Dream|Reality

April 24th; what do you hear in these sounds?

Dream: I don't remember any dreams I had last night. So, here's a dream I had a few weeks back (and some of you will have already read, but most of you won't): It's a...munitions factory. i think. The boxes all around me are filled with explosives. I'm with a lot of men, all dressed nicely. i think i'm male, too, but i can't really tell. There are sirens and flashing lights, the walls slide upwards, and down come partitions made out of chain-link, with doors in them. The doors are locked. We're trapped, and there's someone sliding down a rope. He's a janitor or something, and he's dressed in a white smock and a white shower cap. He's also got a gun. A machine gun. He opens fire, and boxes start exploding, and then there's a lot of blood and stuff my mind conveniently skips over. Now I'm a rider on the shoulder of one of the men while they are taken prisoner and have their right hands cut off. some of the men escape from the building through an open window and run to their cars...the dream ends with the guy whose shoulder I'm sitting on driving a Porche out of the parking lot, one handed. You know, i'm pretty sure this dream means something, but I'l be damned if I can figure out what it is.

The Moment CD: The End of the Summer, Dar Williams Book: Game of Kings, Dorothy Dunnett Outside: sunny! Look! Doing: adding images to a book file   {{previous}} | {{next}} archives | home   "And sometime in July she just forgot that he was leaving So when the fields were dying she held onto his sleeves And she doesn't want to let go, but she won't know what she's up against, the classrooms and the smart girls it's the end of the summer, when you hang your flowers up to dry" Dar Williams, "the end of the summer"

Reality: incarnate there is talent there, the toll of sixteen miles or a year spent suffering, my shoes moving along wet paths, over empty water over construction and girders, damp brambles and dripping glades and the constant lowing of boats swimming out to sea I am long forgotten, but in my grey lover's arms in my green solitude I stand a statue shot through with blood or salt water or branded with a memory of a cruel summer and what grew trembling out of ice. I am stone against skin. I am all one longing. I am the quick root in the slow soil. —4/23/98 Let's see. It's payday. Which means that I'm likely to buy a plane ticket, buy groceries, and pay bills this weekend. I continue to have fairly vicious figuts with shannon every time I talk with him. Possibly because when he's not fighting with me, he's not paying any attention to me at all. This is so sick. Sometimes, i really am sort of pathetic. But a couple more people found me last night. after I changed my name on isca, nobody seemed to notice. Very few people have noticed still, but I've finally broken the five-person mark. I think a part of it is that I almost never actually talk to anyone first. i haven't spoken to an ex-girlfriend in months because, though i see her online all the time, i can't think of anything to say to her. Which is also pretty sad. I think I'm tired of words, of talking, of listening, of trying to follow conversations. Another month and all of this will be resolved, I know. But, man, a month is a long time.