Tag Archives: dreamrealm

Dreaming in Metaphors, or: Your Honor, I was Hypnogogged!

“Yet the stupid believe they are awake, busily and brightly assuming they understand things, calling this man ruler, that one herdsman – how dense! Confucius and you are both dreaming! And when I say you are dreaming, I am dreaming, too. Words like these will be labeled the Supreme Swindle.”
-Zhuangzi the butterfly
“If that there king was to wake, you’d go out — bang! — just like a candle.”
-Tweedledum
A lovely little somniloquy:
The Sandman reifies, I rectify.
I’ve let my lucid dreaming abilities atrophy, partially because ’waking life’ diverts most of my focus, and in part due to the trickery apparently at hand by the same subconscious that made me to back off from so forcibly dominating the dreamrealm with my dorsolateral prefontal cortex and awesomo power a little under a year ago.
When I first discovered lucid dreaming way back when, I latched onto it as a kitten’s dew claw latches onto drapes when it knows you are going to make it dance for company. I could fly (or leap and glide, at least) whereas previously I had been a hapless victim careening in the passenger seat of a figurative and literal Cadillac over precipitous cliffs of wispy foggy dreamscapes, like the inertia of paralysing quicksand in an hourglass, like the polyphase-delayed reaction of a smoked mirror. Later, life would imitate this art whilst traversing Mt. Washington in Pharli’s devolving automobiles under the influence of effective lysergic acid diethylamide. But of no consequence, for I would sleep soundly as said kitten later that night, cares of the day behind me, as I fought for peril-fraught cities, surmounted insurmountable odds (and even mounted a few other things), and was generally held in high regard by humans, bigfoots, cartoon characters, gods, dogs and LEGO peoples the Eschercube over.
(It’s sick and twisted to mix and torture dying metaphors so, but that’s dreamlogic for you, and I don’t intend to stop just when I’m starting to enjoy it. I guess I’m a metaphor-sadist, or a reasonable simile.)
Then the collective unconscious (those dicks) put a hamperin’ to my napperin’ and devised a series of ways to decieve me into once again disbelieving that I was in a desireworld. The circuitous logic of that labrythine realm would allow me to do the fantastical things I knew I was quite capable of only there, but in a way ambiguous enough to keep me in such a foolish forgetful frame of mind.
To wit: I find myself soaring serenely over the threshold of my star-studded city (Gotham meets Mos Eisley meets Santorini) at night, wind thrashing WILDly my mane of luxuriant hair as I swiftly descend ever-so gently to the ground for a street rumble. However, this is but a hypothetical musing, a vivid description within the brackets of discourse to a friend on just such an illusory state. By infusing this fantasy element on top of itself within the dream, squaring it, cubing it indeed, multiple layers upon layers unto those of an onion, or perhaps more deliciously a layer cake, I am deceived into believing that I am awake and merely remembering what it is like to be asleep. I should have noticed something amiss, I say– I say, awry, boy, with my friend having an eyeball for a head, and dressed in a tuxedo and tophat.
Elsewhere: A diabolical evil genius (and perhaps an ancient goddess) lurks, wringing wrinkled old hands (that are both segmented pincers and tentacles with suctions), but this is but a daymare, bored and zoning into daydreaming repetition at work and Meanwhile: waiting for my alarm to falsely wake me for the third time, having only imagined that I completed my entire morning routine/ritual twice already, aware that only one of them was first sleep.
(Flawed much? That’s dreamlogic for you, which I may have mentioned already in this strange loop.)
I propose to the same friend within the same dream (or dream within a dream, as Poe very well might write and very will did) that I could ascend into space upon a bolt of lightning, and I do, but since I was hence posing a simple hypothetical, the fact that it is insanely absurdly concurrently occuring makes perfect sense at the time of present tense.
A favorite quote of mine “when you daydream at night, what do they call that?” (Though for the life of me I can’t remember who dreamt that one up.)
I remember things wrong, and there is no help here from my logical higher brain functions, as I misremember things often while awake. I am missing money that, in ’reality’, I have readily available either in my wallet or bank account. More frustrating (though its an arguable point*) is when I have veritable oodles of cash, only to awaken and discover, alas, I am still disappointingly broke and there is nothing to be done about it. The duality of these two, of course, forces me to question which is the ’real’ universe, the sixteen or seventeen hours I spend awake, or the seven or eight hours I spend asleep.
Though I only just recieved a clean bill of health from my lady-dentist (with gentle reassuring hands), I still fret over the sudden and inexplicable loss of back teeth. And sometimes I feel like a total hypnic jerk falling out of a tree. It’s obstructive! It’s fatiguing! It’s apnœaying at the very least!
I ask myself within the dream if perchance I may be dreaming, a resounding logical answers rebounds “if you ask just this question, it must be!” But what sort of logic is this for a dream, and if I postulate now on the question ’awake,’ then does it mean I’m sleeping? Will this blog exist tomorrow, or is it just another incomplete theorem, an uncertain principle, a hole torn in the universe by Lucretius’ spear? I maintain that my city is the same one I visit each night, as if created by Windsor McCay or Neil Gaiman. I worry that it divides, interrupts, biphases even, so how do I build a universe that that doesn’t fall apart two days later?
Whichever of the many contentious theories on the purpose of dreaming the case may be, (tapping into a collective greater than the singular self, the inner symbiology of mystic archetypal information, a simulated reality, an etheric battleground between mindless ones and mummudrai and shadow beings, portentious visions of the future, divining the nature and true numerical name of GOD, the hardwiring of data, the movement of short-term information into long term information or: RAM to ROM during REM) it was clear to me that it ’wants’ to be in control of what happens just as much as ’I’ do. Always the bigger man, upon realizing this I sought to compromise, and allowed for a certain amount of dreamy spontanaeity and at the same time keeping cool resolve to use those capacities that make me so… awesomo.
(And if we all share the same collective mind on some astral plane, living out each and every life there is to live, well… then you’re only Jung once.)
I average about or less than (<) two nightmares a year, since I discovered lucid dreaming way back when, and especially since I had found clear-headed balance on such neutral ground (remember that clear also means empty, and neutral can still be a disputed imaginary Maginot line). I have yet to have one this year (knock on particle board) of any remembrance or import. Certainly never enough to wake me in a cold sweat, which is a function solely reserved for my clock radio (right above to ’snooze’). But that nuetral ground is infact not a ceasefired strip of land, but the partition betwixt deadly highways. Since, it seems, slumberland isn’t willing to compromise, and continues to vex me with its shades of unreason, I shall once again have to assert myself using those techniques I have perfected. As a result, the quality of ’waking life’ increases accordingly.
I’m so tired. I haven’t slept a wink.
*of fact of sale of law of view of honor of departure of no return of service of presence of origin of impact of focus of divergence of contact of grace of light of interest of purchase of inquiry of it all
Advertisements

Chip Can’t Walk in the Fire Without Fire Boots!

I’ve been having trouble sleeping at night for no specific reason. It’s nothing in particular, but a reeling, seething mind full of unanswered questions and a stomach full of rotten four-cheese Cheez-Its. Who really killed the Kennedys? Jacob seems to think that it was Mokèlé-mbèmbé, and I’m starting to agree. Too bad the bastard has a head start on us by forty-four years, two months, two days, five hours and four minutes.
Other questions that haunt me at night: Why does God allow bad things to happen to good people? When will the mighty evil enveloping this shrinking universe be seen for what it is and defeated by the masses? Is the inherent nature of humanity one of chaos, fear, ignorance and hatred?
Why are there vegetables?
In other news, that tiger that the po-po* riddled with holes made her way to heaven, despite being bogged down by a cosmic battle with a departed demented bag lady, and the loss of physical form into an ethereal blob of mere concept. Once into the light, she plopped her blobform into the unemployment office, and currently tends bar at the swankiest tiki bar in all the dreamrealm, (i get my Zombies there for the friend price!) In case you were wondering (you sick fucks, you) Heath Ledger went straight to H-E-double-hockey-sticks.
I haven’t heard from Future-Breshvic in a while. That’s probably not a good sign for me. Either I’m dead (done in by some cunning foe or eventual atomic deterioration), or I’m pulling double shifts at work, or I’m keenly smitten with some new flame, they’re pretty sweet on each other and are going steady. Duder! Temporal dopplegängers before hos! Temporal dopplegängers… before hos.
Whatevs, that me is (going to be) a total asshole anyways. Once I showed up in a twisted bunny costume. I told me that I hated that movie, but then I said that in the future I love it and its my myspace page theme. It’s like I don’t even know who I am anymore. And to learn that myspace is still popular a year from now! I am Jack’s clichéd movie quotation.
Hmmm… I wonder if I’ll have a place to live this time next week?
*
Great Scott! The Libyans!

I Had too much to dream last night

Last night I dreamed that I worked for Homeland Security and we were hunting a known terrorist (who could control time and space with his mind, which means it was pretty futile… yes, I’ve been watching too much ‘Heroes’). Anyways, I was to meet up with my C.O., when this wiry black airport security guy shoves a dime bag in my hand and hurries back to his post. It struck me then that we must have pre-arranged an airport drug deal. The dime bag suddenly becomes two. Then I leave him a $39 bill at the lunchroom table where I’m sitting, just beyond the security check-in. Then these two hippie kids sit at a table adjacent to me. And at a table to my right sat some gay kid, who, when I picked up my jacket to go and dropped the bag on the ground (inevitably), picks it up and hands it to me quickly and obviously and says loudly, ‘you dropped your pot!’ Then the head security guard storms over yelling, ‘what the fuck is going on over here?’ The two kids to my left stammer, ‘Uh- I- um, like, some kind of drug deal… marihuana…’ The MAN yells, ‘separate tables all of you!’ That’s when my walkie-talkie blares and my C.O. yells ‘where the hell are you? get your ass down here!’ So I produce the baggie and indicate the security guard move closer. He does. I show him my ID, badge, and whisper, ‘I’m with Homeland Security, I’m undercover. There is a known dangerous terrorist in your airport right now and I need to get to the scene. I could get fired for telling you this and I don’t even want to think of the interrogation you’ll get for knowing it, but you need to let me go… NOW.’ He does. I stop and turn around and slide the bag back in my pocket, all of them onlooking, amazed.

Earlier, I had been a castmember of Scoobie Doo. I think I was Fred, which I have mixed feeling about because I should obviously be Shaggy, and I have to wear an ascot. But at least I get to fuck Sarah Michelle Gellar. Anyways, this evil serial killer had taken refuge in a castle made of haystacks, full of booby-traps. He says that in fifty minutes he’ll let it collapse on the hostages, and us if we’re in there. So I’m like, ‘fuck that,’ and use my incredible acrobatic skills to scale the outside of this fortress, get to where I want, release a net, and free the hostages. Who are all floating sickle-cell balloon animals that talk. They thank us and we put the serial killer in prison.

Another time I broke into a friend’s house in the middle of the night to leave them a toaster. He and his whole family wake up, and it is tense for a moment, not to mention embarrassing. But I clear everything up. He gets his surprise toaster, and I don’t get my head bashed in.

God, I love sleep!

I have strange nightmares

They are usually pretty conceptual to begin with, and I only get them about once a year. My top three hallmark nightmares are as follows.
1. When I was little, I had a recurring nightmare that I was traveling down a path of pure white light, delineated only by the ‘greasy napkin’ texture of the roadside. I enter a building of white and see a pulsating white structure, (like the Tornado Slammer when we used to play POGs), well it pulsates faster and faster, and I start to run, at which point this object sends out a wave of blinding white energy (as if everything else around me wasn’t already) that obliterates imperfections like the greasy napkin texture like the Eraser tool in MSpaint or Photoshop. I take it as read that this will include me, and run as fast as I fucking can. This one turned out to be a message from my subconscious not to eat Mexican food before bed. I had it about four times before I figured that out and never had it again.
2. I was at the Cogo’s in this dream, when zombies (I call them that for their behavior, actually they were just the weird people I see on the bus who have heads to small or too large for their bodies) swarm me and chase me down to the river, then rip the recently purchased beef jerky from my hands and depart.
3. I am standing on a balcony of a rather posh Gotham-city-esque skyscraper when two bombers head for the city. They pass each other, and as they are heading out of the city in opposite directions, I see them drop their bombs on the city, and when those bombs hit, two video-game status bars appear, one that reads ‘Scarring’ and the other reads ‘Healing.’ The pulses are spreading out, and I am directly in between both of them.

Most of the time I can control my ‘lucid dreams’ and make them do whatever I want. And I always remember them. My world is a cube of a city, with the building on the side built like an M.C. Escher print, or failing that, Santorini. The top of the cube looks a bit like Mos Eisley during the day, but the buildings grow to Gotham-city proportions at night. Nobody travels to the bottom of the cube, as it is too dark there, and they would simply fall off. It is a world inhabited by attractive people, a bigfoot, muppets, LEGO people, terrorists, werewolves, vampires, and apparently zombies. I work there in the tiki shop, unless called upon to help, in which case I fight crime with my powers, noted to oinclude: the ability to leap and glide, but not fly, telepathy, telekinesis, good hearing, agility, super-speed, super-romantisicm, ultra-charm, wit. Some of these I do not have in real life. Which brings me to my point. You see, THIS is the real nightmare. After a good night’s rest where I have plenty of cash in my wallet and perfect grades, only to awake to find that I am deficient in both, well, it’s rather frightening indeed. But, I suppose, comparisons are odious.

What really bothers me today is that my bus ticket hasn’t arrived, which means I may not get to go home for Christmas. Well, I know I probably wasn’t going to go ON Christmas, but the midnight after, and that I’m quote-unquote “boycotting” Christmas. But it still hurts that I won’t get to see my friends and family back home whilst I have this whole break to do it. I don’t know. I can’t shell out more cash for a ticket, which may be sold out anyways, and travel is a bitch (that’s no excuse, I have all the time in the world and plenty of cash for now). Maybe this is a sign that I shouldn’t go. I probably wouldn’t be spending time with anyone anyways, as they’ll all want to be with their respective families, and I don’t blame them. On the other other hand, my grandmother and aunt will kill me if I don’t go. I hate these tough decisions.