Dreams within Dreams
Nov. 10th, 2007 10:28 amDo you know what's funny? I saw Poe's name, on the episode of the Simpsons I watched about an hour before bed, last night. I then proceeded to have several multilayered, involuted through time dreams, all night, one of which involves a book of short stories, with "About the Author" bios before every story, one of which was "Daniel Haw/v___ Smith's Voice" and a blank page underneath it. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
The first of the dreams within the overall scheme began with watching Jurassic Park III, in a theater (there are many theaters in my dreams), with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mech_angel, raoin and Ryam. It's terrible, but we'd said we see it together.
Moving out a level, we come to the beach (Neil Gaiman's "Bay Wolf" story is to blame) and an operation involving football players stuck traveling through time and dimensions, righting wrongs. On this beach they are celebrating, because they've found a way home.
A lateral involution back into the previous theater, watching the screen, talking about the jackass whose PDF magnifying icon is interfering with the screen. We get over it, and start moving it out of the way for him.
Reverse, into the external dream layer, talking to Ryam, discussing the movie we'd all watched, and having a fuzzier and fuzzier recollection of the movie. He tells me that we never saw that movie, that that was a dream I had. I press the point, but I begin to realise that he's right, and I move on, thinking aboutkyrael, and wondering about the kitchen we're in, which is taking on tones of the kitchen in my childhood home...
Smeared around the external surface of the dream, this motif of a CSI episode, only darker, more involved in the blood and gore elements.A murder in an alley, which is also the bathroom of the theater, Catherine and Nick, looking at the crashed car, and the bloodspattered walls, thinking about what it all means...
A team of scientists, like a family, held together by a purpose and a plan...
Through the alley, into the theater, again, back through the screen to the beach, which is a jungle beach, now, and there's an old woman, talking about the team of scientists. She's replaced the doctor with a smarter, younger, prettier woman, saying "She ain't too bad on the eyes, either." Everyone feels betrayed at the loss of the other doctor, but then they hear what the new woman can do: By simple massage, she can extract cancerous cells from healthy ones, and even extract cancer From Cells. That, above and beyond just giving really good massages. Alex Kroichek asks if he can get a massage in the palm-covered cabana area, by the pool. The old woman reminds me of a lascivious Madam Foster, and has obvious attachments to the new woman.
Back to the theater, the threads mash together in a soup of subjective and objective experience, culminating with me on the floor of the theater lobby (Phipps Plaza, for some reason [I have suspicions, but I'm not telling you]), and reading the Book of Stories. As I read the book I realise that I'm living one the stories. On the beach there'd been a couple whose bed i shared in a nonsexual way, while they planned their anniversary. Their story was in the book, the man having written it down, years into the future to commemorate his life and deeds. I knew how it ended, knew that he was immortal, and he planned to kill me for that knowledge. I knew what he'd done, though, I knew his voice and his writing style, and all the names he'd taken through the years to write stories, and so I called him. I told him that we all needed to talk, and that I'd called his wife, and "told her to meet me here." I say this last as I open a door, loudly. He panics, thinking I'm at my house, where he's set the bomb to destroy me (it would look like an electrical/gas thing), and that his love would be there, and be destroyed, and he rushes to save her. I am at his house. I know that it will take him, at the very least, the five minutes the bomb has left to get to my house. He will be caught in the explosion and, if he lives, his wife will know the truth, if his immortality doesn't extend to being killed (life until death, as they say), then it's a terrible tragedy, and I'll still make sure she knows the truth.
I think about the stories, and I sit and I wait. I wake up.
I realised, this morning, that at a particular level of investigation, any of the constituent parts of the universe can be said the be the whole of it, especially if you're dealing in concepts of opposing dynamic tension, as well as forces and waves.
I'm thinking about more fully writing out that story, at the end of my dream, or weaving it into another story I'm writing. A lesson about loss, for the protagonist, from someone else...
I smell ravioli...
Ah well. Here's this poem, one of my favourites, and I could have sworn I'd posted it before, but I can't find it, at all.
( Poe in the Morning )
Depressing? Maybe. But it really meant a lot to me, in high school. A whole lot. That and "To One in Paradise" and "Alone."
Got a lot to do today. Ta.
The first of the dreams within the overall scheme began with watching Jurassic Park III, in a theater (there are many theaters in my dreams), with
mech_angel, raoin and Ryam. It's terrible, but we'd said we see it together.Moving out a level, we come to the beach (Neil Gaiman's "Bay Wolf" story is to blame) and an operation involving football players stuck traveling through time and dimensions, righting wrongs. On this beach they are celebrating, because they've found a way home.
A lateral involution back into the previous theater, watching the screen, talking about the jackass whose PDF magnifying icon is interfering with the screen. We get over it, and start moving it out of the way for him.
Reverse, into the external dream layer, talking to Ryam, discussing the movie we'd all watched, and having a fuzzier and fuzzier recollection of the movie. He tells me that we never saw that movie, that that was a dream I had. I press the point, but I begin to realise that he's right, and I move on, thinking about
kyrael, and wondering about the kitchen we're in, which is taking on tones of the kitchen in my childhood home...Smeared around the external surface of the dream, this motif of a CSI episode, only darker, more involved in the blood and gore elements.A murder in an alley, which is also the bathroom of the theater, Catherine and Nick, looking at the crashed car, and the bloodspattered walls, thinking about what it all means...
A team of scientists, like a family, held together by a purpose and a plan...
Through the alley, into the theater, again, back through the screen to the beach, which is a jungle beach, now, and there's an old woman, talking about the team of scientists. She's replaced the doctor with a smarter, younger, prettier woman, saying "She ain't too bad on the eyes, either." Everyone feels betrayed at the loss of the other doctor, but then they hear what the new woman can do: By simple massage, she can extract cancerous cells from healthy ones, and even extract cancer From Cells. That, above and beyond just giving really good massages. Alex Kroichek asks if he can get a massage in the palm-covered cabana area, by the pool. The old woman reminds me of a lascivious Madam Foster, and has obvious attachments to the new woman.
Back to the theater, the threads mash together in a soup of subjective and objective experience, culminating with me on the floor of the theater lobby (Phipps Plaza, for some reason [I have suspicions, but I'm not telling you]), and reading the Book of Stories. As I read the book I realise that I'm living one the stories. On the beach there'd been a couple whose bed i shared in a nonsexual way, while they planned their anniversary. Their story was in the book, the man having written it down, years into the future to commemorate his life and deeds. I knew how it ended, knew that he was immortal, and he planned to kill me for that knowledge. I knew what he'd done, though, I knew his voice and his writing style, and all the names he'd taken through the years to write stories, and so I called him. I told him that we all needed to talk, and that I'd called his wife, and "told her to meet me here." I say this last as I open a door, loudly. He panics, thinking I'm at my house, where he's set the bomb to destroy me (it would look like an electrical/gas thing), and that his love would be there, and be destroyed, and he rushes to save her. I am at his house. I know that it will take him, at the very least, the five minutes the bomb has left to get to my house. He will be caught in the explosion and, if he lives, his wife will know the truth, if his immortality doesn't extend to being killed (life until death, as they say), then it's a terrible tragedy, and I'll still make sure she knows the truth.
I think about the stories, and I sit and I wait. I wake up.
I realised, this morning, that at a particular level of investigation, any of the constituent parts of the universe can be said the be the whole of it, especially if you're dealing in concepts of opposing dynamic tension, as well as forces and waves.
I'm thinking about more fully writing out that story, at the end of my dream, or weaving it into another story I'm writing. A lesson about loss, for the protagonist, from someone else...
I smell ravioli...
Ah well. Here's this poem, one of my favourites, and I could have sworn I'd posted it before, but I can't find it, at all.
( Poe in the Morning )
Depressing? Maybe. But it really meant a lot to me, in high school. A whole lot. That and "To One in Paradise" and "Alone."
Got a lot to do today. Ta.
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mech_angel talking to the cats
