Hello bleeders, wastrels and layabouts. Hello all you maze-rats, lemmings and sardines, you abductees from lives of leisure. And welcome, all you sitting at home, taking a brief respite from the madness outside the four walls you call your castle. Good day to you lucky souls who find yourselves away from the constant tug of some corporate master, whether voluntarily, or not — and there are so many victims of global capitalism gone awry, aren’t there?
Last night I had three terrible dreams, and they were so vivid and so convincing that I must confess I woke up trembling with anxiety — I could feel my world crashing down on me. The mind is a terrible thing to taste, my dark lovelies, and mine is especially bitter. Take a trip with me (just don’t eat the brown acid) through the workings of my mutinous and cannibalistic mind, that had the audacity to attack me as I slept.
Dream #1: Father Dearest and the Sleepaway Camp of Death
My father was trying to kill me. Sadly, it does not take my mind much to conjure up this image — why, there are entire drawers in my subconscious full of suitable footage to be spliced together for this scene. Throughout the dream, I was varying ages — a child, a young adult, a woman — and my father was driving a big old boat of a car, racing up a dirt road to the cabins of some camp — I understood it to be a camp, though I’m not sure why. He was frothing at the mouth like a mad dog, and had enormous teeth and a long red snake-like tongue, with huge claws for hands.
I hid myself in a cabinet — a sort of wardrobe — only not the sort that leads to snowy lands full of fauns and heavy-handed allegory. I could hear him crashing through the halls of the cabin (which was apparently a great hall of Beowolf-esque proportions) raging and calling for me, killing anyone who got in his way and demanding that they release me to him. I couldn’t help but notice that my mother was by his side, quietly searching for me as well. I froze, and held my breath, and waited for what felt like forever until they moved on.
Now the twist. I had no idea how long I was there. When I went into the cabinet, I was a child. Suddenly the cabinet was opened, and some strange people pulled me out, and I couldn’t move — I was petrified, like wood, and I was a grown woman. I could hear them talking, wondering how long I had been in there, and how I could have survived.
I woke up and was flooded with terror — that I had lost so much time, like Rip Van Winkle — and that I had to find out what I had missed, what year it was, if my father was dead yet.
Let the psychoanalysis begin.
Dream #2: Throwing it All Away
I blame this one on a conversation with a friend about making mistakes and coming back from them — sometimes we do things so rash and ill advised that it feels we will never recover. I have been through the ringer in my life, and walked the cliff-edges and peered over. I have looked in the face of death and flinched, and yet I am still here.
But I know the feeling. And last night I woke with a tightness in my chest and a sickness in my belly that felt like the grip of a demon.
We all fantasize about telling our boss off, or throwing a tantrum at work, or perhaps even darker fantasies. My dream was staged like one of those tales where you only see the ending — the carnage that has been wrought, with no real explanation at first, and the story is told by trying to piece together what happened. In my dream, my life had fallen apart, and I was living on the street, smoking crack and turning tricks for money. A bit of an extreme turnabout, but in an almost Capra-esque fashion, I bumped into someone that I had previously worked with, and they took me back to my old office, and re-played for me what had happened, and it wasn’t extreme at all. I just simply stopped showing up. I supposed one morning, I just said fuck it, I’m not going to work anymore, and that was it.
When I woke, it was so real. I wondered what I was going to do today. It’s terrifying when dreams confuse your reality.
Dream #3: A Bathory Bath
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve been terrified of skunks. Not because of rabies, but because someone once told me that if you get sprayed by a skunk, the only way to get rid of the smell is to take a bath in tomato juice.
So of course, last night, I dreamed that I got sprayed by a skunk. My servants (in my dream, I had servants) made me a bath, and bid me come and rid myself of the stench. Only not a minute after I submerged my naked body in the warm bath did I realize that it wasn’t tomato soup at all, but blood. I dreamed I was the Countess Elizabeth Bathory, and as I looked up, I was accosted by the dead and hanging bodies of dozens of young girls, their blood dripping down on my face.
I woke screaming and in need of a hot shower.