After today, I'm kind of nostalgic for Monday.
Last night's dream involved Charlie Weasley in some capacity I no longer remember; I think maybe he was the one who led me and a group of others - a group that definitely included Katniss and Prim Everdeen and my best friends from junior high - on an expedition to...do something. I don't know what we set out to do, because we were captured by a "Christian" cult that, to all outward appearances, was completely normal, but which chopped off a sacrifice's head once a year* and then cannibalized the body. All in the name of Jesus.
As these things go, we stumbled upon them on the day of their ritual, and they selected one of my traveling companions - a tall, lanky, sweet teenage boy - as the sacrifice. We were all made to dance a slow, snaking conga line in front of the rock concert stage-esque dais as the "minister" chanted a "prayer," and I spent this time flashing back to the most recent episode of dream-version Doctor Who, in which Eleven and his new Companion (a frizzy-haired, olive-skinned woman with giant coke bottle glasses and a Mediterranean accent, who I somehow knew would be revealed in the next episode to be Romana) were arguing in a subway car about the best way to save someone. I was still quietly chanting to myself, "What would The Doctor do?" when there was a "shhhkTHUNK" noise. Holding up the boy's severed head, the minister came over all measured and disapproving, telling us that one of the members of their congregation had reason to publicly chastise us. We were then lectured by a twenty-something guy in great shape about how he had been groomed from birth to be this year's sacrifice, and, now that we had taken his purpose from him, he was condemned to eternal damnation. The entire congregation - who, moments before, had captured us, forced us to participate in their ritual very much against our will, then beheaded one of us - nodded their heads knowingly, tacitly saying, "You heathens robbed him of his glory; what do you intend to do to make it up to him?" So, I gave them a stirring, long-winded speech (so many of my dreams eventually require me to give a stirring, long-winded speech to a group of hostiles) about destiny being a crock and any religion that requires blood sacrifice being an even bigger crock, and we were all about to be eaten by a group of seemingly stereotypical suburban white bible thumpers when I woke up and had to drag myself to work.
Earlier, there had been another bit of dream about the concept of feminism overlaying the concept of geography, and a visual of the opacity being turned down on an image of a vaguely tribal drawing of a lizard with what gradually could be seen to be a photo of a hill on the layer underneath. I now have not a clue what that was supposed to have meant, but I woke briefly thinking that it all made perfect sense and would make for a great novel.
* I read Shirley Jackson's "The Lottery" a couple of days ago, on top of my recent reading of The Hunger Games.
ETA: I was sorely tempted to just go to bed about three hours ago and try to sleep my life away, but I stuck it out because I thought there was a new SP. Instead, I turned on the telly to see that episode from the beginning of this season that, despite the brilliant satire, I will never be able to watch again (and cannot even bring myself to type the name of), which led to a complete and utter breakdown, such is the tenuousness of my grip on sanity and composure at the moment. I very nearly called it a night again, but I stuck it out for TDS. They could not have had better guests if I had specifically requested them. I will definitely link to it as soon as they put it up, if for no other reason than I know I am going to want to watch it a few more times.
Also, Tim Halperin is made of love, and I have the biggest crush right now...
Also, John Oliver is made of love, and I have the second biggest crush right now...
EOATA: I've just become aware of the fact that I've had the following quote running through my head for the past 12 hours:
"You exist to continue your existence. What's the point?"
~Mary O'Brien, Equilibrium
As these things go, we stumbled upon them on the day of their ritual, and they selected one of my traveling companions - a tall, lanky, sweet teenage boy - as the sacrifice. We were all made to dance a slow, snaking conga line in front of the rock concert stage-esque dais as the "minister" chanted a "prayer," and I spent this time flashing back to the most recent episode of dream-version Doctor Who, in which Eleven and his new Companion (a frizzy-haired, olive-skinned woman with giant coke bottle glasses and a Mediterranean accent, who I somehow knew would be revealed in the next episode to be Romana) were arguing in a subway car about the best way to save someone. I was still quietly chanting to myself, "What would The Doctor do?" when there was a "shhhkTHUNK" noise. Holding up the boy's severed head, the minister came over all measured and disapproving, telling us that one of the members of their congregation had reason to publicly chastise us. We were then lectured by a twenty-something guy in great shape about how he had been groomed from birth to be this year's sacrifice, and, now that we had taken his purpose from him, he was condemned to eternal damnation. The entire congregation - who, moments before, had captured us, forced us to participate in their ritual very much against our will, then beheaded one of us - nodded their heads knowingly, tacitly saying, "You heathens robbed him of his glory; what do you intend to do to make it up to him?" So, I gave them a stirring, long-winded speech (so many of my dreams eventually require me to give a stirring, long-winded speech to a group of hostiles) about destiny being a crock and any religion that requires blood sacrifice being an even bigger crock, and we were all about to be eaten by a group of seemingly stereotypical suburban white bible thumpers when I woke up and had to drag myself to work.
Earlier, there had been another bit of dream about the concept of feminism overlaying the concept of geography, and a visual of the opacity being turned down on an image of a vaguely tribal drawing of a lizard with what gradually could be seen to be a photo of a hill on the layer underneath. I now have not a clue what that was supposed to have meant, but I woke briefly thinking that it all made perfect sense and would make for a great novel.
* I read Shirley Jackson's "The Lottery" a couple of days ago, on top of my recent reading of The Hunger Games.
ETA: I was sorely tempted to just go to bed about three hours ago and try to sleep my life away, but I stuck it out because I thought there was a new SP. Instead, I turned on the telly to see that episode from the beginning of this season that, despite the brilliant satire, I will never be able to watch again (and cannot even bring myself to type the name of), which led to a complete and utter breakdown, such is the tenuousness of my grip on sanity and composure at the moment. I very nearly called it a night again, but I stuck it out for TDS. They could not have had better guests if I had specifically requested them. I will definitely link to it as soon as they put it up, if for no other reason than I know I am going to want to watch it a few more times.
Also, Tim Halperin is made of love, and I have the biggest crush right now...
Also, John Oliver is made of love, and I have the second biggest crush right now...
EOATA: I've just become aware of the fact that I've had the following quote running through my head for the past 12 hours:
"You exist to continue your existence. What's the point?"
~Mary O'Brien, Equilibrium