Nicotine Incubus

I have 4 different categories of dreams. Tonight I will talk about one of them. You all probably know about the Incubus; the demon that sits on your chest while you are asleep and suffocates you. I have a Nicotine Incubus. The only reason I say this is that I spend substantial amounts of my life not smoking and have come to make a distinction between dreaming with nicotine in my system and without.  When I am smoking, here is one kind of recurring dream I have:

There is a transitional time between wake and sleep. This dream always happens just about 15 minutes after I have started drifting, and am in that in between period of sleep and wake.

I become dizzy. My head is spinning. It feels very, very heavy. I know it is happening and I try to wake myself. I usually can not. A loud noise, like guitar feedback, scraping nails, screaming, and some kind of engine, deep and full, all start spinning around in my head. I am being pulled deeper into my pillow. I really want to wake up but the intensity and heaviness increase- the noise gets louder and louder- so I become less and less able to wake myself. I am being pulled down.

I sometimes am able to realize I have a choice. If I am feeling strong, I make the right choice. I start to fall. I am in a standing position and begin to fall face down. I trust myself. I am able to fall in slow motion. Just before I hit the floor, I begin to hover. I hover well if I am feeling strong. It is like flying except I am only 3 or 4 feet from the ground. I search out things. Sometimes I can control it. Sometimes I find naked women. Sometimes I just go through earthen tunnels; underground worlds.

The dizziness comes back, the noise, screaming metal sounds. I realize I must awake because I am not able to breathe. I see myself on the bed. I have hovered to myself. On the count of three I will wake up. 1,2,3, Wake up! I think I am awake but the noise starts again. I tell myself I will throw myself on the floor, out of my bed, and do so. I think I am awake, but I am not. I am still being pulled down. I am gasping for breath. The gasping is what wakes me. I look around. I have been still. I haven’t tossed or turned. I am not on the floor. I stand up and am dizzy. I can’t see well. I have to stay out of bed because I know that if I lay back down I will immediately be pulled back in.

The Dream of Change

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dawn in possessed beach town

It was that some knew when they were asked and some knew not to say much. The difference between a possessed and someone looking for the dawn to come was in the amount of clever hesitation.  Only the dawn peaked and never rose.  Rounding the corner, the hyper strong possessed girl came toward me. Another stepped out and they seemed to distract each other. Around the corner, the light was a warm nebula over the field where the city ended, and in that moment a heat of questioning seemed to permeate everyone. We all wanted to know who remained pure. It must have been that some still thought they were but had been possessed. Their eyes were thick with questioning and leaned into your my space. I ran toward the sky but it only became a road down which streets with porches of tired beach weathering seemed to hold the very possessed who had bothered me at the dawn.  In a home small wolves with red eyes and strange sac bodies of blood were strewn. The home seemed sick with vampiricism.  Like the other women, I had an ornate shell anklet. One dark skinned girl was shaking shells in front of her chest and face and chanting. The elder talked of pairings. Mentioning me and someone named “Japan,” I turned and saw a strange white skinned boy with dark little nutty eyes.  Said we were two individuals.  Maybe we were all zombies. No one seemed gone into the light.

&~~

war games

We are now living in post-apocalyptic cities where nothing grows and all industrial progress has ceased. The sun never shines here, it is always dark. There are no animals left, we have eaten them all — there are only trees, decrepit buildings, and us. Without animals we no longer have a reference that we can point to and claim the vague animator we call “instinct” exists; nor do we have operational machines to tear into the land. Without these we no longer feel dominion over anything; and even the most Earth loving among us are weak and angry.

The boys are marching off to war. There is a black clothed team and a white clothed team. I’m with the black. This war is a senseless game, neither side has a goal; but people will die, many people will die. While marching into the silent and empty forest I desert my company and build a raft out of old animal bones and twigs. I float down a tame stream and arrive at a place where I am stuck inside a photographic book that is similar to a high school year book. There is always one photo that is animated and talking. The type of dialogue taking place is like that of an evening news show conducting an interview. I am asked what I think the biggest problem we now face is. The page turns and my photograph is animated — in it I am a teenager, I have long hair and I’m wearing a red KGB shirt with a hammer & sickle decal on it. I proclaim proudly (in the way only a teenager can) that it is because we have abandoned ourselves, and that I have never abandoned anything. But my adult self who is wittnessing my talking teenage photograph knows this is not true — I have just abandoned my army.

Beethoven’s 5th symphony begins blasting into the world. I can hear it perfectly, it is precise. The book closes and the trees uproot. The world is receiving its final apocalyptic blows. I am not worried, instead I am marveled by how my dreaming mind is capable of reproducing this complicated music — and I wake up with it still ringing in my ears. ♨

weasel’s watermelon accordion

~note: I performed the Varuna  Mudra for an hour before bed. (Releasing…)

The gift was a video. I was handed this after being subjected to a strange box. It was a recording of the experience, an absurd moment recorded in a terror box that I had been strapped into, examples of Jackson’s fourth grade homework, and a third unknown segment. My ex who now seemed to be shorter than me, handed me a card that said “Happy seventh” and kissed my cheek with a hug. I think I mumbled something. I saw that his version of this “gift” had been pictures of himself in semi-erotic moments. The terror box for him had forced him to watch pornography and had taken snapshots of it.  When they took me up to take my picture in the box, it was rushed.  The facilities were like an airport or a hospital room.  I insisted I needed to take my contacts out so I quickly did and put them in my mouth after one of the employees said they would be blasted out of my eyes in no time flat.  “Hold on” they said and I was plunged backwards into a blackness upside down not knowing what to expect.

The second sequence was humiliating. It was some pillowy space which was part of the recording experiment.

When I came out I was given the video whether I wanted it or not; I was given the hug and gift.

I walked on in a dress. I had a small child following me. We were looking for a way back into the building. We were stopped by Latino men. The little girl hid. I was worried about her.  Wherever we were going, it seemed like the way was stuck. There were ramps of concrete and a low ceiling.  I began to speak in Spanish.  But my Spanish was incorrect.

Watching a children’s production from above as though looking into a playhouse.  A girl showed a weasel that moved things around.  There was only a square the size of a garage in which they performed their tiny acts, and the girl with long dark hair and dark eyes proudly stood in the corner.  Her weasel moved an apple. Her weasel seemed to be trained. Then the weasel produced another fruit and began to gracefully carve teeth in its watermelon flesh, dark green.  It had a smile now, the watermelon, or a grimace. It was a transformation where the weasel would symmetrically remove the pieces. It became an accordion made of fruit. It played a brief and unrecognizable tune. Jackson had a turn. He was in the back of the playhouse now and there were other kids.  Jackson’s face was grim. The child mention something about death and his father. A boy behind him mocked him saying he had death at his house. I took a can, or a box in place of the mean boy, and railed against it saying that it shouldn’t say such things.

Leaving the place there was this terrible sense that someone would make fun of me or ruin my car or hurt me.  The cars were parked in a field.  The two fat kids on the way out were friends.  As I got to my car, which was my old yellowish tan Volkswagon with the purple tinted windows.  I was relieved.  I zoomed down the grass hill and onto the road and then J was there beside me, and he mentioned something about how it would be like that with Jackson, zooming so carelessly, intimating a slight disapprobation at my driving.

&~~

crocodile road

I’m in a second story apartment with my friend Helen. She has a beautiful terrace that overlooks a lively and colorful street — the scene makes me think I’m in a city in South America. As we’re talking on the terrace I notice that the shop names below are changing. At first I am baffled, but then this tips me off to the fact that I may be dreaming. Immediately an excited fear pierces my mind. I start looking around in attempt to read the shifting signs above the storefronts. I can’t — they are moving and changing too fast, and the roman letters are taking on different shapes and colors. We move inside and I grab Helen by the waist and she whispers something into my ear and kisses my cheek. I ask her if we are dreaming. She nods with a grin. I’m overwhelmed with a intoxicating sense of freedom. I don’t know what to do: Should I rearrange the dream? Summon the ghosts of old friends? Take flight? Make love with an apparition? All the possibilities scramble my brain and render me powerless. I’m stuck — I know I’m dreaming, but I don’t know how to manage the experience — and now I’m unconvinced that the far off world my body is sleeping in holds any authenticity. I’m also frighted and a deep loneliness ruptures within my body . . . “It’s all only me.”
– – –
I’m driving north on Route 29, heading to 70 west, going to West Virginia. I’m on a motorbike, and I’m not paying attention to the road, occasionally falling into a trance. I snap to and realize that I fell asleep while driving and missed 70. “Where am I? These are hilly dirt roads. How did I get here? This isn’t 29. How did I manage this while sleeping?” I’m still drowsy, and I can barely keep my eyes open. And slowly I realize that every time sleep overtakes me, and my eyes close, they open somewhere else. I’m flopping between two distinct worlds; however the secondary one is very faint. I’m constantly jolting myself back to the one in which I’m driving the motorbike over the dirt roads — it seems more authentic to me, and the one in which it is more pressing that I find my way, the road seems treacherous. I manage to stay awake driving just enough to see that the road ends at the base of a hill at a watery pit. I come to a sliding stop on my bike just before the water’s edge. I see that the dirty shallow water is full of crocodiles. I start getting nervous, and turn the bike around to leave. The dirt on the ground is as fine as powder, and the struggle up the hill is slow and hard. As I’m leaving I see another beast: this one is bodiless and is only the head of a crocodile but its lidless eyes are catlike, huge, perfectly round, and emerald green. I have no idea how, but despite have no body, it is still capable of moving around terribly fast. It’s chomping its gapping jaw and staring at me, into me — and the layered sounds its jaw makes as it chomps are ghastly and loud. I manage to get on top of the hill, but sleep comes for me again. I’m driving — my eyes close and open . . . I am looking out into my room, lying on my bed . . . they close . . . I’m driving on the dirt road, I don’t know where I’m going . . . they open . . . I am lying on my bed. This happens a few more times and then this world, in which I am writing out this occurrence, holds me. And I am left wondering where I’m headed on that dirt road. ♨

a hungry owl

I’m in the forest behind my parents’ house, it is much thinker and more tropical than I remember. My friend, Florian, is back there with me. A beautiful owl is flying around catching game in her mouth. She is mesmerizing to watch. The owl ends up catching a white cat. She’s proud of it, and lands on a branch less than a meter away from us. Her eyes are huge and gleaming. She swallows the cats tail, and stares at us. I debate whether or not to go fetch my camera. It’s in the house, not too far away. I go for it, hoping I don’t miss much. When I get back Florian explains that the feast is over, and that it wasn’t very pleasant to witness. His description makes it seem as if I have been gone for much longer than what I sensed was under a minute. Apparently the owl started by carefully removing the cat’s spinal cord and then, after eating it bit by bit, swallowed the rest of the little creature in an unnatural fashion. I’m disappointed that I didn’t see this happen nor get any photos of the act.
– – –
I’m in a gorgeous lagoon of turquoise blue water with giant jagged boulders surrounding it. There’s a performance happening. My friend, Alice, is about to go on. Moments after she starts, she swims over to me and my brother, Bobby. She drags us into her show; in what appears to everyone else as a very rehearsed act — but it isn’t. We have no control over our movements, yet we are swimming in unison and weaving in and out of symmetrical patterns. It’s not frightening, in fact, it’s rather pleasant. This lasts about 15 minutes and we are greeted with some cheering when we are finished. ♨

ice donkeys

I’m in the back seat of a topless jeep with my friends, Patrick & Jen. It’s night. We are in city resembling Hanoi, Vietnam. After a few minutes we realize the driver has vanished, and we are headed, full speed, into oncoming, one-way traffic. I scramble to the front and attempt to gain control of the auto. I jerk the wheel and we go over the wide medium. The steering is awkward. I can barely gain control over the machine, but I manage to get us into the basement of a department store. People are telling me to go into a crowded room. The room is red and full of donkeys that have human heads. They are running in circles and merging into one another — the trunk of their bodies fuse and their heads and legs multiply. I reach out my neck and take a big bite out of one of beasts. Its flesh is flavorless and as cold as ice, there is no blood. A nude woman emerges from the tear in its skin. She dances before me and I quickly start to feel uncomfortable and decide to leave. ♨