This dream happened a number of days ago and I've not had the time to write it out. So here goes!
In my dream,
I was in a convenience store.
I cannot recall the circumstances nor the scenery of this part now as I've let too much time pass but I do remember what happens at the store.
Some police officers come in and start shouting.
I don't exactly remember why, but I became the focus of their shouting.
One of them pushed me to the ground and as I lay on my back, he hovered the barrel of his shotgun over my chest.
In defiance I told him to suck it.
He didn't care for my words and so he pulled the trigger. Three times.
I remember the feeling of my chest absorbing the rounds and next thing I know, I'm on a steel table in the hospital.
I was dead.
This of course is not the end of the scene so naturally the dream goes on and I am inside my body.
I have the knowledge of what happened in the convenient store and also the awareness that I cannot move my body.
I can still recall the sensation of the back of my tongue and this was the first indication that I was alive on this table.
I say it like I was solving a puzzle because in the dream I had to figure out how I arrived in the room I was in with all the medical staff around me.
I could hear them talking.
I figured out that my eyes still worked but I could not blink.
A good friend of mine, that I know in real life, was a nurse in the hospital room.
After I gained control of my eyes, I made it a goal to fixate on different parts of the wall behind where he was standing.
I thought this would show him that since me eyes were looking in different locations every time he looked at me and then looked away, he would understand that I was still alive.
The doctor was the first one to notice the eye movements though and I remember him speaking out to me about moving them.
I couldn't do it though.
Next thing I know, I am beginning to pick my self up from the table.
I am now belly down and trying to do a pushup but my legs won't move.
I remember getting most of the way up as warm liquid poured from my open mouth.
I don't think it was blood, but the sensation of the thickness passing over my lips and drooling down onto the table is something that really stuck out to me in the dream.
Nothing special happened from this point on and my dream morphed into a completely unrelated topic so...
The end.
The dream parallels another dream I had of the same friend. He was with me in a convenience store and a mugger came in wielding a shotgun. This friend wrestled the gun from the mugger. I can't recall now which one of us got shot in that one, but one of us did. I thought he was a hero in my dream. I told him about it in real life and he chuckled.
Thursday, December 26, 2013
Monday, December 16, 2013
Chapter 1
I was sitting Indian style at the end of the dock, the water a black expanse out in front of me. I remember seeing my spine protruding from my back almost like a dorsal fin as I labored with a fishing pole and feeling that the hump was a bit unusual to look at from this angle. As I sat with my legs crossed, I could feel the slap of water on the supports of the dock as if my body was spliced into the aged lumber and I remember the sensation of toes digging deep into the soft Chesapeake mud. Thinking back on it now, I remember feeling as if I was the weather worn dock that had a great many stories to tell.
There was a soft wind from out in the bay that smelled like a moist antique shop and it came up through the boards of the dock and lifted the back of my shirt ever so gently. The moon shone bright in the dark sky, illuminating silver eyes out on the water that blinked whenever I blinked. Whatever they were, they would disappear and be followed by a loud splash. I was terrified, but the me that was terrified was not the same boy sitting on the dock.
The perspective in the dream at this time bounced between two bodies. When the emotion of fear came to me, I inhabited a new body; one just below the surface of the black water. I could see the me on the dock, hunched and holding a fishing pole. My face was a blur of darkness and as I focused on it, it became more distorted. I tried to focus on the space next to where my face should be but it was still not coming in to focus. What I could see, from this submerged position, was that the pole didn't have any line running through the eyelets and that the body on the dock looked disfigured and growing more so by the second as if it were metamorphosing before my eyes. The vision snapped to a more remote and omniscient perspective looking down on what was taking place. I could see my spine protruded out far enough and then doubled back so that my chest touched the base of my pelvis; it looked as if I was being crushed under a great weight.
The omniscient view did not last very long and the twisted body on the dock was erased and a quiet house replaced the scenery. I wasn't alone in the house. There were two other people somewhere, but my body was restricted to the carpet in the living room. The sun was heavy in the window and the cool temperature of the carpet below my outstretched body was wonderful. I lay on my back looking up at the popcorn textured ceiling. My body was motionless and felt too heavy to move. It felt very similar to the time I smoked too much and felt a euphoric wave of electricity paralyze the desire to move even a single cell in my body.
During the euphoria, my high was interrupted by the growing presence of an uncomfortable heat and as I attempted to lift my head, I could smell smoke coming from another room but could not lift myself up to see where it was coming from. I began to panic and heard loud popping coming from the other room that was followed by the undeniable sound of sizzling and was instantly released from the prison on the floor and snapped to where the two others were, only to find them ablaze and dripping.
I woke from this dream in the middle of a small clearing in the forest across the street from my home. My feet were cold and the sun was still several hours from warming up the leather seats of the Buick. This is not the first time I've woken to a different scenery from what I fell asleep in and I know it won't be the last. I don't mind though, it keeps things interesting. It's how I found the half buried station wagon surrounded by undisturbed loam and hiding beneath the droopy arms of that massive Willow.
There was a soft wind from out in the bay that smelled like a moist antique shop and it came up through the boards of the dock and lifted the back of my shirt ever so gently. The moon shone bright in the dark sky, illuminating silver eyes out on the water that blinked whenever I blinked. Whatever they were, they would disappear and be followed by a loud splash. I was terrified, but the me that was terrified was not the same boy sitting on the dock.
The perspective in the dream at this time bounced between two bodies. When the emotion of fear came to me, I inhabited a new body; one just below the surface of the black water. I could see the me on the dock, hunched and holding a fishing pole. My face was a blur of darkness and as I focused on it, it became more distorted. I tried to focus on the space next to where my face should be but it was still not coming in to focus. What I could see, from this submerged position, was that the pole didn't have any line running through the eyelets and that the body on the dock looked disfigured and growing more so by the second as if it were metamorphosing before my eyes. The vision snapped to a more remote and omniscient perspective looking down on what was taking place. I could see my spine protruded out far enough and then doubled back so that my chest touched the base of my pelvis; it looked as if I was being crushed under a great weight.
The omniscient view did not last very long and the twisted body on the dock was erased and a quiet house replaced the scenery. I wasn't alone in the house. There were two other people somewhere, but my body was restricted to the carpet in the living room. The sun was heavy in the window and the cool temperature of the carpet below my outstretched body was wonderful. I lay on my back looking up at the popcorn textured ceiling. My body was motionless and felt too heavy to move. It felt very similar to the time I smoked too much and felt a euphoric wave of electricity paralyze the desire to move even a single cell in my body.
During the euphoria, my high was interrupted by the growing presence of an uncomfortable heat and as I attempted to lift my head, I could smell smoke coming from another room but could not lift myself up to see where it was coming from. I began to panic and heard loud popping coming from the other room that was followed by the undeniable sound of sizzling and was instantly released from the prison on the floor and snapped to where the two others were, only to find them ablaze and dripping.
I woke from this dream in the middle of a small clearing in the forest across the street from my home. My feet were cold and the sun was still several hours from warming up the leather seats of the Buick. This is not the first time I've woken to a different scenery from what I fell asleep in and I know it won't be the last. I don't mind though, it keeps things interesting. It's how I found the half buried station wagon surrounded by undisturbed loam and hiding beneath the droopy arms of that massive Willow.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Am I OCD for flipping light switches and turning knobs?
I do not know how I just arrived at this memory/tick of mine, but I did. So naturally I am going to share it with you. As as child I remember many instances of flipping a switch or turning a knob and thinking to myself just how many times that knob/switch has been used in its life. I can recall turning the knob for more heat in our family's old minivan and instantly wanting to sit there and match how many times it had been turned.
I still do this. The other day I was in my girlfriend's car and turned the knob—instantly I thought about matching how many times it had been turned. I don't know if the impulse is OCD or giving credit to how long the knob or switch has lasted through all the uses. Part of me romanticizes sitting there; the engineered plastic ridges; the discolored surface around the knob faded from fingers jamming and slapping, desperately attempting to turn up the heat in the dark; and flipping/turning said knob as a montage of moments come and go on the projector screen while Lost In My Mind by The Head and the Heart plays.
I'm weird but I feel that it connects me to all the time spent being that knob. Let me clarify though. I don't literally think about the life of the knob, and what emotions it must have felt over the years, but the events that took place around it (okay maybe I do think a little about the knob and what it felt...so what!).
The knob itself is there as a catapult, firing me into the impulse of action! Oh man...that one sounded almost romantic. Phew!
I better stop writing or who knows what will come out.
I still do this. The other day I was in my girlfriend's car and turned the knob—instantly I thought about matching how many times it had been turned. I don't know if the impulse is OCD or giving credit to how long the knob or switch has lasted through all the uses. Part of me romanticizes sitting there; the engineered plastic ridges; the discolored surface around the knob faded from fingers jamming and slapping, desperately attempting to turn up the heat in the dark; and flipping/turning said knob as a montage of moments come and go on the projector screen while Lost In My Mind by The Head and the Heart plays.
I'm weird but I feel that it connects me to all the time spent being that knob. Let me clarify though. I don't literally think about the life of the knob, and what emotions it must have felt over the years, but the events that took place around it (okay maybe I do think a little about the knob and what it felt...so what!).
The knob itself is there as a catapult, firing me into the impulse of action! Oh man...that one sounded almost romantic. Phew!
I better stop writing or who knows what will come out.
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Why owning a dog sucks part II
So if you've read some of my other postings, you might have noticed that I've talked about my dog a few times (I swear I have a life outside being a dog owner...it just consists of writing blogs and reading books). Tonight is no different. Well it is different because he did something different. Terribly different.
It goes like this. I emptied an old milk container of spoiled milk into the compost pile in my back yard. This compost is a mixture of all the usual fixings a compost pile might have, plus dog turds. So I dump the milk out and that's that.
Flash forward about two hours and I let my dog outside. He finds it and enjoys himself to not just the milk, but the dead grass AND THE DIRT. I went over to inspect the pile to see if maybe he just kicked the dirt out of the way. He didn't. He ate the damn dirt. I would have also included a picture of the dirt in his teeth but he came in licking his lips and drank some water from his bowl.
I caught him in the act and told him with loud words that if he threw up in my room in the middle of the night, he is staying outside in the 20° weather. I don't give a damn.
Idiot
It goes like this. I emptied an old milk container of spoiled milk into the compost pile in my back yard. This compost is a mixture of all the usual fixings a compost pile might have, plus dog turds. So I dump the milk out and that's that.
Flash forward about two hours and I let my dog outside. He finds it and enjoys himself to not just the milk, but the dead grass AND THE DIRT. I went over to inspect the pile to see if maybe he just kicked the dirt out of the way. He didn't. He ate the damn dirt. I would have also included a picture of the dirt in his teeth but he came in licking his lips and drank some water from his bowl.
I caught him in the act and told him with loud words that if he threw up in my room in the middle of the night, he is staying outside in the 20° weather. I don't give a damn.
Idiot
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Itchy ass-cheek and then a piece of flash fiction
So I haven't been able to sit down and write as much as I'd like to, with the addition of this new job that keeps me between 10 and 11 hours a day. I'm not going to complain about actually HAVING A JOB but only about having roughly an hour to myself (after I finish daily chores and make food, etc) is not ideal. I'm backing up, metaphorically speaking, with ideas that will never see the light of day because...well I literally drive to work in the dark and drive home from work in the dark. For those keeping track, yes that was me explaining a metaphor with the perfect example. I'm also terribly exhausted right now and words are sounding delicious in my head.
Okay so to the point of why I started writing, yes! I am about to tell you what happened to me the other day, in the hopes of connecting. Sharing a bond with you the reader. Going for frozen yogurt and laughing over my crushed candy choices together under an umbrella (that has a massive runny trail of bird poopie).
It goes like this. So I was at Lowe's for supplies the other day. My ass itched, so I itched it. When I did this, the itch got worse! Has that ever happened to you? Scratch an inch, only for that itch to grow in intensity? It was on the cheek. Nothing gross, like the thought of me digging way up there and then shaking the guy's hand who helped me load up everything, who in turn shook the hand of another man and before you know it....well you know it, so I don't need to tell you. You're a big boy/girl.
I walked up and down the isles. I must have scratched that same damn spot 10 times. Anyone else might over exaggerate and say 100 times. Not me! Each time it felt like I relieved the itchy feeling for approximately .0000005 seconds before it came back. Whatever...my ass itched.
HA HA these are the things that I have been holding to myself. OMG aren't you so lucky I shared this garbage with you? Well let's be honest...you are still reading. So who does that make the joke on? YOU KNOW WHAT! No one is the joke on. If the joke was a switch on a railroad track, it would be flipped no where. It would be dangling in the middle and desperate to connect with one side or the other. Yearning to be either on or off. Not today it won't not be not on but not off. I think I did that negative thing correct there.
I will leave you with a piece of flash fiction I'm going to spontaneously write...after I use the restroom.
Okay I'm back. LET'S DO THIS!
When the trail could go no further he stopped and sat at the edge of an overhang. Down in the valleys of green, the landscape maintained the illusion of crawling forward as he had only experienced on this trail of the High Divide. To the North East was Mt. Larrabee and directly East was Winchester Mountain. Beyond that, the cutouts of endless mountain ranges, each a little taller, greedily positioned themselves to get closer to the blue of an afternoon Spring sky. He was positioned in a tree limb that stretched out over a tall vertical cliff. He had crawled out to be in the breeze and to avoid the biting flies. In a day dream he thought about how perfect it would be to let go. After all, he had hiked alone and didn't leave a note about where he was headed. It would be several hundred feet of weightlessness down to a cropping of uneven boulders that had no visible connecting trail. It began to sound romantic in his head and he fantasized about the fall and hard smashing; the amount of time passing before someone stumbled upon his body; the acknowledgment that it was done out of pleasure; how it was his decision to make that could not be undone.
Okay so to the point of why I started writing, yes! I am about to tell you what happened to me the other day, in the hopes of connecting. Sharing a bond with you the reader. Going for frozen yogurt and laughing over my crushed candy choices together under an umbrella (that has a massive runny trail of bird poopie).
It goes like this. So I was at Lowe's for supplies the other day. My ass itched, so I itched it. When I did this, the itch got worse! Has that ever happened to you? Scratch an inch, only for that itch to grow in intensity? It was on the cheek. Nothing gross, like the thought of me digging way up there and then shaking the guy's hand who helped me load up everything, who in turn shook the hand of another man and before you know it....well you know it, so I don't need to tell you. You're a big boy/girl.
I walked up and down the isles. I must have scratched that same damn spot 10 times. Anyone else might over exaggerate and say 100 times. Not me! Each time it felt like I relieved the itchy feeling for approximately .0000005 seconds before it came back. Whatever...my ass itched.
HA HA these are the things that I have been holding to myself. OMG aren't you so lucky I shared this garbage with you? Well let's be honest...you are still reading. So who does that make the joke on? YOU KNOW WHAT! No one is the joke on. If the joke was a switch on a railroad track, it would be flipped no where. It would be dangling in the middle and desperate to connect with one side or the other. Yearning to be either on or off. Not today it won't not be not on but not off. I think I did that negative thing correct there.
I will leave you with a piece of flash fiction I'm going to spontaneously write...after I use the restroom.
Okay I'm back. LET'S DO THIS!
When the trail could go no further he stopped and sat at the edge of an overhang. Down in the valleys of green, the landscape maintained the illusion of crawling forward as he had only experienced on this trail of the High Divide. To the North East was Mt. Larrabee and directly East was Winchester Mountain. Beyond that, the cutouts of endless mountain ranges, each a little taller, greedily positioned themselves to get closer to the blue of an afternoon Spring sky. He was positioned in a tree limb that stretched out over a tall vertical cliff. He had crawled out to be in the breeze and to avoid the biting flies. In a day dream he thought about how perfect it would be to let go. After all, he had hiked alone and didn't leave a note about where he was headed. It would be several hundred feet of weightlessness down to a cropping of uneven boulders that had no visible connecting trail. It began to sound romantic in his head and he fantasized about the fall and hard smashing; the amount of time passing before someone stumbled upon his body; the acknowledgment that it was done out of pleasure; how it was his decision to make that could not be undone.
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