There is no shortage of strange dreams, for any of us, I mean. I often deny the impulse to write them down; I then forget most of them. A few of the haunting ones stay with me, are always with me. Sometimes it’s maddening. All this intro–what does it mean? What else could it mean? I’m going to tell you about a dream I had.

The following description of my dream is incomplete owing to the general nature of dreams, and the general nature of human memory of dreams upon waking up. A fancy way of saying it doesn’t make sense because dreams don’t make sense, and it’s botched because when I woke up alot of it was forgotten. However, let us suffice it to say:

 The Dream

As far back as I can remember we were in the woods. Things were very woodsy and very dark. The viewpoint was mostly first person, and the view was blackness beyond a tiny circle of light. Imagine poking through the woods at night with a flashlight–the branches and leaves in front of you are illuminated and not much else. We had accomplished something, escaped something and were headed to the city. We climbed onto our bleachers which were also fitted with rockets (with which we flew).

The flying set of bleachers passed over the city, and the dark police began to chase us on their dark motorcycles. They looked like something out of the (crappy) movie Ultraviolet. We had on our Matrix gear, and it was pitch dark outside. We approached the suburbs. The cops did not relent, and we began to play with them. We bumped the controls and repeatedly slammed the flying set of bleachers into the ground. The motherfuckers had guns. Big ones. They opened fire.

We engineered a plan. We slammed into the ground again, sending up a shower of sparks. We bounced, sort of, flying dangerously close to a tall building. You all silently disembarked on the rooftop. I remained in control  of the bleachers and more and more erratically slammed the ground, firing back on the black cops. Very Grimm. Very Bad Mr. Frosty.

It worked, the followed me and me only. The bleachers began to faulter, my gun began to jam. A fire broke out in the industrial building you all had landed on. Oh.

Shit.

I race to the building but I don’t need to–I am already there. Billy is there, the only recognizable one among you, looking very very very Neo except for his blond bowl-cut. The building is completely erupting and the cops are throwing in canisters that explode and reek. We are in danger. We are surrounded by industrial things–fans, generators, ducts, piping. Flames. Billy needs his knife. . .

But then, just then, the event becomes a story on waterblogged.net. I read the comments.

Xack replies: “. . .needs music.” I vow to insert music into the tale.

Spectrum replies: “I don’t need a fucking knife!”

And then Spectrum’s rendition is put on in full splendor. His rendering is dreamlike, blurred. But not so much blurred as featureless. It’s all still there–the flames, the industry, “Neo,” The danger. But at this point there is sound! Intense danger music and Billy. True to the video rendition, the audio rendetion of these dangerous events are blurred, featureless. His mouth moves without forming specific words–no curve to his lips, no teeth, no tongue. The bland, almost robotlike words come out:

“I don’t need a fucking knife!”

And he pulls out his knife and throws it. It is swallowed by the wall, the dreamwall, the wall that doesn’t exist anyway.

Reality

I figure it’s got to be at least 10:30, and I need to catch the DHL guy for my International Student ID Card. I look at my clock ( I am so fucking tired). It’s 10:34. I roll out, not thinking about all the bullshit I have to do today. Stuff that as of this writing has not been done.

My card did come. That equals all kinds of sexy discounts on stuff, mostly for my trip to Peru. Just a few more things to book and we’ve done it, it’s practically planned. I am ashamed to say that I have done almost nothing in the way of booking or planning. Sarah, taking something like 19 hours of classes to my 12, has managed to do most of the planning. If only Dumbledore had given me the Hourglass of Time.

I’m getting my Certificate of Deposit back on May 5th. That’s free money. Speaking of money, I’m not spending anymore after this Peru and Beach stuff. I’m done. Done I tell you! I’d use the running out of gas analogy. . .but I guess I just did.

Life is like a Harry Potter movie. Our maturity, just like the maturity of the characters in the movie, is nearly inexplicable. One day you’re running around beating up trolls with their own clubs, then suddenly you’ve graduated to battling giant fucking snakes, and you can bleed!! After that, in the next movie, you’re suddenly able to get away with saying “Bloody Hell” ten thousand times. Where does this maturity come from? Is adulthood the realization that adults are overgrown children? That no one knows what they’re talking about? That it is “me first” and it’s always going to be “me first”? That all along we trusted them and let them guide us, but they are just as clueless as you when it comes to the big questions? Bloody Hell!

I keep thinking about that time my professor told me to let her cheat off my paper.

Bloody Hell!