Fever Induced Therapy
Another day of writing: the day that two Fitchian Essays are due.
And so to warm up, here's a recount of the dreams I had this morning, sick with Hay Fever.
Firstly, the dreams were violent and stressful. I had a set before I woke from the night's sleep in a feverish sweat, and after Sean gave me some medicine, I fell asleep again and had a similar set of dreams.
PART I
Some ghetto-trash chola bitch was verbally assaulting me. I stood up and faced her, looking nerdy as ever. This goaded her on; she knew the little ugly nerd-girl wasn't gonna do anything. I really didn't want to, either. A strong part of me - the part that's usually dominant in conciousness - was almost literally holding me back. But my under-conscious was in control, so I started punching and slapping the bitch. I beat her almost around the whole perimiter of the room, never stopping or holding back because of my primal surfacing. And she never fought back, but she kept trying to talk trash. When the other people in the room finally decided to stop me, I was kicking her in the ribs as she lay in a fetal position on the floor. As they pulled me back, I said, "Bitch never even opened her eyes."
I was put into a rehabilitation program. All I remember is that suddenly it was finals night, and I was sitting in my Special Effects classroom, but without all the PCs. The final: two essays. I sat there in a frozen panic; all I had was a title page for each of the two essays I hadn't written.
/end dream
I woke up sicker than a dog, with a piercing headache on the left side of my brain. Sean brought me two Ibuprofen and tea, and called into work sick for both of us, volunteering himself if someone needed to go in. No call back.
[exit Sean]
Part II
I fell asleep again, and resumed my dream almost where it had ended. I was still in the rehab program, now on a soccer team to help me channel my aggression. I remember being so into playing, and actualy felt myself being powered by my anger: each time I'd sprint, each time I'd kick or block I drew the energy from that under-conscious as if it was now a vault of tapable energy. Somehow, another chola bitch became the target of my violence. She was young and pretty and popular, so of course she was snotty. I think I was hounding her around the field and hitting her with some long, hard, orange phallic thing. Ha! How weird. Anyway, I got in trouble for that too, but not too much because even though I inflicted some good damage, I didn't leave her unconscious.
I remember running around a warehouse in dread of her family's retribution. I wasted my whole afternoon there.
When it was getting late, and the bright, hot orange sun was touching the horizon on its way down, I saw Sly on his way out to the bleachers on the blacktop. "Oh hey," I said. "Hi," he said blandly as he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Some brief exchanges made it apparant that he'd heard of my issues with violence lately, and was disappointed in me for beating up that second girl. Oh well, what can I do now, I figured. I continued my way down the hill onto Warrior Drive. As punishment I had to walk home, and so I started when suddenly I remembered I had to stay there at the school: I still had to write those two essays which were due in two hours.
I was SO ready to face the long walk home, so set on the side of the fork I had chosen, ready for that pain. When I was reminded - somehow by Sly - that I still had those two essays, and even though I had already accepted my punishment, I had not dealt with my fate. It wasn't a choice. I broke down in the middle of the road, under the burning sunset, completely broken and hopeless and defeated.
/end dream
/enable consciousness: "Eulogy" by Tool
"Repeat Offender: Aenima"
I dialed. Didn't win. BUT, it was only ten o'clock. Only ten. I had so much more time than I thought.
ii. consequence
i. repressed anger
iii. exclusion
--
And so to warm up, here's a recount of the dreams I had this morning, sick with Hay Fever.
Firstly, the dreams were violent and stressful. I had a set before I woke from the night's sleep in a feverish sweat, and after Sean gave me some medicine, I fell asleep again and had a similar set of dreams.
PART I
Some ghetto-trash chola bitch was verbally assaulting me. I stood up and faced her, looking nerdy as ever. This goaded her on; she knew the little ugly nerd-girl wasn't gonna do anything. I really didn't want to, either. A strong part of me - the part that's usually dominant in conciousness - was almost literally holding me back. But my under-conscious was in control, so I started punching and slapping the bitch. I beat her almost around the whole perimiter of the room, never stopping or holding back because of my primal surfacing. And she never fought back, but she kept trying to talk trash. When the other people in the room finally decided to stop me, I was kicking her in the ribs as she lay in a fetal position on the floor. As they pulled me back, I said, "Bitch never even opened her eyes."
I was put into a rehabilitation program. All I remember is that suddenly it was finals night, and I was sitting in my Special Effects classroom, but without all the PCs. The final: two essays. I sat there in a frozen panic; all I had was a title page for each of the two essays I hadn't written.
/end dream
I woke up sicker than a dog, with a piercing headache on the left side of my brain. Sean brought me two Ibuprofen and tea, and called into work sick for both of us, volunteering himself if someone needed to go in. No call back.
[exit Sean]
Part II
I fell asleep again, and resumed my dream almost where it had ended. I was still in the rehab program, now on a soccer team to help me channel my aggression. I remember being so into playing, and actualy felt myself being powered by my anger: each time I'd sprint, each time I'd kick or block I drew the energy from that under-conscious as if it was now a vault of tapable energy. Somehow, another chola bitch became the target of my violence. She was young and pretty and popular, so of course she was snotty. I think I was hounding her around the field and hitting her with some long, hard, orange phallic thing. Ha! How weird. Anyway, I got in trouble for that too, but not too much because even though I inflicted some good damage, I didn't leave her unconscious.
I remember running around a warehouse in dread of her family's retribution. I wasted my whole afternoon there.
When it was getting late, and the bright, hot orange sun was touching the horizon on its way down, I saw Sly on his way out to the bleachers on the blacktop. "Oh hey," I said. "Hi," he said blandly as he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Some brief exchanges made it apparant that he'd heard of my issues with violence lately, and was disappointed in me for beating up that second girl. Oh well, what can I do now, I figured. I continued my way down the hill onto Warrior Drive. As punishment I had to walk home, and so I started when suddenly I remembered I had to stay there at the school: I still had to write those two essays which were due in two hours.
I was SO ready to face the long walk home, so set on the side of the fork I had chosen, ready for that pain. When I was reminded - somehow by Sly - that I still had those two essays, and even though I had already accepted my punishment, I had not dealt with my fate. It wasn't a choice. I broke down in the middle of the road, under the burning sunset, completely broken and hopeless and defeated.
/end dream
/enable consciousness: "Eulogy" by Tool
"Repeat Offender: Aenima"
I dialed. Didn't win. BUT, it was only ten o'clock. Only ten. I had so much more time than I thought.
ii. consequence
i. repressed anger
iii. exclusion
--