Ok, kiddies: I don’t really know how much I have for you tonight. I had some really effin weird dreams again last night (which is to say Monday night), but I’m not sure I remember them all that well. I took Bob Marley out of this evening’s rotation, so I’m about as un-not-focused as I can be this evening, what with my constant snorting and nose-blowing.
I’ve got to give this cold credit: it’s got staying power. I started to feel poorly on Thursday, left early and slept all afternoon, then slept for alternating 12+ hour cycles through the weekend, and the damned thing is still with me. Normally, I’m down for a couple of days and then back to normal after a short recovery period.
Overall, I’ve been as productive as usual these last couple of days, but I kind of think I should be taking it easy for a bit. Hence the (hopefully) shortness of this post.
So back to my dream from the other night:
I’m starting to wonder if it’s related to this new cayenne pepper I’ve been using – I think I may have cooked with it both nights before having the odd dreams. Hold on…no, I don’t think I had any cayenne last night before my weirdo dream, so that hypothesis is for sh*t.
And that, dear reader, was the scientific process at work: hypotheses are only useful until disproved. And they can never be proved.
Staying with the current theme of randomness:
I pulled something out of C. S. Lewis’s That Hideous Strength (p. 191) while eating dinner that I’d like to share with you:
All day the wind had been rising and they found themselves looking out on a sky swept almost clean. The air was intensely cold, the stars severe and bright. High above the last rags of scurrying clouds hung the Moon in all her wildness – not the voluptuous Moon of a thousand southern love-songs, but the huntress, the untameable virgin, the spearhead of madness. If that cold satellite had just then joined our planet for the first time, it could hardly have looked more like an omen. The wildness crept into Jane’s blood.
And into mine when I read those words. I’ll tell ya, dear reader, Lewis put into words a feeling that I have so often when I look upon the full moon. When I’m doing so, sometimes I pray to Diana, and sometimes I howl my loneliness at her. Often, it’s a little bit of both.
Above is the whole paragraph, but it’s the words “…the huntress, the untameable virgin, the spearhead of madness” that get my blood going. Congratulations, Clive Staples, you’ve managed put into words that which I’m looking for in a woman. And there I’ve gone and made it all petty.
In any case, here are some apropos sounds from Apocalyptica, to which I was just now listening, that added to the chill in my spine, the thrill in my blood as I read those words again:
My dream(s) of last night were strikingly clear, but again not what I would call lucid. I was on an island – a very small but British-y island – but more dangerous and in its wild state. I discovered the dangers the hard way. My trek with my unknown but ne’er-do-well companions was wracked with misfortune. At least, at the time it seemed like misfortune.
When I had occasion to look upon a map later on in the dream, the unfortunate occurrences served to help me remember the path we took and see where we had turned wrong. Which is not to say that there was a safe path from one point to the next – only that there might have been a slightly shorter way.
At one point, we were beset by a group of brown-skinned and bare chested natives in a swampy area. There were waist-high, thick grasses throughout. I only remember one of the natives of the group clearly – he was a young boy who was cut to the bone along the inside of his forearm by the spinning helicopter-like blades of one of my companion’s backpacks. As he looked down in alarm at the wound (which hadn’t quite started bleeding yet – it really only takes a couple of seconds before the bleeding starts, but that always seems like a lot longer), he started spinning on his vertical axis. Something had drawn a crocodile, which had a-hold of his legs and spun him down into the water, which got deeper as he spun.
The look on his face was one of profound confusion: as though what was happening to him shouldn’t be happening, and he couldn’t figure out why. It was over quickly, though I remember feeling a pang of regret for him.
Later on in the dream, I was running to different places with another group of people. Kind of in a spy-ish, police-ish manner. We were moving around a city made of cobble-y stones, righting wrongs. I had some sort of handgun in pieces that I kept trying to put together quickly so that I could fire it, but never really got it all the way together and never really got to fire it.
Probably because I was always trying to do too many things at once. Feel free to headshrink me on that one all you like, dear reader; it shouldn’t be too hard.