I needed laundry detergent, cereal, milk, and a few other items. I was on the last aisle looking for detergent when a foul smell invaded my lungs. It was sudden and unforgivable. I covered my nose and found what I needed. Exiting the aisle, I almost bumped into a man. He carried stationary, cans of food and bottles. When he looked at me, I knew he had died within the last few days. He walked away, but the rotten smell of flesh would not disappear. At the checkout stand, I felt sick. He was standing behind me. I paid for my things and left, desperate for some fresh air.
But he walked on the same road. He passed me and I felt sick. It was too intense for me, so I took a detour. I thought he was following me, but when I turned around no one was there and that terrible smell never ceased.
It was snowing. Sat on a short brick fence, I waited for the guards to walk the perimeter. I took a peek through the window. The queen was sleeping on a white sofa. A small fire burned inside. A young girl played on a green rug in the center of the room. She looked up at me and smiled. I motioned for her to come outside. A few minutes later she came and handed me a pair of mittens.
“I thought you might need these,” she said. She was wrapped in pink cotton, thick and comfortable with a white hat. “Have you ever been in a snowball fight?”
“Never. But I made a snowman once.”
The guards walked by as we made our snowman. I thought they were going to kick me out. But they just nodded and continued to walk along the gates. Later, after we wrote our names in the snow we ran throughout the palace gardens chasing one another, dodging snowballs and laughing. It seemed we were playing directly under the moon’s gentle light.
As she wiped the snow from her shoes she said, “Oh, it’s tea time. Let’s go.”
We went into the palace and waited for the Queen. The two of us sat quietly as she dropped a cube of sugar into her cup and stirred. I was so curious about all the doors I’d passed on my way in and the Queen must have sensed it. She said, “This place is quite large. Would you like to see?”
She guided me through long corridors and into rooms that led into more rooms and hallways. To my delight the palace was a wondrous maze. When I entered one of the rooms on my own and placed my palm against the window pane, the dream shifted.
I’m inking a large canvas. It seems to move for me. A tap on the shoulder interrupts the motion. A young woman with brown hair and golden eyes has placed a notebook in front of me.
“Hey, just wondering if you’d write down your details for me. I figured since we’re heading to the same school, we could bunk together?”
She placed the pencil in my hand and I scribbled the date, my name and phone number.
“Not ready for the New Year, I see,” she said. She had her finger on the 2010, I’d written. “It’s been 2011 for two months.”
I changed the date and stared at the numbers, perplexed. The class instructor came over to observe the canvas. Then I took a good look at it; a garden with snow-covered trees, children, and the moon.
I’ll be damned. I should have checked my email this morning. Not last night. The discovery of another pleasant rejection awaited me. I laughed it off, as usual, and reminded myself that perhaps I’d chosen the wrong journal for this story. Editing is inevitable.
In the words of Thoreau I must Simplify! Simplify! Simplify!
Last night’s lucid dreams: When my cousin T and sister arrived I put my jacket on and we walked a few blocks to the neighborhood street party. I dug in my purse for a lighter. Instead, I found a handful of unopened letters.
Puzzled, my sister asked, “Why are you carrying your mail?”
Letters from journals around the world were hiding inside my purse? I decided to open one before we reached the party. Of course, reading in dreams can prove difficult, so I couldn’t really decipher the contents. I decided to wait until I had enough light.
I heard “I see neon lights, whenever you walk by…” when we arrived. We started dancing to The Pretenders, martinis in hand, neon lights swirling against our skin. I succeeded in having a perfect night dancing on the street from Janet Jackson’s “Escapade” video.
Perfect until I saw her. Surrounded by beautiful men and women, she wore fish net stockings, ankle boots, a short skirt, and a pink t-shirt that hung so her milky shoulder was exposed. Utterly irresistible. The last time I saw her I swore I’d ignore her. I ordered another martini and rummaged through the potential letters of rejection to distract myself. I opened one and read: Dear _____ . Unfortunately, due to the high volume of submissions we received, even quality work often has to be declined. Please be assured…
Martinis goes well with rejection, don’t they? I didn’t get an opportunity to open another letter because she’d found her way through the crowd.
“Why are you avoiding me?”
“I’m busy reading mail,” I responded. She was getting under my skin. She reached out and directed my eyes to her. It was happening again and I felt vulnerable. I started to walk away, but she followed me.
“Remember all those things you said? You said you were…”
“In love with you, yes.”
I kept walking. We reached Jake’s, a bar and rendezvous, near my place. My sister was already there. I had a long night ahead of me. It took place like this: she seduced me and invited me into her world. I resisted as long as possible. Then I kissed her. We had an amazing time, great conversation and laughs. Then she suddenly pushed me away and disappeared.
This time, she disappeared and the police arrived to arrest people. My sister and I made a run for it. We exited through the back door, hands held, and we leaped into the sky and landed safely at my door. I’m completely lucid at this point.
I dialed the phone. The other blonde answered, surprised to hear from me. She said, “We don’t do this anymore.”
I explained, “I know, but I want things to be different. Can you talk, now?”
We talked for nearly two hours.
I fell asleep. I woke up and found a beautiful woman playing with my hair. These types of false awakenings are mind boggling. You think you’re awake to start the morning, but you’ve just entered another dream sequence. It turned out to be a lengthy and sexy lucid dream…
The subconscious origins of political thought
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I had too much to dream last night.
- As soon as I fell asleep I was lucid. I studied my face in the mirror. There was a large bruise on my left cheek, eyes puffy. I was fascinated with the detail of these injuries. Then the door busted open and a big man walked in. He kept screaming, “You’ll be sorry for what you did.” He tackled me on the bed and hit me in the mouth. I felt my teeth break so I sat up to avoid swallowing them. By then, I could hear the front door slamming. He was gone. But my face was a complete disaster. As I looked into the mirror I tried to move my jaw, but it was broken. Most of my teeth were in my hands. I studied my face again, completely lucid and decided to try to put my face back together. A young friend walked into the room. She started crying when she saw me. I told her everything was going to be fine.
- The dead came back to haunt Los Angeles. They were fast, cunning and difficult to kill. We’re eating dinner at my mother’s house when someone knocks on the door. When I answered it, a dark shadow stood before me. He stepped into the light and I noticed his intense eyes. He grabbed my throat and squeezed. I kicked him and sent him flying against the wall. I asked him what he wanted and he kicked me in the stomach. I looked for something to pin him down with and found a broom. I used it to keep him still. Then I struck him down for good.
- The streets were filled with screaming children. Women ran carrying their children; men ran with torches and knives. Many of them began to climb trees when they couldn’t run anymore. I found her, the other blonde, hid on top of a tree. I asked her to come down and follow me. She wouldn’t listen. The dead began to climb the trees.
- She fell off the tree and broke her leg. I picked her up and took her as far as I could go. We flew over unmoving freeways, the Getty Center and the downtown buildings. They were everywhere.
- This stressful adventure continued until I woke up this morning. I battled with these dead people and never once found that I could communicate with them. They seemed more frustrated than usual.
Is this all because NREM and REM sleep were unbalanced? Is this why we have nightmares?
In no particular order the following dream sequences occurred at some point yesterday:
- I found myself talking to someone I couldn’t see. I told a frightening story about a woman who saw demons by her bed. At that moment I visualized the house where this story takes place. I’m inside her bedroom. I whispered, “Oh f*&$%!” because I realized something was coming up the stairs. It waited several seconds behind the door and then proceeded to knock it down. It slammed against me. We’re free-falling down a dark place where this being continues to shake violently. My neck tore–the skin pulled away with needles. I can’t see anything, but I smile. I know I fell asleep on the sofa reading about nightmares on a gloomy afternoon. I let it happen and when my eyes opened I’m slumped on the sofa with the book resting on my lap.
- A girl from Montecito. We speak on the phone a few times. This conversation doesn’t make any sense until later in the dreams.
- I’m sitting in my office. While checking the messages the phone rings. A man named Elijah tells me a package has arrived. He manages the local music shop. “When can you pick it up?” “What time do you close?” “10:33″ “Perfect. I’ll come by tonight after work.”
- My sister, her friend and I walked into the music shop. I asked for Elijah, but no one knows that name. A large man named Hank says, “Are you here for this?” and places a copy of an old Dungan Bard record. It’s in perfect condition. He opens it and shows me the authenticity certificate, the insert, limited edition book and a few other collectibles. “If this for you I need to know where this record will be played.” Since I don’t have a record player, I lie and say it’s a gift (the Montecito girl). “I need to make sure this gets a good home. Otherwise, I can’t sell it to you.” I tried to charm Hank into selling me the record. “You seem sincere, but I need proof.” When I believed he’d agreed to trust me, he rang up the sale and said,” That’s $4.50.” I opened the box and noticed he’d given me something else. It was a small painting of an African-American man (Dungan Bard) almost sleeping, but looking out of the portrait, directly at me. “What have you done?”
- More time passed and Hank would not give me the record. Reluctantly, I left without the record and headed straight home.
- I lived on the first floor of this apartment building. The Montecito girl waited by the door. She looked terrified, but didn’t say anything. “What are you doing here?” “I told you I was coming, remember? I’m here to see Milton, but I can’t get to the second floor.” I set my bag down and led her to the elevators with posted signs that read: Out of Order. We walked over to the stairs, but they were in shambles, broken and unusable. “Something bad must have happened.” She began to sob. “Listen, give me a boost. I’m going to take a look.” There was a piece of broken landing I intended to use. She pushed me up and I swung on the edge. Briefly, I stood and watched in awe. The second floor was missing. She wanted to see, but I had a bad feeling. It looked like a second floor had never existed. I studied closely and noticed broken rubble. I knew someone or something must have blown up the entire second floor. A clean job, too. I pulled her up to see and she couldn’t stop crying. “What does this mean? Is this a joke? Where’s Milton?”
- I met my youngest sister at La Brea Tar Pits. She told me they were excavating a new find. No one was there, but the doors were open. We went in and saw that the earth around us was bubbling. As we walked, our shoes melted and left us barefoot to feel small things wiggling around us. Snails, earthworms and the like. It was completely disgusting and uncomfortable, but I believed this experience was necessary. Maybe this was a way to get closer to the earth? Then someone communicated something odd to me. “I think I can select both of you and get you back to solid ground.” I nodded and felt an invisible force lift us and place somewhere safely. I looked out and saw the bubbling island we were on, the surrounding water with whales and knew that I was inside a computer program. Someone had used the cursor to move us from one place to another. These computer themed dreams are appearing more often. There’s much to consider here…
I continued reading McNamara’s book on nightmares before falling asleep last night. He discusses some amazing theories about the function of nightmares. Are they functional? What causes nightmares? Why do children have them? These are just a few of the questions posed so far…
No nightmares this time, but instead a constant reliving of past memories with family and former co-workers. Pretty mundane, day-to-day activities except for the occasional joy ride with an old boss. He kept handing me money for small favors, i.e. parking his car, waiting in the car, introducing him to strange women, inviting him to parties and creating an exit for him when he wanted to leave. Very strange, indeed. The last party we attended was nearly 70% female which made him very happy. He didn’t say goodbye when he left, but called the next day to asked whether I’d received the money he left with the host. And yes, I was handed a crisp one hundred-dollar bill on my way out.
Then I found myself sitting around a BBQ with family and friends. I made a trip to the restroom and was startled by an older man who waited just outside the door. I said hello and walked away, but he put his hands around my waist and held me in place. I asked, “What the hell is your problem?” He gripped harder and spun me around to face him. The slimy bastard tried to kiss me, but instead met my elbow with reasonable force. When he pushed me, I busted my lip on the door. I ran off and started screaming. My cousin C and mother came to me, but I couldn’t understand what they were asking. Obviously, I was too angry to listen. I noticed he was already sitting on the lawn chair next to my aunt. I charged at him, but my uncle caught me before I could do any damage. I screamed a lengthy list of profanities and stormed off.
He wore a pair of white shorts, a navy blue polo shirt and tennis shoes–dressed like a posh tennis player from the 80’s. I suppose this could be considered the kind of nightmare, typically experienced by women who are attacked by unidentified men. Later, while I carried my cousin’s baby I inquired about who he was.
No one knew.
The most striking feature of this particular dream was my reaction to the incident. I really wanted to inflict some harm on this man.
I’m devising a thought experiment to test whether we can communicate with a dreamer, as he/she drifts off to sleep. Have you experienced that moment where you fall asleep, but still capable of communicating with someone who is awake? The dreamer is partly inside the dream world while speaking to someone in waking reality. There’s something truly fascinating about this experience.
Have you experienced this personally? With someone else?
Before I went to bed last night I began reading Patrick McNamara’s Nightmares: The Science and Solution of Those Frightening Visions During Sleep and experienced the classic case of pre-sleep high sensitivity. My dreams were stressful involving family and friends and inevitably waking me into a state of shock. I refused to go back to bed in order to avoid those jagged teeth that dragged my parents to their death.
It began as any other day. My family thought it would nice to visit the local aquarium. My cousin T came along with a few other friends. Nearly a dozen of us were walking around this amazing aquarium, awed by the beasts that swam so closely against this thick, protective glass. We entered a large room with a sky-high ceiling and a massive tank at its center. Inside, there were white sharks swimming with their mouths open, teeth exposed for everyone to see.
One of the staff members asked if I wanted to get a closer look. My cousin T and I decided to go first. We walked across an open platform and watched as they swam around us. We were fascinated, until one came too close to her and sent her flying backwards. It swam away and came back, leaping out of the water and onto the platform. It wiggled frantically from side to side gaining on her and tearing her shoe off. I ran to her, grabbed her arm and pulled hard. She screamed out in pain, but we managed to leap off the platform just in time. By then, too many things had gone wrong.
The tanks were bursting sending the sharks in many directions. Sea life was everywhere. Eels, hammerhead sharks, and big round black fish. We ran fast to reach the top of the stairs, but the place had flooded with water. If we didn’t find something to float on, we would drown. All I could hear was the sound of running water and children screaming. T and I found a large piece of wood and floated on it. A dark fish swam near us, harmless it seemed, but we didn’t take any chances. We moved away and noticed that my sister and parents were struggling with a large shark. My sister tried her best to push it away from her body with some success. I grabbed a dagger (or willed one into existence) and leaped down to them. But it was too late. The shark went into the water and took my parents with it, leaving my sister lying still. I heard T’s scream. I was screaming, too.
It was too late.
I was eager to get up this morning, although I was tired. I wasn’t going to take any chances entering that nightmare again. Was this nightmare induced by my personal sensitivity before sleep? Truly, am I this sensitive?
If, as McNamara argues, chronic nightmares do not necessarily indicate psychopathology or neuropsychiatric disorders where does this leave those who actively and perhaps unwillingly participate in nightmares into adulthood? We’re not crazy, right? We function normally throughout our waking lives, but perhaps too often inhabit terrible worlds of destruction and despair. Ah, but this must sound quite dramatic to normal dreamers…
I’m finishing the last chapter of American Dreamers by Kelly Bulkeley. He builds a good case for looking at the American Dream through a dream lens. How else can we know and study ourselves, and understand our waking realities? Dreams are the key element. But I’ve been an active dreamer since childhood, so I’ve learned through experience how to reap the benefits of dreaming and how insightful they truly are.
If only everyone could remember their dreams…
Which brings me to last night’s escapades. I’m shopping at a Los Angeles grocery store. A young boy is holding my hand and telling me a story. When he looks up at me, I recognize him. He’s my son and has appeared in countless dreams throughout my life. I feel an immense love for this child and enjoy a relatively mundane day at the grocery store. On the drive to my mother’s house he says, “I saw one of your friends the other day. She told me she was sorry for what she did. I think you should forgive her.” I smiled and admitted that I’d already called her to make amends. What a sweet child…
Somewhere between this adventure and the next, I found myself sitting on a bed listening to my heartbeat. It grew so loud it began to hurt. I called out to Anne, but she couldn’t hear me. Finally, she came in and found me on the floor clutching my chest. I grabbed her hand and pressed it against me. She began to cry, but kept her hand there. I woke up with my hand against my chest, breathing heavily, but relieved.
This is the second dream this month that centers around my heart.
