01/01/2017
Warm, dreamy, comfortable atmosphere. Being princess carried through a
dense crowd along a beach at night by a tall, handsome man with
shoulder-length brown hair and soft eyes. The crowd is made up of of
black, faceless humanoids, chattering and whispering among themselves
incomprehensibly. They offer us all sorts of glowing trinkets in a rainbow
of colors, standing out against the darkness of night. It feels like
acceptance.
02/01/2017
A man in tattered, moth-eaten clothes stands before a jury of his peers.
In his hands he holds the object of the case: a document he was accused of
stealing. The judge presiding orders him to read it before the court.
Complying, the man struggles to read its contents aloud, each word leaving
his lips causing him unimaginable physical agony. His voice staggers and
his breath heaves and by the time the incantation is complete, he’s a
writhing mass on the ground, howling and begging for absolution.
Elsewhere, a stranger speaks to the man’s two young sons at the edge of a
murky graveyard. The stranger instructs them to venture out to obtain a
highly valuable white powder that would be processed to create a material
like fine marble. Being of a poorer family, the sons ask the stranger why
they’re being trusted with such a task. The stranger offers only that it
is necessary to absolve their guilty father. The sons accept this
explanation and leave.
Once out of sight, the stranger’s disguise falls away. He is revealed to
be an angel, perhaps seven feet tall and skinny, body covered in
earth-colored bony plates and a thin layer of dust. His monstrous face is
obscured by an elaborate stone mask. A voluminous golden veil cascades
down his back. Producing a half-finished object of some sort from
somewhere in his robe, he drops it on the ground before his feet and
explains its purpose to me: a holy weapon that would be capable of ending
the man’s life once the forbidden knowledge had taken hold of his body.
No longer simply a passive observer to events, I ask him if such a course
is necessary. He laments that in this situation, it is indeed the only
option, and the weight of his sadness is palpable. Though a part of him
understands my desire to seek alternatives, he seems somewhat hurt by my
question, interpreting it as doubt and asking if I trust him.
I tell him that I trust him completely and I know he’s protected me at
various junctures in my life, circling my arms around his narrow waist. I
soon feel a long-fingered hand rest against back, gently drawing me closer
to complete the embrace. For the first time in my life I have no fear of
the inevitability of death and all I feel is the complete, genuine love
that this creature holds for me and the gratitude I have in return.
02/01/2017
A hit Spring anime, “Duck or Cake?” releases. Each episode runs for 3
minutes (1 minute of which is an opening theme) and contains various shots
of objects along with a narrator indicating whether the articles are a
duck, a cake, or something else entirely. At the end of the series finale,
a duck cake is shown.
04/01/2017
A handsome black-haired man with sculpted features lays on a beach where
the sand meets the sea, unclothed. The tides slowly pull in and out with a
hypnotic rhythm, the surf rising just a little bit higher each time. His
features are fixed in a state of pure bliss as the water gradually
consumes him, eroding away his body. Eventually, there is nothing of him
left. There is a melody playing from somewhere in the distance.
07/01/2017
In a typical highschool classroom, a boy settles himself beside his
friends, clustered around somebody’s desk. They chatter excitedly about
their plans for the upcoming summer break.
We later see that he appears to reside in the center display of a large
greenhouse. It’s a geodesic dome, the planted sections overgrown with a
combination of mixed plant species and weeds, wild and unchecked after
years of abandonment. His “quarters” at the center consist of a small
circular grass clearing with an old tree, dozens of smaller plants in
individual planters and access to a tap.
There is a hole dug out of the soil to create a sort of basin. He fills it
with water and slips off his lumpy canvas shoes, bulging at strange points
and alluding to something inhuman beneath. It appears that his feet have
the characteristics of roots. He stands in the newly formed puddle-ankle
deep, and drinks deeply from it.
He smiles and looks around at the potted plants, starting to recount his
day to them. Were they his family, or at least others of his kind?
15/01/2017
In a bright neon future, an organization known as “The Tomorrowers”
exists, primarily comprised of adults between the ages of 25 and 35. The
Tomorrowers are short-term time travelers, slipping into a phased reality
taking place exactly 24 hours forward at 6AM every morning, returning to
their present time at midnight for five allocated hours of sleep. It is
their job to keep the progression of certain events on track and to warn
the “ordinary reality” of any foreseen calamities.
A young female agent awakens at 5AM as all agents do. Their quarters are
in a darkened high-rise towering over a bustling city. The sky is still
pitch with no evidence of sunrise any time soon, the red-and-orange city
lights glowing against the darkness. A sleepy-looking man in a dark grey
robe allows himself into her room, walks over to her kitchenette and
starts making himself a coffee.
27/01/2017
(A series of open-eye hallucinations (accidentally) experienced under the
effect of a heavy dose of doxylamine succinate:)
- Being transported into an alternate dimension (different planet?) where
the inhabitants appear to speak a language similar to English, but not
quite. The location on arrival is a huge supermarket type place with
bright, blaring lights. The outside is dark and desolate. The inside is
semi-busy. I wrack my brain trying to read a magazine: it’s possible to
comprehend the language if one stared and thought hard enough, “bct mxxt
ov tha txt z wrte smitng lke thib”. After a while, a cashier notices me
thumbing through dozens of tabloid magazines, trying to get a handle on
the language and where I was. When she speaks, her speech is garbled just
like the text. I stare at her dumbfounded. She seems to parse that I can’t
understand her at all once I try to answer her back, so she pulls apart
the magazine and starts pointing to celebrities, and after a while I
realize she’s saying something like “Do you know who this is?”.
- Suddenly developing the belief that in order to catch my flight out to
the US, I had to fill my car with explosives and fireworks. For some
reason.
- At one point, legitimately believed I was cuddling with my favorite
character, who was slumped heavy on top of me, using my body as a
mattress. It was uncomfortable but I’m not going to complain. When I came
to my senses I found that I had walked to my home gym and I was laying on
a pilates machine.
- Looking around my room in the semi-dark and seeing the “menacing” text
from JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure overlaid on certain objects, like my book
shelf.
02/02/2017
For once, I’m myself and not another character or an omniscient observer
to events. I sit with my mother in a secluded location.
She’s dressed in a navy coat with a striped shirt underneath, a common
ensemble for going out, and a matching navy cap, often worn to conceal
extensive hair loss after years of intense drug therapy. She tells me
seriously that her “time” is coming in the near future and I have to be
prepared to deal with it and she wants to see me settled so she can pass
away in peace. The conversation is frank, but it’s also uncomfortably
verging on a guilt trip.
I tell her that everything will be fine and I’ll steel myself and carry
on, as I always have. She’s unhappy with my response and admonishes me,
telling me that she believes I probably won’t care when she dies (and in
fact, that I may be happy about it), citing my stoic demeanor when
Theodore died. “You didn’t even cry,” she says.
It feels fruitless to explain that my lack of tears doesn’t indicate an
absence of love, so I just settle for telling her that she’s wrong, that I
spent my entire Christmas season just wishing he’d come back and that I
still miss him now.
I leave the scene. The dreamscape outside is reminiscent of a university
campus with lots of gardens, open spaces and the occasional building. For
some reason I’m very aware of how dusty the pathways are, kicking pebbles
as I walk along idly, anticipating nothing else interesting was likely to
happen and waiting for the dream to end. I felt somewhat emotionally
drained after wrestling with that strange part of my subconscious.
I soon catch sight of a familiar figure standing by a detached building
near a field, suggesting it may have been a sports center of some sort.
It’s the same entity that’s been recurring in my dreams for approximately
the past two years. This time he’s wearing a white suit with purple
accents and he seems happy to see me after all this time, as it’s been at
least a month since we last met.
I wrap my arms around him and squeeze, telling him that I missed him and
it’s good to see him again. He reciprocates and informs me that he’s
essentially just here to hang out with me until my dream ends.
We talk easily among ourselves, walking in a kind of side-hug formation
down the street and taking in the nice weather and atmosphere. The
solidity and warmth of his body pressed to my side is a welcome comfort
after the tense encounter earlier. We eventually happen upon a street with
cafes and boutiques, and stop to inspect the wares at a cafe.
The glass cabinet is filled with small cakes and gourmet handmade
chocolates, most of them pretty expensive. My friend empties his coin
purse into my hand, giving me everything of what little he had and telling
me I could buy whatever I wanted for myself. The coins are silver coins of
various sizes with a square-shaped hole in the center, similar to yen
coins. I look at the coins, then to the prices listed in the cabinet, and
then to him. “It’s dream currency,” he explains simply, as though it were
the most obvious thing ever.
I only have enough DC for some of the cheaper confections. Somewhere in my
mind I decide, “fuck it, this is my dream, I want one of those handmade
chocolates, I’m just going to grab it”. I press my knuckles against the
glass and start to concentrate on phasing my hand through the solid
surface, because it’s a dream and I know I can do that. But the cashier
notices what I’m doing and scolds me.
In the end, I have a small cup full of “chocolate drops”. The taste and
texture are identical to Mini M&Ms. I feel the dream about to unravel,
I thank everyone for their company and soon I’m gone.
19/02/2017
I convincingly fake my own death in order to start a completely new life
elsewhere, taking up a new identity. In this new life I’m essentially
homeless and live with a few other homeless people (regarded as
“travelers” or “campers”) in the wilderness outside of the fringes of
town, in a sort of tent city situation. It’s an easy and carefree life but
there are few creature comforts and no real access to electricity or
technology. My solitary regret is leaving behind my husband.
I briefly return to my old life to get a glimpse at how the people I left
behind are doing, and check my abandoned social media accounts when I
finally manage to use a phone again. There are a great number of people
who indicate that they’re happy I’m gone and that things are better this
way.
24/02/2017
The setting is a green, lush forest with distinctly European foliage in
the midst of spring, early in the morning and tinged with mist. I see a
place far off in the distance that I can’t get to. No matter which way I
walk, I end up hitting towering chainlink fences. There’s a sense that the
boundaries of where I can and can’t traverse are clearly defined, and that
defying that natural order of things would have consequences.
As I weave my fingers through the chain links and gaze out across the way,
a stranger passing by stops to ask what I’m doing. I tell him that I want
to go to the place far beyond the limit, and that where I come from, there
aren’t so many walls and you can mostly go where you please. He disagrees
with the notion, advising that far beyond the limits “isn’t a place you
want to go”.
Heedless of his warning, I summon my physical strength and jump the fence
once he’s out of sight. Time passes irregularly, but I walk for what feels
like six hours by the time I happen upon a lake that seems far too crystal
clear and untainted to possibly be real. A man who looks to be in his 50's
or 60's with greying hair but a capable-looking body sits on the bank with
a fishing rod in hand. I call out to him and he invites me to sit with
him.
He introduces himself as Gustav and claims to be the owner of this parcel
of land and everything on it. He explains that it’s the remnants of an inn
and several lodges that were condemned and abandoned. There are about 12
other people who live in this small community, almost completely
sequestered away from the rest of the world except for the occasional
journey out to buy and trade supplies.
He indicates surprise that I managed to find this place, and that I had
the conviction to cross the barrier at all. Seeming serious for a moment,
he asks me how I arrived here and why I came. I’m frank with him and
explain that I simply followed an almost magnetic draw, and that more than
anything I want to leave my life behind and begin again.
I stay in this place for a long, long time. I can’t determine the passage
of time because it’s always weird in a dream state. I live in a single
bedroom single bathroom lodge, gradually meet the other inhabitants
(though the only other one I remember in any detail is Gustav’s vastly
younger wife, Auburn), swim, learn to fish, garden and use crab traps
properly and generally enjoy an uneventful life.
Every so often another curious wanderer happens across the little
closed-off community. Unlike me, they never choose to stay. Gustav and
Auburn host a farewell dinner for each one at their lodge and invite
everyone, but it always seems like they’ve already left and they never
show up.
It takes me a while to realize that the reason the wanderers never show up
is because Gustav and Auburn trap, kill and serve their meat at the
“farewell dinners”, and that I hadn’t been eating pork this whole time.
The discovery makes this life feel far less idyllic and more like a
hostage situation, as I realize I can never leave and I’ve just found
myself trapped all over again. I begin to notice a look of fear in some of
the other inhabitants eyes and I realize a lot of them know, too. The
realization that Gustav only allowed me to live because he was pleased
with my answer the first time we met dawns on me. I’m powerless to do
anything.