I have been sleeping irregularly the last week or so. Some friends are throwing goodbye parties and other friends are throwing goodbye parties for me – for a departure that keeps running ahead just out of reach.
I always boast that I never have nightmares and that my bad dreams are more interesting than my good dreams: cinematic, colorful, creepy and emotional.
Tonight was different. I was woken up by the first truly ugly dream I can remember having in more than a decade.
In the dream I was living alone in a nice ranch house that was not my own. White everywhere. It was in the US, somewhere. Suburban and nighttime. A sensationalist murder trial had captured the interest of the media, and news narration filled the house even though no television or radio was on.
The narration went on and on. I don’t think that it resembled any actual serial murder trial I have ever heard of. It was horribly graphic. Somehow the worst part was when it would describe the reaction of the jurors and the spectators to the gory testimony.
I remeber not being able to escape the trial narration. I remember that the house was so large and empty, with lamps that were in far corners of rooms with no wall switch to turn them on. I felt so alone, and couldn’t keep myself from imagining all the horrible things that were being described. I was sure that this house had been the site of one of the murders.
I woke up and The Flamenca’s apartment was swimming in the dark. When I closed my eyes, that fluid blackness was also in motion. All this unnerved me. I opened my eyes and turned on the bedside lamp. I felt alone in the apartment, but I was sure something was there. Noises seemed strange and wrong – normal cracks and pops and clicks and drips made me jump.
The worst thing about my dream is that the talking head narration of the trial is in no way an exaggeration of the way such murder trials are covered. I wonder if the fear and horror I felt in my dream was a reaction to the details themselves or to the inescapable text.
There, I wrote about it. My heart rate has decended a bit.
The dream I had before the decapitation-trial-broadcast-in-a-ranch-house one involved a sort of blend between kabbalism and quantum physics expressed through a sort of modern dance project. We were working in the basement of a tiny house next to highway on a cold night in early autumn. At a cetain point we had to cross the highway, either to pee or to buy something like frozen burritos. It was me, and older woman, a scientist, I think, and an older man. I thought we were onto something big; the man agreed, but she was still a little skeptical.
Last night was a marathon-length flying dream. It was the first one I have had in a while – I guess my mind had some catching up to do. The critical moment was when I somehow flew too high for comfort and the wind currents changes such that the viscosity of the air dropped a little causing me to stall out. I hate that feeling, and I started a rather uncontrolled decent towards a high-tension tower. For some reason I had a long steel cable connecting my wrist to my ankle, and it was tangled in the power lines. As I finally disentagled myself, Quebecois police officers showed up below and told me that I was in violation of some important laws. Of course, I flew away, but ended up leaving my bike behind, and when I returned to the site later, the police had confiscated it. Evidentally assuming that when I went to claim it at the police station they would apprehend me. I decided to buy a new bike instead, even though it was a bother. Why do I need a bike when I can fly? Well, actually, flying takes a lot of energy, so for short trips around town a bike is much more convenient.
It is dawn now. I will try to get back to sleep.