Stupid nightmare
I had a nightmare this morning, one of a decades-long string of repetitive dreams of that kind, that I was locked up someplace like a state hospital, unable to call anyone to go check my place and make sure my cat was okay and get my stuff out of there. That the place I was in was somewhere near Los Angeles, while my apartment was in either Santa Barbara, CA or Seattle, WA just made it all the more frustrating. I asked people there to call friends of mine who could check on my apartment and cat and property, and finally found someone who said she might. Which is when it began to get worse in a way that is characteristic of my dreams.
First, I had to remember the phone numbers and/or addresses of those friends. For once I actually remembered two of them, though there are actually a number of people who could have done that for me. Normally, in these dreams, I never can remember the names, telephone numbers, and addresses of any of my friends, but for the first time, in this dream, I could.
Next came writing down what I could remember -- and it was back to square one. Every pen I found to try to write down names and telephone numbers as well as my own name and the address of my apartment stopped working within seconds. My hand refused to make legible letters -- my writing looked as if it had been done by a small, pre-literate child, with ink-blots all over it. As I knew from long experience, I knew a pencil wouldn't work, either -- either it would make marks too faint to be interpreted, or the lead would break early on, something. After a long, frustrating siege of trying to write down the information, I woke up, angry as hell at whatever was doing this to me.
I tried to locate whatever was responsible for the frustration in my psyche, but kept coming to a large, plate-steel door that wouldn't open. I could feel whatever it was sniggering away on the other side of that door, but there was no way to open the door to get at it. What I really need is about a hundred pounds of thermite to get through that door, and a white phosphorus grenade to use on whatever was doing the sniggering once I can get at it. I'm sick and tired of this -- I know that the thing behind the door is responsible for everything that's gone wrong with my life, and that only by getting rid of it can I hope to have any sort of life worth living before I die. Above all, that's what's keeping those that are bankrolling our novels from finding a producer to make movies out of them. Somehow, some way, I am going to get my hands on that thing and pulverize it and throw what's left of it down the deepest abandoned mine shaft that ever was. Since it only exists on the level of dreams, there's nothing illegal about that. I wonder if meditation techniques will aid me in that.
First, I had to remember the phone numbers and/or addresses of those friends. For once I actually remembered two of them, though there are actually a number of people who could have done that for me. Normally, in these dreams, I never can remember the names, telephone numbers, and addresses of any of my friends, but for the first time, in this dream, I could.
Next came writing down what I could remember -- and it was back to square one. Every pen I found to try to write down names and telephone numbers as well as my own name and the address of my apartment stopped working within seconds. My hand refused to make legible letters -- my writing looked as if it had been done by a small, pre-literate child, with ink-blots all over it. As I knew from long experience, I knew a pencil wouldn't work, either -- either it would make marks too faint to be interpreted, or the lead would break early on, something. After a long, frustrating siege of trying to write down the information, I woke up, angry as hell at whatever was doing this to me.
I tried to locate whatever was responsible for the frustration in my psyche, but kept coming to a large, plate-steel door that wouldn't open. I could feel whatever it was sniggering away on the other side of that door, but there was no way to open the door to get at it. What I really need is about a hundred pounds of thermite to get through that door, and a white phosphorus grenade to use on whatever was doing the sniggering once I can get at it. I'm sick and tired of this -- I know that the thing behind the door is responsible for everything that's gone wrong with my life, and that only by getting rid of it can I hope to have any sort of life worth living before I die. Above all, that's what's keeping those that are bankrolling our novels from finding a producer to make movies out of them. Somehow, some way, I am going to get my hands on that thing and pulverize it and throw what's left of it down the deepest abandoned mine shaft that ever was. Since it only exists on the level of dreams, there's nothing illegal about that. I wonder if meditation techniques will aid me in that.