Get out of my dreams, please
Dreams should be a nice place, for the nice people. A magic consequenceless zone where I get regularly sexed –and regularly sex — a bevy of beautiful and interesting women in a variety of exciting ways. And yet, instead, all these jerks show up and waste 1/3 of 1/3 of my life. Let us now chastise them:
Nothing good has ever happened in a dream car. You are either going straight off a cliff and then falling for like six hours, or it’s a conceit so that you’re trapped while you have to witness something happen/participate in something you’d rather escape.
Or the car’s journey is just a straight metaphor for death, except now made literal, as in when the car stops at its destination (or just before) you will die/wake up.
Get out of my dreams, cars.
If Ric Ocasek is in your dream then that dream is a nightmare.
Get out of my dreams, Cars.
childhood friends grown up but not enough
They are ostensibly my age but have the same face as when we were 13. The same concerns as back then, but also awkwardly guessed stabs at what they’d be into now. Were we really such good friends if I dream that you would brag about the time you talked two lesbians into making out with each other? I mean, I guess its a kind of accomplishment, to convince some people to participate in their own exploitation, but, at 28, to imagine he still thinks that is a bragging right…
Also now I’m thinking that they were probably just making out and he was yelling about it, and cheering,1 while drunk. Oh god I hope he was drunk.
creepy guy with paint drippers for hands and the half closed store he may or may not be robbing (or maybe they’re in league with each other)
I’m not sure what the deal was, and I forget why I was running to get to this weird half-abandoned, halfway through lock-up, old abandoned electronics store (the ghost of the place on 3rd Ave & Pine/Pike that has long since switched over to a phone place?), but I was there. Come to think of it, I was probably on a fetch quest that would inevitably fail to get me some girl [see “ladies”— SEE THEM].
This time failure entailed: me getting to the door, turning around to find the paint drip man waiting there ominously (though I did not yet know what his plastic hand devices did), me deciding that I was being brave by halting a robbery in progress, except the robber was trying to psyche me out (instead of bashing my head in), and then me thinking that maybe this guy was in cahoots with the old man sitting at the counter of the store completely ignoring my looks, and this whole situation, and not dialing for help.
I stood my ground and, for my troubles, got paint dripped on my forearms and hands. Multiple colors from multiple tips. This was a kind of magic paint that soaks into the skin and spreads until it hits the nearest color. Somehow I knew that this meant I was not long for this dream world and immediately bailed out before it could spread past my forearms.
If I want actions to have predictable consequences, if I want cause to beget effect, if I want a narrativizable arc– a coherent progression of events that conforms to the standard notions of how time passes– I’VE GOT REAL LIFE FOR THAT.
Give me slippage. Show me the seams as they rip apart and reconfigure my dumb dreamfabric into a brand new dreamdress.2 Give me the ability to cherry pick moments (in dream and out) and explore and manipulate them at will. Show me the end, and then the beginning, and then the middle– but from different shows, and more granular than that?3
I want to kiss you and then, underwater, attend your funeral with you as my plus one. Call me a starfucker if you must, but why even go to a funeral if you can’t kiss the bride? Also, I didn’t remember you being such good pals with so many cummerbundt sea turtles who all squirt real, snotty tears? Oh no, they’re coming our way and they’re looking for something on which to wipe. Good thing I wore this tuxedo cake.
I don’t actually eat it and yet feel sick in the morning as if I have. There is a better than even odds chance that I’ve been chomping on my pillow in my sleep, convinced it was the world’s driest devil dog, an accomplishment for a snack cake that has never (not once ever) failed to choke me with its dryness. Who buy’s these things when you can just as easily have a ding dong or an oatmeal creme pie?
Please Stop and Together We Can Defeat Devil Dogs in our Lifetime
I can’t vouch for everyone else’s dream police, but mine won’t let me get with you. Not all the way. Generally not even all that close. Fetch quests, skips in time, loaded conversation trees that all go 1,000 steps to nowhere, my dream brain is #3 in the league in cockblocks (#2 Jesus, #1 You are not actually likable and never had a chance and are outsourcing your (100%) share of the culpability).
The last (and only) time someone even blew me in a dream I somehow, also, was the one who was doing it, simultaneously, a rotting log moving slowly in and out our mouths. NOT INTERESTED.
Note: if someone out there was actually sexually assaulting my mouth with a piece of rotted wood while I slept and I incorporated it into my dreams, PLEASE, do not tell me. I am FINE with this lie I’ve created. Well, finer.
Alternatively, there are the dreams where, while not ending in sex, things go so well between myself and a lady of interest that waking up to find out that that is not actually the case is more heartbreaking than most real life things. Just holding hands (with myself, dressed up like you)! Even just holding hands.
On two separate occasions have I murdered someone in a dream where, upon waking, I was genuinely concerned that I had committed a crime and soon be going to prison. In one instance I was able to shake the dream during the course of the day– of course I didn’t murder anyone. Everything about it had been so non-specific. All aspects of the murder itself ebbed back during the course of the day and I was left with nothing but vague guilt (metaphor consistent visual: the guilt is those tide-lines on the dry-formerly-wet part of the beach. Tiny holes).
The other I’m still not sure.
I mean, I am. The person is still alive– or at least was still alive after the dream ended. I didn’t touch him, but I saw him riding his bike across campus like a week or two later. It was a great relief.
I mean, it was very unlikely by that point that I had done it– in the dream I didn’t exactly stash the body real well [dumpster], and you would think a student missing that long would have at least showed up on the news. But even having seen him (he was very distinctive, it was definitely him that I saw) that fucking murderdream was so convincing that I will still (to this day, from time to time) have a stray pang of guilt about it before realizing I didn’t actually kill anyone.
I mean, I’m pretty sure.
I can’t change you! Stop making me able to change you! Stop dangling! It’s unseemly! You’re only embarrassing yourself! AKA me!
Later: Best case scenario: you resolve it. The whole thing, your entire past. It all gets resolved in your dreams. Or, more likely, you come to terms with one dumb thing. When you wake up nothing has changed. Even if the thing you resolved was just a matter of getting right with it in your head– see how long that lasts. How durable will it be when confronted with a reality that isn’t under your (un)control/isn’t self-contained or discretely episodic. If, after all that, it only took a change of perspective to make good, it probably wasn’t that big a deal to begin with.
But what if you have fun with it? Good question. When in DreamRome, right?4 I suppose it depends on your relationship with loss. If you can deal with discovering how amazing your life would be right now if only you had been able to relax and not take everything so seriously– only to lose all of that upon waking– then go for it, person who is already comfortable enough with their decisions that they are almost certainly successful and have little or nothing to regret!
Begin somewhere else! You’re not welcome here!
Nothing is more demoralizing than getting shit done in a dream only to wake up to find that all that work you did was completely pretend. Except for if, in the dream, you grow to do so.
For Real Nothing is more demoralizing than taking that next big step in your life: maturing, meeting your problems head on, confronting and conquering them, while compromising as necessary, deftly, knowing exactly when its required and just how much; you learn new skills, master those you’ve struggled with, incorporate them, toolbox-style, knowing exactly when to utilize each skill (and how) only to wake up to realize you are For Real Still a chickenshit.
You hope it will rub off somehow but it won’t. Growth is for closers. At least there’s NBC’s Thursday night lineup!
some dumb mash-up of my junior high and high school and elementary schools that is impossible to navigate and I desperately attempt to remember what my schedule is today (man class rotations is a dumb stressful thing, apparently)
Man, class rotations is a dumb stressful thing, apparently, because I am still having sweat-drenched dreams in which I can’t for the life of me remember what class I’m supposed to be in. Even though I always guess right for some reason, and even though I somehow never get there late despite the hallways’ inconsistent topology, it’s still real fucking draining. C’mon, dreams. Quit it.
Knock it off, already.
ALSO: I am 90% sure my school didn’t have mens rooms that were some kind of sand-roofed cave with dozens of stadium-filthy stalls and pisstroughs scattered across the desolate, seemingly endless dickscape.6
It subverts all the best parts. Just as you were about to but now not. I guess you’ll never know what a handjob filled with tuna fish feels like — at least not from your fifth grade teacher with your first girlfriend’s waistdown.
It turns your dreams into some dumb self-aware labyrinth, devaluing the dream prime with each intradream wake-up, each meta-dream spawned.
It murders your dream and everyone in it. They may show up again when in some future dream, but it’s not the same. Brain Exercise: is the same true for sleep and the actual people you actually know? THINK ABOUT IT
Now, granted– I previously wrote about the complete lack of merit of dream relationships, but that was based on the premise that you would eventually have to wake up. If, for whatever reason, you never did : then everything wrong is right again. (Though it would still be pretty rad to not have continuity…)
THINK ABOUT IT: When normally you would wake up You don’t. Your body does, and in this way you are able to keep on the lights in there. As your body goes through the motions of Your day — works your job, eats your food, pays your rent, fucks your person or people you fuck, finds new people with whom to dance, j’s You o– meanwhile, somewhere in your skull, or somewhere else, who knows, You continue the dream.
I wonder how your internal dreamreality would incorporate the external dirtreality. Now that the You of it all is staying inside, or is kept (did You decide on this?7), do you think outside things would leak in?
Likely not, in the case of interpersonal stuff, or raw experiences. You’ll have no new memories to draw from (save those you dream for yourself) as those stimuli are blocked from you.
But if external forces shape your physical self– your body is still subject to injury, disease, the coming of death– how will it register in your dream?
Will their broken leg become your motionless dreams?
Will their alzheimer’s sap you of memories to draw from?
Will their chlamydia be your fire level?
When death comes, will the wallpaper peel and the stairs rot?
Will you run once again from arbitrary crocodiles and secret lions?
Will you, now fleeing for keeps, finally find out what happens after that dream moment, when the whole world slows to accommodate your close-call of a botched escape?
Will it feel real when the lions tear into you or will it still feel like waking up?
1. On cheering, in a non-sports context, while sober: Oh man, please tell me how this happens and what your game is. (Note: if your game is being a jokester then fair play but I’m not interested).
2. Now in hypercolor, swan, hypercolor swan
3. Really hourglass it– I want each grain of sand to represent an actual second or millisecond– then break that hourglass, shuffle the sandpile, and by mandala or rake construct s’motherways.
4. When in DreamRome make sure to visit the Trevi Fountain — three coins makes all them horses come real. The Tritons stab you with their tridents and you’ve never felt more loved. Three tears in the fountain and comes to life Oceanus, ready to fuck. Oceanus, ready to fuck every single one of us who has ever stepped foot in, soiled his Atlantic Ocean. Once it has begun, he cannot go back to stone until he’s completed this vengeatory fuckfest. But Don’t Worry! His dick, while still as cold and hard as stone, has a sweet spot that will make him fill you as soon as you touch it. The dream won’t end until you do, so… time to cum to terms with that!5
6. (It’s scaped with dicks).
7. And if this separation was not by choice, would you fight to get back your body and for how long?