The bright blue was absolutely fascinating. It was as if someone had just poured paint straight of of the tube from the warm summer sky, and it was eternally wet and bright and alluring.
I wanted to sink my hands into the picture. I was SURE it would be silky and smooth.
The rest of the illustration was like a giant circus advertisement, with swirling and radiating oranges and yellows juxtaposed against that BRILLIANT fucking blue. I wanted to taste it.
The music was annoying carnival music, but whatever, it didn’t matter.
Holy shit, this is a dream…
OOMPH, the silver cord was tugged HARD and I was sucked back to waking… must… fight… must… stay… in… dream…
What was i suppos- oh, yeah – spinning! You’re supposed to spin in your dream to keep from waking up and to keep the lucidity. Fuuuuck, was it too late?
So I spun. I spun like I was Mary Lou Fucking Retton doing the goddamn Retton Flip.
And then it got weird.
Suddenly I like Neo, trapped half in the fantasy world but still in the real world. I could suddenly feel myself being pulled back, like electricity coursing through me.
(One time I tried to fix a light switch before I had a fucking clue and I zapped myself pretty good – and that’s what this dream felt like, only in my whole body)
Wild images and fantastic scenery began coursing through me, only they weren’t fluid, they were semi-fluid, sort of like 2 second film clips stitched together in a staccato patchwork quilt of surrealism.
My hand was afire with electrical charge and I sensed it as an elderly man’s hand, decrepit and arthritic, pointing and glowing at my wife next to me. “Help me” I was shouting, inwardly, “can’t you see I’m going insane? This is going to fundamentally change who I am… I’ll never be the same.”
They’re funny, altered states of consciousness. You really believe that shit while it’s happening, even though I KNEW I was dreaming, I was desperately afraid while simultaneously, frantically trying to hold on to the lucidity.
Who’s that man? A shadow of a man in a brimmed hat, walking past. Is that the man from my aunt’s house in Pulaski? The storm was coming and the lightning was hard and heavy. The sky cracked with thunder. The sky was pregnant with rain but wouldn’t birth it’s watery fetus. Awoken by the storm, she stumbles down to the kitchen for a drink. Standing at the sink, looking out into the meaty midnight darkness (ooh, look, an alliteration!), lightning lights up the sky in its rapid-fire glow.
Did you ever see the sequels to Poltergeist? Remember the crazy old man that led the cult? The tall man with the brimmed hat and dressed in a black suit, sort of crazy-meets-Quaker?
Yeah, he was standing under the tree. Caught my gaze.
Fear grips you, but it’s like the fat old lady bending over – you HAVE TO look. So you stare, half expecting the next lightning flash to reveal the man right outside your window, milliseconds from eating your soul.
But the next flash, moments (or an eternity?) later, the man is gone.
The spooky Poltergeist / lightning strike man is surrounded by an orange-red, swirling background. He’s in shadow. And his motion from the center of the frame, sneaking out to the right, is in a steady, streaming loop.
Who the fuck is he?
No matter, because we’re sinking, we’re sinking into that red-orange fog and it’s starting to swallow us, where are we going? Will I be able to come back? Why can’t Cate see that I’m struggling for my life? I’m reaching but the sleep paralysis is too strong… can’t break… through it…
Still spinning, again and again, trying to stay in the dream, trying to latch on to the lucidity though it’s fading fast. Each spin rekindles the fall and the pain and the shooting electricity and the screaming CAN’T YOU HEAR ME SCREAMING? Someone, anyone, please help me, I can’t hold on much longer…
That white glow as my hand buzzed WHY couldn’t you see it? That’s not my hand but if I can only reach you, extend far enough to touch you, but that glow is now a shimmer and I’m back into the spinning and the red-orange glow is vivid and overpowering and I’m starting to come to grips with the fact that I’m never going to be me again, I’m going to be lost, I’m going to be and outsider to myself and must spin, spin, ouch, damn, FUCK! that hurts my hand make it stop I can’t wake up but I can’t stay here and I can’t move but I feel it…
He’s standing now, next to me. And I can’t move. I’m shivering, cowering, but cannot move. I reach down for the strength to move, to speak, but I’m vocally castrated and cannot. Oh god oh god he’s standing there. I can hear him breathing. If I could open my eyes, I could see his bad teeth and wispy hair under his Quaker hat and those vacant eyes that stare right through me and –
Suddenly, my nose plugs up in the cold morning air and that’s enough to rouse me. I open my eyes and venture a quick glance around the room. Good, it was just a dream.
Or was it?
The clock says 4:48.