Dream Log: December 20, 2000

In this dream, I have my license and drive my mom's Saturn LS-1. Very realistic, very cool.

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I had signed up for a program to help kids at my old elementary school read. I hated elementary school, but I was in high school now. When I got there, they were glad to see me and said only one other person signed up.

I walked into the room and my warm heart grew cold. There he was. That fucker. I hate him. But I was here to teach little kids to read, not hurt anyone...yet. The session went on with him inserting little pot shots here and there, but I endured. By the time it was over it was dark out.

He left and I was right behind him. I got in my maroon Saturn and followed him all the way home with the headlights off. He pulled up to his house, far off and in the woods. The night was dark and silent. I drove past but quickly pulled off the road. I hid my car and looked through it. I found a pocket knife with a 3 and a half inch blade. It'll have to do, I thought to myself.

I stepped out of my car and the stones crunched under my feet. I put my sunglasses on, emptied my pockets in the car, and put on some extra garments in the trunk, almost a whole new outfit. I closed the door and headed towards the house. Walking slowly and silently, I surveyed the area. I saw him in his room and waited for his light to go off. Time went by. Seemed like forever. Then he walked across the room and his light went out. Time to get busy.

I hopped into an unlocked window. I saw his parents lying asleep next to me. I opened the knife and started ravaging them. They didn't last long, and the death went unnoticed by the other occupants of the house. Leaving their room and entering the hall, I went into the next room. His sister was sleeping. Same routine. Quick, bloody, done. Back to the hall and into his room. I made his death harsh and wrestled about with his bloody body before allowing him relief from the agony and into the afterlife. The phone rang and scared me. I got a trash bag and filled it with my clothes and then ran out of the house. On my run back to my car, I took a detour and ditched the clothes and the knife in a drainage pipe. When I got back to my car, I turned it on and hauled ass home. Upon arrival, I asked a friend to meet me at the local plaza parking lot in half an hour. He knew something was up and met me there. I arranged to have him dispose of the evidence for $100 and gave him the money and the directions to get the stuff. I came home and slept.

I recall having had the best dream in quite a while.

Everyone was searching for the Superman Idol which was a mythological artifact made of sterling silver. It was an angel being crucified on a cross and was a perfect size to fit in your hand.

The power this thing it was said was phenominal, you could do anything. A perpetual magic genie with limitless wishes, all you had to do was will something with your mind while clutching this horrid thing.

Somehow I was in a mansion in some foreign country and we were all searching for it there, everyone else decided that only I knew where in the house it was. They were all double-crossing each other to get to me and to the idol, the women were offering themselves to me, the men fist fighting each other. I couldn't handle the attention and felt a sudden loathing for mankind that multiplied by the second, I kept thinking of a peaceful blankness, like the kind you'd get if you turned on channel 74 with no cable and the mute button on. The thought went over and over and stronger and stronger when I suddenly realized I had the idol in my hand and I was clutching it, thinking these thoughts and wishing them, my last thought was I wasn't really too disturbed over the fact that I was responsible for willing the complete eradication of the universe on accident. Everything was nothing now.

I woke up thinking how such a cool short story this would make and started making notes for the project.

I have been dreaming myself into mansions lately, fireplaces crackling and chocolate; into icy parking lots, twirling around in the arms of a stranger; I have been waking up smiling at vague memories of warmth.

Two nights in a row, the same glow when I wake and stretch, same purr, same me in the same empty bed grinning like a fool

It's not like I can point to anyone I know and say Him, he is the person invading my dreams, he is the one. I am one of the people who believe that dreams are largely influenced by random thoughts on the previous day. Have I been thinking of people before I go to sleep, people I know? Yes, and they are in these dreams too. I am not just dreaming of a dark handsome stranger.

I am talking and breathing and laughing in the parking lot with all of them, we are walking and blowing puffy steam and my fingers glance off them randomly, I am free with myself and they are giving too. But there is one faceless individual that I know, somehow he is so familiar, I must know him, only I don't. He is the one who has his arms around me last.

And then another night we are sitting in some ancient drafty house, high ceilinged and straight out of the musty books I adore, fireplaces and tall candlesticks and little chocolates melting where we have abandoned our game of Scrabble, I am always a sucker for word games and the lot of us, again, a group, again, all people I know and am comfortable with. And there is still one extra person on the edge of the circle, just watching me. I smiled at him in the dream.

I haven't dreamed of flying in over two weeks now, instead I have been dreaming myself into happy sorts of fiction. This is good.