A Dream I saw last night

I had this really weird dream last night. I went to my friends place, in a city that was twisted version of my hometown. We talked and talked. Then I got hungry, therefore i went to sleep (eh?) and woke up after some more people arrived.

Then we went to a record shop, actually we didn't go there - we were there already (dreams, dreams, dreams..) We were there for a while, i remember checking out some good cd's but i can't remember what they were. Then i said that I am hungry, could we eat something? We went to get something from McDonald's - and all I took was some french fries - and after i got something to eat I was ready for a party we had discussed earlier, which i don't remember at this point, so I asked about it: "What party?" Friend: "Well that 3 day meeting of ours".

At this point i was quite confused and thought by myself, "what meeting" but we were already there. We paid the tickets and got in. We took off our winter jackets and back bags and dropped them on the floor. It was quite dark everywhere, there were many big rooms, lot's of people and there was music, there was some preaching, there was some people doing spiritism and lot's of candles and red lights and smoke everywhere. The meeting was meant to last for 3 days, so there I was for three days (I don't remember anything about those days) - and suddenly I saw one guy playing records there (This guy reminded me of somebody, but I don't know who). I just knew that I had been there for 3 days and it was time to leave. I found the group of people I arrived with, I found my jacket and back bag where I had dropped them.

Then on the way out, now alone, I saw a squirrel coming in. I started to talk with the squirrel, and said to it that it should not come in, this is not a place for such a innocent little thing as squirrel. Squirrel looked at me and rushed out before me. Some girl I didn't know said about the squirrel: "I didn't know squirrels can speak" And I responded: "Sure they can, you just haven't tried to talk to them, right?". There was lot's of snow outside. Then I woke up.

I have my laser pointer that I carry everywhere, and quite by accident I discover that by flicking it on, I can project the beam at the ground and rise up, using it to balance myself in the air. I'm in this place that looks like the big studio at art college. It has a high glass roof, high enough to practice flying under, and the people around me are all busy working. I am unobserved. So I fire myself higher and higher, up and out of an open skylight in the roof and I travel, maybe thirty, forty feet above ground, parallel with a path that leads across what looks like a park. It's a still grey day, there is not much wind, so moving through the air is very easy and pleasant. After a while it occurs to me to worry about how I get down, so I try it over a tree with wide spreading branches and roost there for a while, looking about, enjoying my birds-eye view. Nobody can see me but I can see them. In the distance is a wall, there is someone spray-painting a piece on it. I leave the tree and laser-point myself a little nearer so I can take a look. I am transfixed. The colours are the most amazing I have ever seen. They are like liquid light, they have sparkles which glow in the air as they come out of the can. The piece itself is strange geometry and floating layers of colour, at once complicated and simple, so that you can get lost in looking at it. I come down to land near the artist, and ask where he got his paint from.

He is Asian. Shaven-headed under a black beanie. Strong London accent. He says he gets the paints just up the road, he'll show me if I like, and I think why not? so we head, on foot on the ground this time, up a steep hill along which there is a scrappy kind of street market. Stalls selling light bulbs and cables, knockoff watches and radios. He walks fast, dodging under stall canopies and between piles of fruit boxes. I am rushing to keep up as he ducks into an unmarked doorway. I dive in after him, and find myself in a big empty warehouse. In the warehouse, tied to a bunch of wheeled clothes rails, are a long line of people. Their hands are bound round what looks like coat hangers and they are all hung up like a bunch of puppets. There are two large men coming towards me with rope, and the door behind me is locked shut.

The men are smiling at me. Non-threatening, as if they are really sorry to have to do this but well, it's just their job. I look around for the graffiti artist, but he has disappeared. Bastard, I think, as the men tie me up. They attach me to a rail between a tall guy in office clothes and a little old lady in a fake fur coat. I ask the people why they are all tied up here. Look! I say. These rails are flimsy, these coathangers can easily be broken, and I twist myself loose. Don't, says the old lady. You'll get us all killed. The tall guy looks at me, hopeful but unsure. I undo the knots that tie him and throw away his coat hanger, and he smiles, delighted: but suddenly there is a massive explosion and we are all blown across the room. When the dust dies down, there is the writer dude waving at me from the other side of a steep crater in the warehouse floor, which is completely filled with the amazing paint. It ripples and shifts through a thousand colours and brims up and spills out, flooding the room. At this point I remember the laser pointer and lift myself up above the flood with it so I don't get washed away. I think I woke up then, but I can still remember how the beam of light was all starred and striped with the thousand shifting colours of the glowing paint as I rose up and flew myself away.

I'm walking down Interstate 10 in Houston. It's extremely overcast, almost to the point of seeming like nighttime.

Overhead, a 737 flies into the clouds, and close on its heels, another 737 disappears. They're only about 50 feet apart, so the inevitable occurs (at least in my dreams that involve planes) ... the planes collide in mid-air.

The unusual thing about this particular dream is, since it takes place in a dense cloudbank, it seems as if the clouds are exploding. It's really quite fascinating to me ...

Until flaming wreckage begins to rain from the heavens. At first it's very far away. However, each second, a new fireball descends closer and closer to me, and so I start to run away to ...

Some kind of dive-y gay bar where I meet Hal Sparks' character from Queer as Folk, Michael. We're friends in this dream, but instead of working retail, he's a police detective. Mighty cute one, too.

He introduces me to ... a basketball player. He's very tall, and I find him hopelessly erotic because of that, as there's not too many men taller than I.

Myself, the unnamed b-ball player, and Michael and his trick for the night adjourn from the bar, and proceed to Michael's home, where we settle down to some serious heavy petting.

Until the flaming wreckage starts pelting the neighborhood. Alluvasudden, I'm being whisked to the police station with Michael, but I'm afraid of walking through the security scanner, since I have a bud of weed on my person, and I don't want Michael to get in trouble.

He pooh-poohs my fears, but of course, the buzzer on the scanner screams. So I'm stuck in this little booth, while Michael attempts to smooth things over ("It's just a little weed guys, we all smoke it, don't ya know"). It's thus that the terrorists don't shoot me when they enter the station, riddling everything that moves with bullets.

Very graphic. Very disturbing. I try to wake myself from the dream, but I'm not lucid enough, so I cower instead in this strange scanning booth, and wait for rescue.

Which comes in a hybridized form of The Spice Girls (don't know which ones, sorry) and Charlie's Angels, both old (Jacyln Smith and Farrah Fawcett-Majors) and new (Drew Barrymore and Lucy Liu).

They grab me from the scanner, then cover me while I make a mad dash out of the police station which has transformed into a television station. The terrorists have assumed control and are broadcasting poorly drawn cartoons they've created.

I'm happily reunited with my basketball player, and as I adoringly look up ... way up ... into his eyes ...

I wake up.

Vivid dreams like this are a curse, not a blessing. I hate waking up each morning thinking what the FUCK?

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