Posted by: dougery | April 15, 2011

The Incursion of Dreams

It is common knowledge that the only person interested in your dreams is you. This despite the fact that for all intents and purposes, dreams are totally awesome. Er, well, most of the time. In books I tend to zone out during ‘dream sequences’ and in movies or TV the effect can be gimmick level cheesy or super frustrating. Nobody seriously invested in a story wants to hear ‘it was all a dream.’ I suppose dreams fulfill a function in real life, something akin to the mind’s garbage disposal unit. All that experiential crap you encounter during the day ends up clogging your brain sink and then as you sleep somebody flips the switch and it all gets chopped and mashed up by the blades of your Id and Super Ego.

Dreams don’t make much sense by definition, which is another reason why they can be such a turn-off when recited to friends and neighbors. If you were to go to the bar with your friends and tell anecdotes where the setting is constantly in flux, the characters morph into other people in a Lynchian mode, and the narrative flow isn’t bound to linear time but rather to the bounds of imagination then your friends will likely turn around to watch the game. You know, something with goals or a point.

So you have been warned. Abandon all hope yee who read further. For most of you, see you next week.

So I am a kid again, about 12. And I’m standing behind our neighbor’s barn. To the right a wide field of uncut hay stretches out as far as I can see and to the left, the woods. I am hanging out with my neighborhood friends as well as college and grad friends. This despite the fact that I have no idea how you all where as children. In the dream we’re kids, but we’re not. Playing some dungeons and dragons hide and seek game all bucket helmets and driftwood swords.

I run into the forest and come upon what appear to be three large chickens. They have bright red and black and yellow feathers and are all clustered around something laying on the ground. As I get closer I realize the chickens are as big as St bernards. And one is more eagle than chicken. And one is more gryphon than eagle. They are ripping away with their beaks at a snow leopard.

The chickens see me and get angry. The way birds get angry is horrifying. They turn their heads to the side and their pupils contract. Those perpetual scowly faces. I turn to run back to my friends and the monster chickens follow, which gives the leopard, not dead only wounded, a chance to escape. It catches up with me and we run around the barn to my neighbor’s side door. The leopard is now one of those giant white wolf cubs from Princess Mononoke. Still wounded, there is dark red blood all over its jaws and it vomits gore, clearly dying.  The good news is we have somehow lost the chickens.

A few of my friends gather around me and we wonder what we should do. The wolf then changes into a princess in a blood spattered white gown. She sort of looks like the Fables version of Snow White, and what happens next is very Fables indeed. She tells us that some evil force is taking over her kingdom, has been taking over all kinds of realms and that it will be soon making an incursion on our own. She uses that word, ‘incursion’ like most 12 year-olds would know what it means. But we are not real 12 year-olds and her story is creepy as hell.

Of course the incursion she is talking about in the dream never happens, or at least the real incursion she is warning me about is my cat Barry bounding onto the bed at 7:13am, meowing over to stick his whiskered face a centimeter from my own and whine petulantly for his breakfast. I go from staring at a teenage Snow White to a surly black cat with demon green eyes. And if I pretend to stay asleep he will paw at my face.

So I get up and leave all of my various friends behind.
Good luck with the incursion, fellows.

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