Under The Hospital. Wrong Way. Marcellus. Drama Or Psychology? Carom Woman.
Marco McClean
First dream. I'm with a gang of strange wild kids running through a
creepy dark one-level hospital. I jump and kick a door open between
hallways. There are dead bodies in the rooms on this new hallway.
Chutes go into a main chute down into the ground in the
under-hospital, which is endless vast vaulted spaces with bodies moving
along on wide conveyor tracks.
I meet a researcher. He wants me me go back up and bring him
something to eat.
Again up in the hospital I make salad at a food-prep counter. There
are sounds getting nearer of a police raid beginning. Two boys and I run
out the opposite door from the one everyone else runs out-- they'll all
be arrested; we'll get away.
The two boys and I walk on curved concrete walkways through grass in
a college at night. In the city past the college we go into someone's
house and are trapped as the rooms become a maze. /When caught in a
maze, go down or up./ I find a long straight stairway down to a deep
basement living room, which turns out to be occupied by a giant
crazy-eyed criminal. I run back up the stairs and push out through a
window screen. /Come on! This way!/
I woke up with the song /Nobody's Perfect/ (from Gloriana's recent
revue of musical comedy songs) playing in my head.
Asleep again. Next dream. I'm driving a car with a strange young
couple as passengers. A road off to the left looks familiar-- it looks
like the way to the place in San Francisco that Juanita and I call
/Restaurant Street/-- but this is not San Francisco. I say, "If this
were that other city, I'd try to go /that/ way and there would be food."
The people want to go that way, just to see if there'll be food
anyway.
Juanita's here now, and she's got her legs stuck through the
steering wheel; I'm driving from the back seat by reaching forward over
her. It's possible to drive like this, but it's hard to stay on the
proper side of the road. Once, then twice, then three times I get
entirely in the wrong lane and horns honk from all around, though there
are no other cars here.
My dreams from Thursday, 2009-11-26:
First dream. In a big movie star's back yard, natural pools and
waterfalls cover a steeply-tilted acre or more. Movie company executives
in suits step down rocks next to where the water goes. I get out of
swimming in the water and go to where some executives are standing.
Actor Samuel L. Jackson comes down the path, comes this way. I call
out, "Marcellus!" I want to show off what I can do for the movie
company; I use telekinesis to lift Samuel Jackson into the air and move
him around over the water and then back over this small flat place and
set him down on the grass. He wants to know how to fly by himself. I
say, "Take my wrist, like this," and I grab both of my own wrists to
show him how.
The two executives want to get in on this. They put out their hands
and try to hold each other's and Samuel Jackson's and my wrists. They're
clumsy and stupid; their hands don't work right. I try to help them, but
they're hopeless. To them this is just another thing someone proposed
that couldn't be made to work. They start talking about movies again and
lose interest.
Now I'm in a party for royalty in a bedroom of a palace at night. I
look out the door and up the hallway. Huge, fabulous place. People
wander around, sleepy, bored. I say, "Where's Juanita?" Someone says,
"With Frank, probably." Frank? Frank-and-Liz Frank?
I pick up and pet a puffy, affectionate cat, then put it down. More
and more noise comes from all around: dogs are howling and barking
outside the palace, people are laughing and screaming somewhere inside.
I go into the next room and ask some more people where Juanita is; they
all look like they know something, but no-one will even tell me where to
start looking.
A smug man like Sergeant Friday on the old /Dragnet/ teevee show
sits in a throne-size chair, watching me. I'm about to flip out and
start hurting these people. The man smiles even wider. I say, "Why
won't you just tell me?" The man says, "Because of your badness." My
badness.
Next dream. I'm in a generic Western city place, driving a big 1970s
station wagon. I turn left into a shopping center's parking lot, park
the car and go into a laundromat. A confused-looking old skinny black
man sits where apparently he always sits, insisting that people hang
their clothes on hangers and perfectly space them on the top wire of a
shopping cart that has all but that wire on that side removed.
I watch the man passively bully several people into compliance with
his hanger rule, then I go to him and say, "Drama department or
psychology department?" He smiles, revealing a wrecked mouth of mostly
missing teeth. /Ugh./
This all seems really familiar. This is my job, going around,
determining which thing people are doing, studying others or doing
performance art.
Next dream. I'm walking through a big modern school. The dream jumps
back to before I got to the school (or jumps forward to my returning to
it); I'm riding a bicycle through long-ago-bombed-out land that's now
grown over with green shrubs and vines. At the end of the school's
parking lot, electronics teacher Bob Blick meets me near the fence
around the dumpsters, reaches into a cardboard box I have and produces a
small power supply with twist-nut terminals. He says, "You'll need
that." (I'll need it for the other thing --a project cell phone?
walkie-talkie?-- he gave me before.)
A woman brand-new superhero character has been training for only a
short time, but they need her to jump into the action. She's sitting on
her horse behind the tall sign at the top of a skyscraper casino, and
she's supposed to jump the horse down. It will be the first time she's
tried this, but /they need her to do it/. She's dressed in an evening
gown and a tall blonde bouffant wig, and she makes the others (?) wait
while she puts on a man's beige safari suit and hat over the women's
clothes and wig.
She jumps the horse over the edge and falls upside-down most of the
way down before remembering to use her superpower, which is control over
caroming off things-- she gets the horse to strike a hoof on the side of
the building; this flips her and the horse right-side-up and absorbs all
the momentum of their fall so they land lightly by the casino door. She
gestures, /You stay here,/ to the horse and goes in.
Inside, the casino is a big mostly-empty indoor parking lot. Carom
Woman goes to a club-cab truck, gets into the back seat. The criminal
she's supposed to trick and capture is in the driver's seat. He's
brought his sleazy lawyer; he insists Carom Woman to show his lawyer her
evidence papers, which are two toasted buns of pizza-bread on the
platter she has, uh, brought with her. Okay, she offers the platter. The
lawyer takes a bite out of one of the pieces of bread! He's eating the
evidence!
I interfere at this point, become the Carom-Woman person, retrieve
the bread. The criminal smirks and says, "We know who you are, /Bob
Jones/." Damn it, they've seen through my disguise. And they've called
the police, who rush into the parking lot from the other side to
surround the truck, to arrest /me/.
I get out of the truck, carom off the pavement to leap over the line
of policemen, carom off a pillar and go high up to the concrete lattice
of the ceiling, and continue bouncing off things everywhere to get out
to the street, to the lattice over the street, and go up through it and
out into the sky. Behind and below me, two policemen, knowing they can't
catch me, follow as best they can to examine where I've touched, to get
clues about my amazing ability to jump and bounce off things, which is
especially amazing (to me as well as to them) because I've become
practically a ball of layers of clothes and bathrobes and costume wigs
and hats and everything. I must weigh tons.
Far away in another land I'm myself again. I have a ticket to a
concert I'm supposed to report on. While I and the other reporters wait
in an empty restaurant, we play a gambling game using the columns of
numbers on the backs of our tickets. The man I'm playing against is a
professional at this game, and while I learn to play it I'm losing
miserably-- he keeps declaring rules that suspiciously always turn out
to be in his favor. I think of a rule that negative money doesn't count;
in other words, an amount with a minus in front of it is /imaginary
money/. I wait for a good time to declare this rule; I don't want to
look like a cheater. Only if I keep losing.
-end-
Isis of the Knight
This is a very disturbing dream. Seek professional help as soon as
possible. You may need to be institututionalized, for your own sake.
Did i speelll that right?