I have weird dreams. Last night, I had two of them.
One: some form of weird non-sexual shower bonding. Like, when you are very young and your parent lets you take showers with them sometimes? It was like that, only with my BF. Not sexual at all. We were just happened to be taking a shower in the same shower. It segued (I’m not quite sure how, think dream-logic) into having Invader Zim stuck in the ceiling and us spraying him with the shower water, which took care of him as in “The Wettening.” Then Dib showed up, and we sprayed him, which only got him vaguely annoyed, and carted Zim off. I distinctly remember him saying, “Okay, now we’ll go do the Labyrinth.” Yes, that Labyrinth. The sense was that they were paranormal investigators together but I’m still not sure why Zim was in the ceiling.
Freud would say that it means I need to get laid, which I already knew.
Interlude: I sleep with the window open, because between about nine and about four AM it’s cooler than inside the house. A policeman went by. I mean, a policeman with sirens on and lights flashing went by. I checked the clock. This was a 3.23 AM. I rolled over and went back to sleep.
Two: some form of weird meshing between my life and DP, with a hint of insanity and some bits of dreams from weeks ago thrown in. The basic plot was that me (Danny) went insane and kidnapped Sam and Tucker, where “kidnapped” means “put in one of Vlad’s underground bunkers to keep them safe.” Said bunker looks a lot like the basement corrosion lab if someone had taken the space and put a grocery store inside. Vlad was, for some reason, dead. I mean, permanently. So my brother (who was also Jazz, don’t ask) starts hitting me upside the head while there’s a police investigation going on in my house (which was neither my house nor FentonWorks) because they were last seen there.
Anyway, after a while Tucker figures out how to send a message detailing his position using only an old 70’s TV set, my cover gets blown, I’m flying around my neighborhood. I love flight dreams, BTW, even if I really suck at flying pretty much as a rule. It takes effort for me to stay in the air, even in a dream . . . it’s about this point in the dream where it shifted from Me-as-Danny to Danny-as-me, and he’s much better at the flying and I was just sort of piggybacking along for the ride. Whee!
But he’s no good at long-term planning, so instead of cutting and running like he ought to, he went back to the bunker and walked straight into a trap. Shit happened. Sam and Tucker were royally pissed, MW and Dad (who were also Maddie and Jack) started poking around Vlad’s stuff without ever realizing it was Vlad’s stuff. Somehow, they formed the impression that he’d been some kind of Q to my Bond, a notion of which I did not disabuse them, because Vlad had apparently died horribly and I didn’t want to ruin their memories of him.
I was poked at. Some kind of scientific research lab/shopping mall was built in and around the lab, because of all the cool stuff that it would take years to figure out (part of the reason Sam and Tucker were there and not anywhere else) and Dad figured out how to use some shoes that walk on air. I, or rather Danny, was a celebrity but of the infamous variety, even though I had done nothing wrong. Aside from, y’know, kidnapping some people, but they didn’t press charges. So I was at a T-shirt stand posing for some photos (don’t ask, I don’t know either) and . . .
The alarm went off. The alarm goes off at 6 AM, which means that the entire dream took place between the hours of 3 and 6 AM. Ah dream-time, how I love you.
Now I have the weird urge to write shits, so I’ma take a stab at this poem.
I want to take until my soul
the world, and make her whole;
and remind her there
to love and care
and stand up, and believe, and know.
I want to take unto my sun
the heart, and all of cold. And burn away
those dead remains
the bones of time
This is as far as I got before the poem turned into some weird form of creation story. It’s still not the half-sleeping poem, but it captures the right emotions, I think. I wish I could remember the original, though.
The next bit tried to be a part of that, but it’s really something separate and complete and unique to itself, so I’m posting it too. It can be made better by reading a book called Six Moon Dance.
an oven, a crematorium,
an incubator, until she can hatch, reborn,
a phoenix of her own ashes.
I want to fly on wings of hope
and bright, through
endless black aeons, while around me
suns burst into life, flare briefly, die
singing, until I reach
a young place, an oasis
of fire and toxicity and new time
there to wait, wait, sleeping
until children walk my wings again
and wake them, and kill me, and power,
and give to me for the
long, lonely, universal flight
to become another egg.
So, now I'm going to sandblast things >.>