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seabird78It's true, I don't go to sleep to dream very much, not because I don't want to, but because I have trouble turning my brain off, letting go of the here and now long enough to descend into that particular state of consciousness. It's both a blessing and a curse...the latter because I never get the quality rest that I need, the former because it's a bit of a defense mechanism, protecting me from the disturbing scenes and strange images that often play out behind my eyes when I give myself over to Mister Sandman.
Take my dream from last night as an example...
I found myself in a dank room with lots of exposed brick, tall steel pipes running horizontally and vertically along the walls, and a small cot, mattress bare, aside from a small pillow like you might have in a doctor's examination room. It wasn't familiar, but I was aware that this was my workspace, also aware that I was me, but I was also Julie, the main character in my novel, and that I was likely in the bowels of the Cicero Stadium, down the hall from a room with an Olympic-sized swimming pool.
I was waiting for instructions of some sort, having just said goodbye to a barrel-chested Clark Kent lookalike, who was headed down the hall to make use of the pool with some friends. I watched him go, wishing that I wasn't bound by obligation to stay behind and work. But at the same time, I had the sense that my soon-to-be assigned duties were too important to be neglected, that my role as an employee was essential. With this in mind, I settled back on the cot, staring up at the slate-colored ceiling.
Suddenly there was a woman in the room. I sat up, swinging my legs to the floor. She was standing near one of the vertical pipes, fiddling with a knob that controlled the flow of water running through it.
"You need to have this on," she said, and was gone.
A thick gas started streaming from the joints in the pipes, filling the room with a thick fog. This made it hard to see and breathe, and so I covered my mouth, horrified to find a brick wall where the door used to be.
I started to panic -- until I noticed that the wall had an opening near the ceiling, a hinged panel, kind of like the one you'd find on a mailbox. I knew I had to reach it, especially when the room started filling with water, rising to engulf my legs up to the ankles. I found a couple footholds in the brick and started climbing. I was making steady progress until some thick orange sludge erupted from the panel opening. It trickled down the wall in regular intervals, leaving a trail of slime in its wake. There was no avoiding this goop, it got in my mouth and my eyes, burning and suffocating.
I ignored this discomfort, continuing my struggle toward the top. It seemed that for every inch I climbed, I slid down two more. The water continued rising, and I spit toxic sludge everywhere to keep it from going down my throat. I could feel it smeared across my cheeks and nose, but there was no time to scrub it off. My only option was to keep going.
Eventually I got close enough to the panel to yank it open. I wedged myself through the tight space, hanging half in and half out of the dreadful room. I took a moment to catch my breath, and then pushed myself into a somersault, rolling down the wall, landing awkwardly on the floor. I was in the hall outside the room, staring up at the florescent lights when the woman from earlier discovered me.
She was surprised and apologetic, insisting that the pipes must be leaking, that she had no idea what else could have caused the gas and the water. She re-entered the room and turned off the pipes.
"There's no more water," she said. "Why don't you lie down and get some rest." I didn't trust her, but when I peeked through the doorway, I saw that the floor was dry and the air was clear.
Back in the room the cot was stiff and uncomfortable. I climbed the wall, reaching the panel quickly and easily this time, and escaped into the hall. I made my way toward the room with the pool, fully aware that I was sweaty and pale, with bits of orange sludge still clinging to my face. I made no effort to wipe them away. I wanted people to see what I had suffered, wanted them to applaud my valiant struggle.
I approached the Clark Kent lookalike, who was sitting at the pool's edge, his back to me, legs dangling in the water. My hands trembled as I reached to tap him on the shoulder. He and the man next to him turned their heads, eyes widening as they took in my roughed-up condition.
Without thinking I blurted, "I almost died."
Clark Kent caught me just before I collapsed. I leaned against his sturdy frame, taking comfort in the support it provided. The other man handed Clark a fresh towel, which he used to wipe the mess from my face. Then he carried me to the bleachers, sitting me down carefully. In a soft, concerned voice, he asked me to explain what happened, wrapping a larger towel around my trembling shoulders.
Weird stuff, ain't it? Not the weirdest of the weird, but weird enough that it's stayed with me all day, lingering in my mind, challenging me to make sense out of it. If nothing else, at least it gives all of you a break from my fake NaNo updates! :)
Take my dream from last night as an example...
I found myself in a dank room with lots of exposed brick, tall steel pipes running horizontally and vertically along the walls, and a small cot, mattress bare, aside from a small pillow like you might have in a doctor's examination room. It wasn't familiar, but I was aware that this was my workspace, also aware that I was me, but I was also Julie, the main character in my novel, and that I was likely in the bowels of the Cicero Stadium, down the hall from a room with an Olympic-sized swimming pool.
I was waiting for instructions of some sort, having just said goodbye to a barrel-chested Clark Kent lookalike, who was headed down the hall to make use of the pool with some friends. I watched him go, wishing that I wasn't bound by obligation to stay behind and work. But at the same time, I had the sense that my soon-to-be assigned duties were too important to be neglected, that my role as an employee was essential. With this in mind, I settled back on the cot, staring up at the slate-colored ceiling.
Suddenly there was a woman in the room. I sat up, swinging my legs to the floor. She was standing near one of the vertical pipes, fiddling with a knob that controlled the flow of water running through it.
"You need to have this on," she said, and was gone.
A thick gas started streaming from the joints in the pipes, filling the room with a thick fog. This made it hard to see and breathe, and so I covered my mouth, horrified to find a brick wall where the door used to be.
I started to panic -- until I noticed that the wall had an opening near the ceiling, a hinged panel, kind of like the one you'd find on a mailbox. I knew I had to reach it, especially when the room started filling with water, rising to engulf my legs up to the ankles. I found a couple footholds in the brick and started climbing. I was making steady progress until some thick orange sludge erupted from the panel opening. It trickled down the wall in regular intervals, leaving a trail of slime in its wake. There was no avoiding this goop, it got in my mouth and my eyes, burning and suffocating.
I ignored this discomfort, continuing my struggle toward the top. It seemed that for every inch I climbed, I slid down two more. The water continued rising, and I spit toxic sludge everywhere to keep it from going down my throat. I could feel it smeared across my cheeks and nose, but there was no time to scrub it off. My only option was to keep going.
Eventually I got close enough to the panel to yank it open. I wedged myself through the tight space, hanging half in and half out of the dreadful room. I took a moment to catch my breath, and then pushed myself into a somersault, rolling down the wall, landing awkwardly on the floor. I was in the hall outside the room, staring up at the florescent lights when the woman from earlier discovered me.
She was surprised and apologetic, insisting that the pipes must be leaking, that she had no idea what else could have caused the gas and the water. She re-entered the room and turned off the pipes.
"There's no more water," she said. "Why don't you lie down and get some rest." I didn't trust her, but when I peeked through the doorway, I saw that the floor was dry and the air was clear.
Back in the room the cot was stiff and uncomfortable. I climbed the wall, reaching the panel quickly and easily this time, and escaped into the hall. I made my way toward the room with the pool, fully aware that I was sweaty and pale, with bits of orange sludge still clinging to my face. I made no effort to wipe them away. I wanted people to see what I had suffered, wanted them to applaud my valiant struggle.
I approached the Clark Kent lookalike, who was sitting at the pool's edge, his back to me, legs dangling in the water. My hands trembled as I reached to tap him on the shoulder. He and the man next to him turned their heads, eyes widening as they took in my roughed-up condition.
Without thinking I blurted, "I almost died."
Clark Kent caught me just before I collapsed. I leaned against his sturdy frame, taking comfort in the support it provided. The other man handed Clark a fresh towel, which he used to wipe the mess from my face. Then he carried me to the bleachers, sitting me down carefully. In a soft, concerned voice, he asked me to explain what happened, wrapping a larger towel around my trembling shoulders.
Weird stuff, ain't it? Not the weirdest of the weird, but weird enough that it's stayed with me all day, lingering in my mind, challenging me to make sense out of it. If nothing else, at least it gives all of you a break from my fake NaNo updates! :)
