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Entry tags:
Dreams
I slept absolutely forever today, and dreamed many things.
The first dream was kind of inevitable. House-sitting took up half of February, so I shouldn't be surprised when I end up dreaming about it. My grandma's house this time, but somehow in a seaside version of Boulder, Colorado. I spent all my time out walking the streets of the town, alone mostly, and then suddenly the town was over-run by zombies. Together with some new friends (Because you always meet new people in zombie movies), I hid out until the zombie danger was past, then returned to Granny's house to find that her dog had destroyed nearly everything upstairs. I'd forgotten she had a dog. Some house-sitter I am. Me and my new friends cleaned up, a bit, then went outside, ran into a roving pack of zombies, and killed them in the snow. Then I decided to make a snowfort by clipping away the blackberry bushes under a snowdrift, and got very warm doing so. The last thing I remember from that dream was trying to shovel out the remains of a horse made of canvas and rotting straw.
Then I woke up briefly. Mom asked if I was still alive, I muttered something, rolled over, and found myself dreaming again.
This time, I was walking, and had been for a very long time. I knew I'd started at home, and here I was most of the way to Mount Vernon, trotting alongside a road hedged in by blackberries. For some reason, I was carrying a gas-powered lawn-mower/vacuum-cleaner, one of the little shop-vac sized things, and trying to get to the transit station in Mount Vernon.
Suddenly, I came upon a taxi parked on the wrong side of the road, with a frustrated-looking man sitting inside. He'd run out of gas, he said, and was going to have an utterly miserable day pushing his car to the station. But! My lawn-cleaner had a full tank. Only a gallon or so, but it would be enough to save his day. So we poured the fuel from his tank to mine, and I got into the front seat with him, he handed me his cup of coffee, and the dream changed.
Now I was back in high school. In the band room, all the way back in the percussion section looking down at Vince Fejeran, conductor of the extracurricular youth symphony and any number of community bands. There were only three of us there. Me, Vince, and A Boy Who Was Brilliant. I was there, I knew, because The Boy could not play every single instrument. They needed me to play the timpani. And so we started.
Vince was crying as he conducted. It was the music. It was Perfect, and I wish so badly that I could remember a single note. I struggled to keep up, to be worthy of being allowed to play it, but it was plain that I was only there to play one note, a low rumble of support for the supernatural edifice of Music that The Boy was building. He fluttered from flute to piano to violin to trumpet, and every instrument he touched performed exquisitely in his hands. This was the best performance in the history of music, since a monkey hit a rock on a branch and liked the sound. It was Utopia in sound, ambrosia in rhythm, perfection in pitch. And when it was over, it was plain that both Vince and The Boy had forgotten I was there.
So I left. They followed me out, but only to go to the aquarium that was for some reason in the place of my high school's music hall. I took a left and went outside, where a gray rocky beach had replaced our gym. I tromped through the surf, trying to find some proof that I did exist, I wasn't only a prop for someone else's perfection. They'd just begun to look for me for another performance, striding elegantly over the rocks in swooshy coats, when I woke up and found it noon.
The first dream was kind of inevitable. House-sitting took up half of February, so I shouldn't be surprised when I end up dreaming about it. My grandma's house this time, but somehow in a seaside version of Boulder, Colorado. I spent all my time out walking the streets of the town, alone mostly, and then suddenly the town was over-run by zombies. Together with some new friends (Because you always meet new people in zombie movies), I hid out until the zombie danger was past, then returned to Granny's house to find that her dog had destroyed nearly everything upstairs. I'd forgotten she had a dog. Some house-sitter I am. Me and my new friends cleaned up, a bit, then went outside, ran into a roving pack of zombies, and killed them in the snow. Then I decided to make a snowfort by clipping away the blackberry bushes under a snowdrift, and got very warm doing so. The last thing I remember from that dream was trying to shovel out the remains of a horse made of canvas and rotting straw.
Then I woke up briefly. Mom asked if I was still alive, I muttered something, rolled over, and found myself dreaming again.
This time, I was walking, and had been for a very long time. I knew I'd started at home, and here I was most of the way to Mount Vernon, trotting alongside a road hedged in by blackberries. For some reason, I was carrying a gas-powered lawn-mower/vacuum-cleaner, one of the little shop-vac sized things, and trying to get to the transit station in Mount Vernon.
Suddenly, I came upon a taxi parked on the wrong side of the road, with a frustrated-looking man sitting inside. He'd run out of gas, he said, and was going to have an utterly miserable day pushing his car to the station. But! My lawn-cleaner had a full tank. Only a gallon or so, but it would be enough to save his day. So we poured the fuel from his tank to mine, and I got into the front seat with him, he handed me his cup of coffee, and the dream changed.
Now I was back in high school. In the band room, all the way back in the percussion section looking down at Vince Fejeran, conductor of the extracurricular youth symphony and any number of community bands. There were only three of us there. Me, Vince, and A Boy Who Was Brilliant. I was there, I knew, because The Boy could not play every single instrument. They needed me to play the timpani. And so we started.
Vince was crying as he conducted. It was the music. It was Perfect, and I wish so badly that I could remember a single note. I struggled to keep up, to be worthy of being allowed to play it, but it was plain that I was only there to play one note, a low rumble of support for the supernatural edifice of Music that The Boy was building. He fluttered from flute to piano to violin to trumpet, and every instrument he touched performed exquisitely in his hands. This was the best performance in the history of music, since a monkey hit a rock on a branch and liked the sound. It was Utopia in sound, ambrosia in rhythm, perfection in pitch. And when it was over, it was plain that both Vince and The Boy had forgotten I was there.
So I left. They followed me out, but only to go to the aquarium that was for some reason in the place of my high school's music hall. I took a left and went outside, where a gray rocky beach had replaced our gym. I tromped through the surf, trying to find some proof that I did exist, I wasn't only a prop for someone else's perfection. They'd just begun to look for me for another performance, striding elegantly over the rocks in swooshy coats, when I woke up and found it noon.