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I tend not to post dreams because people who know me in real life don't always get it, but [livejournal.com profile] imago1 wrote one down late last night about trashing a hotel room rockstar-style, so I feel like I have permission.

Forty-five minutes ago, I woke from a dream where I was piloting a giant sea monster underwater. It felt somewhat like driving an eighteen wheeler, though I have never driven an eighteen wheeler. I didn't feel wet, but the cab I was sitting in felt fleshy. We were moving rapidly but I don't know where we were going.

I was singing a song that most likely went, "Trampled by dawn, sweet festering hole in me..." though "sweet" may have been "weak," I couldn't tell for sure partially because the acoustics were odd. Perhaps I was singing two verses at the same time.
readingthedark: (Default)

I know, I see somebody's typing up their dreams and I look away too. Feel free to go help Vera instead...

A friend I hadn't seen called and said to meet him at the movies so someone who was with me and I went. A friend I hadn't seen in even longer, named Spidey or something close to it, who had just showed up on Facebook recently after I'd only heard occasional bits from his mom was there too. I was very excited until I realized that he was never any good at picking movies.

Each film had its own line and, after pacing back and forth for way too long, Spidey decided that we should not go to a movie after all because they all looked insipid. I became upset and hid it well, but grabbed the person I came with and we drove to another part of town where the roads were all on hills like San Francisco. Triangle pointy streets where you jump out of the car and dig for traction so you don't go head over heels.

We saw a film that was dumb and actiony but in a "War, Inc." (which I'd watched before going to bed in my daytime life) or a more logical and personal "Southland Tales." We met Sharon Stone outside the theater and she was much more charming in person than I ever would've guessed but complained about the movie she'd just watched, saying that she'd been upset that they hadn't cast her in it but now she didn't care because it was just another movie where genocide was examined through the metaphor of being  consumed by giant bees. 

 We drove home to an apartment much nicer than any I've ever lived in and I turned into someone who was most likely Shirley Jackson. Spidey and my other friend had become my tween sons.

"We went to a different movie," I said.
"We met a celebrity at the mall!" one piped up.
"Who was it?" I asked.
"Slim Tissue," they said simultaneously, holding up what were actually quite good likenesses of them considering they were a pair of voodoo dolls made out of two or three wadded up Kleenexes.
"He's a cowboy..."
"...and a necromancer!" They shouted, one right after the other just as my alarm went off.

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readingthedark

May 2009

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