That Will Be Enough of THAT.
Christ.
Judging from my f-list, I'm not the only one who had freaky nightmares last night.
Here's mine: I dreamed Sargon had been murdered, and I was being forced to look at crime scene photographs in order to identify his body, which was impossible, because it was in, like, pieces.
Now, 1) I am deathly afraid of dismemberment and gore, and 2) I am deathly afraid of losing Sargon. And I mean way more afraid of those things than you probably think. So I started screaming and screaming. As usual, I realized it was a dream when nobody seemed disturbed by this. I still couldn't break the dream, though, so I kept screaming.
I thought I was making noise; I was just sure that Sargon would hear me and come to wake me up. Then I had a hypnagogic illusion that he did just that, and carried me into the bedroom, but the screaming didn't stop. It sounded wrong, too, which was only scarier. In retrospect, I was wearing earplugs, which would account for the close, muted sound of it, and sort of makes me think I was making some kind of noise. I don't think I was screaming, but I could very well have been yelping or moaning; Sargon wasn't asleep, but there were two rooms and two closed doors between us, and a fan going next to him.
Then I woke up for real, and for a few long moments I could not move. Hello, sleep paralysis, my old friend. I'm used to that, so it was less disturbing than the fact that I did not know where I was. I mean, literally had no idea. It was as though I'd woken up in a different house entirely. Nothing was familiar. Everything seemed turned around. This happens to me from time to time; I will wake up thinking I'm in my grandparents' spare room, or one of my childhood bedrooms, or in this house when it was my sister's house, but always before, it is someplace familiar to me. This was totally panic-inducing, because I knew I was awake, and didn't know where I was. I finally recognized the ceiling fan and the books on the shelf right beside me, and then I was okay enough to get up and fling myself on my husband.
It still sucked raw donkey balls through a straw. Christ. I just . . . crime scene photos. Ugh. No.
While we're at it, let me tell you about some other stupid dreams from the past month. I don't remember in what order I had these, but here they are, nevertheless.
First, I dreamed that Sargon was making me pull a full-size haywagon through the mud; deep mud that had been laid down in trenches dug by a bulldozer. And it was raining. Thing is, it was movie mud and movie rain, plainly fake. I have no idea where this came from as Sargon is in no way angry with me, and I am in no way feeling put-upon.
Then, I dreamed about gluing rhinestones to the Phantom of the Opera's mask. Boy, was he pissed when I gave it back to him. I blame making Christmas ornaments for this one, but I still think it's a swell idea. ("Damn you, you Bedazzling Delilah!")
Then, I dreamed that my friends came to my house to give each other presents, and didn't give me any, and everything I had already been given fell apart in my hands. Now, all of my friends are lovely people, and all of the presents I have received from them have been lovely; furthermore, my sense of etiquette is so vestigial that I truly doubt I would think to be offended if people were to exchange gifts in front of me in my own home, without bringing me anything. I think this is just me being hacked off at missing most of December.
Last, I dreamed about a redneck and his three kids trying to park their lime-green bikes on my dad's front porch while they went to see a play. They refused to remove them when I insisted. "We'll just leave these here." To which my lycanthropic poet friend Dr. Omed (who was standing behind me) laughingly said: "Oh, I don't think so." Hoping to get the redneck to touch me so I could have an excuse to call the police, I unleashed a stream of invective at him that caused him to poke me in the chest. At that point, I grabbed his cluster and pulled with all my might, whacked him in the shins with a stick, sent him to the concrete, and repeatedly kicked the ever-loving shit out of him. Dr. Omed laughed uproariously as he tried to dial the phone ("Do I call the police or an ambulance?"). The redneck children looked on like startled baby geese. The bicycles toppled into a heap. It was sublime. I don't know what that was about, but it felt good.
* I could very well have been yelping or moaning; Sargon wasn't asleep, but there were two rooms and two closed doors between us, and a fan going next to him.
Judging from my f-list, I'm not the only one who had freaky nightmares last night.
Here's mine: I dreamed Sargon had been murdered, and I was being forced to look at crime scene photographs in order to identify his body, which was impossible, because it was in, like, pieces.
Now, 1) I am deathly afraid of dismemberment and gore, and 2) I am deathly afraid of losing Sargon. And I mean way more afraid of those things than you probably think. So I started screaming and screaming. As usual, I realized it was a dream when nobody seemed disturbed by this. I still couldn't break the dream, though, so I kept screaming.
I thought I was making noise; I was just sure that Sargon would hear me and come to wake me up. Then I had a hypnagogic illusion that he did just that, and carried me into the bedroom, but the screaming didn't stop. It sounded wrong, too, which was only scarier. In retrospect, I was wearing earplugs, which would account for the close, muted sound of it, and sort of makes me think I was making some kind of noise. I don't think I was screaming, but I could very well have been yelping or moaning; Sargon wasn't asleep, but there were two rooms and two closed doors between us, and a fan going next to him.
Then I woke up for real, and for a few long moments I could not move. Hello, sleep paralysis, my old friend. I'm used to that, so it was less disturbing than the fact that I did not know where I was. I mean, literally had no idea. It was as though I'd woken up in a different house entirely. Nothing was familiar. Everything seemed turned around. This happens to me from time to time; I will wake up thinking I'm in my grandparents' spare room, or one of my childhood bedrooms, or in this house when it was my sister's house, but always before, it is someplace familiar to me. This was totally panic-inducing, because I knew I was awake, and didn't know where I was. I finally recognized the ceiling fan and the books on the shelf right beside me, and then I was okay enough to get up and fling myself on my husband.
It still sucked raw donkey balls through a straw. Christ. I just . . . crime scene photos. Ugh. No.
While we're at it, let me tell you about some other stupid dreams from the past month. I don't remember in what order I had these, but here they are, nevertheless.
First, I dreamed that Sargon was making me pull a full-size haywagon through the mud; deep mud that had been laid down in trenches dug by a bulldozer. And it was raining. Thing is, it was movie mud and movie rain, plainly fake. I have no idea where this came from as Sargon is in no way angry with me, and I am in no way feeling put-upon.
Then, I dreamed about gluing rhinestones to the Phantom of the Opera's mask. Boy, was he pissed when I gave it back to him. I blame making Christmas ornaments for this one, but I still think it's a swell idea. ("Damn you, you Bedazzling Delilah!")
Then, I dreamed that my friends came to my house to give each other presents, and didn't give me any, and everything I had already been given fell apart in my hands. Now, all of my friends are lovely people, and all of the presents I have received from them have been lovely; furthermore, my sense of etiquette is so vestigial that I truly doubt I would think to be offended if people were to exchange gifts in front of me in my own home, without bringing me anything. I think this is just me being hacked off at missing most of December.
Last, I dreamed about a redneck and his three kids trying to park their lime-green bikes on my dad's front porch while they went to see a play. They refused to remove them when I insisted. "We'll just leave these here." To which my lycanthropic poet friend Dr. Omed (who was standing behind me) laughingly said: "Oh, I don't think so." Hoping to get the redneck to touch me so I could have an excuse to call the police, I unleashed a stream of invective at him that caused him to poke me in the chest. At that point, I grabbed his cluster and pulled with all my might, whacked him in the shins with a stick, sent him to the concrete, and repeatedly kicked the ever-loving shit out of him. Dr. Omed laughed uproariously as he tried to dial the phone ("Do I call the police or an ambulance?"). The redneck children looked on like startled baby geese. The bicycles toppled into a heap. It was sublime. I don't know what that was about, but it felt good.
* I could very well have been yelping or moaning; Sargon wasn't asleep, but there were two rooms and two closed doors between us, and a fan going next to him.