old dreams
dream #1 (january twenty-first):
There are seven full moons in the sky and your friend Sarah bungee-jumps off the upper lip of a crescent-shaped scar on one of them. The city is overrun by sinister, fleeting shadows that could be ostriches or giant, face-eating dinosaurs. Instead of digging a nuclear shelter in the backyard, you go on a sullen family road trip that turns predictably into a car chase, Godzilla at your feet. Six of the moons are optical illusions caused by thick, rainy mist choking the air. You're still not sure whether Sarah's moon was the real one or not.
dream #2 (january twenty-second):
The tiny copper-haired freshman you always run into curled up in library corners makes a cameo. She turns out to have a street-performing twin who juggles fire, and an eighth grade class taking a field trip to Chicago has the bizarre pleasure of watching her meet herself. You're not sure how you know this, because you're back in West Bloomfield, where a fever-driven midnight trip to Hollywood Video dredges up an old-school video version of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets in which your brother stars, and sings. (You realize while watching the glowing screen and nursing a box of Kleenex that nobody will ever believe you.) Later, it's Christmas Eve, and a pretty giantess evicts you all from your houses. She drags pine trees across the street and tramps up and down your attic stairs looking for decorations, singing Frank Sinatra songs. You take refuge on a hamster-sized tricycle and navigate the streets morosely while the sun beats down on you.
dream #0 (recurring, childhood):
It's somewhere between midnight and morning and my parents are asleep. I palm the car keys off the cracked formica counter, let myself out of the kitchen door and get halfway to Southfield before I realize that I don't know how I got there or where I'm going. When I look down, I'm still wearing my pajamas. My hands aren't even on the wheel anymore. The highway is the quietest shade of dark blue I've ever seen.
There are seven full moons in the sky and your friend Sarah bungee-jumps off the upper lip of a crescent-shaped scar on one of them. The city is overrun by sinister, fleeting shadows that could be ostriches or giant, face-eating dinosaurs. Instead of digging a nuclear shelter in the backyard, you go on a sullen family road trip that turns predictably into a car chase, Godzilla at your feet. Six of the moons are optical illusions caused by thick, rainy mist choking the air. You're still not sure whether Sarah's moon was the real one or not.
dream #2 (january twenty-second):
The tiny copper-haired freshman you always run into curled up in library corners makes a cameo. She turns out to have a street-performing twin who juggles fire, and an eighth grade class taking a field trip to Chicago has the bizarre pleasure of watching her meet herself. You're not sure how you know this, because you're back in West Bloomfield, where a fever-driven midnight trip to Hollywood Video dredges up an old-school video version of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets in which your brother stars, and sings. (You realize while watching the glowing screen and nursing a box of Kleenex that nobody will ever believe you.) Later, it's Christmas Eve, and a pretty giantess evicts you all from your houses. She drags pine trees across the street and tramps up and down your attic stairs looking for decorations, singing Frank Sinatra songs. You take refuge on a hamster-sized tricycle and navigate the streets morosely while the sun beats down on you.
dream #0 (recurring, childhood):
It's somewhere between midnight and morning and my parents are asleep. I palm the car keys off the cracked formica counter, let myself out of the kitchen door and get halfway to Southfield before I realize that I don't know how I got there or where I'm going. When I look down, I'm still wearing my pajamas. My hands aren't even on the wheel anymore. The highway is the quietest shade of dark blue I've ever seen.