My dream last night

I dreamt I was shrunk to about 2 feet tall or so. But also made invisible. I was played by Christian Bale. I went on a quest to write the wrongs. I was being supported physically by woman, sort of like an exoskeleton. I still had my sword, which was normal sized. I found arrows and a quiver in a pile of junk, but an old douchey co-worker who was the only one who could see me for some reason kept calling it a “KAR-RON” and insisted it was the proper pronunciation. It ended up being an extremely cumbersome amount of things to carry.

Before I was Christian Bale, I was me in a more or so high school drama setting. We were performing a satirical musical. Tino played God and Szeman played Jesus Christ, his son. God sent Jesus down during the time of the dinosaurs. The director was some snooty Hollywood bigshot. We were writing the play as we went along. I offered to help. I discussed how silly the Jesus death scene could be, with people mobbing him and “going all Brutus on him.” There were two-dimensional paper people from “South Park” there as well, so I suggested that “Stan could become the new hero.”

Before that, I was involved in some kind of mafia plot. Lots of killing and retribution killing. I was played by Michael Pitt. I had a premonition my flapper girlfriend was going to be killed, so I tried to reach an accord with the rival mob boss– *I* had to die.

So later on the dream, when I was in the play, I had a date planner with today’s date of the Saturday rehearsal saying “2-5 pm, Death” since I had to die publically where the rival mob boss would be able to know it’d happened. The snooty Hollywood director mostly blew me off, but the plan was that I had to actually die, but then I’d be defibrillated back to consciousness.

Backstage, as I was trying to write funny bits for the script, a girl from the show sat near me and we shared my blue and red cape like a blanket and she explained she’d tried to play a board game during her break but was too nervous. She called it something weird, but I imagined the box for a second trying to visualize it and thought it was “Exploding Kittens: the Card Game” or the “Simon’s Cat Card Game” which isn’t out yet. As I was trying to write more of the script, a stagehand came and yelled at me for working on personal things instead of the script before I could explain I was.

That’s about when I got shrank. I began to see it a screenplay for a movie, a kind of Hero’s Journey thing. This allowed me to meta visualize what had happened to me: the big evil villain, who was probably some sort of king, had sent his wizard viser to kill him, but instead he’d shrunk me. When the king asked the wizard if I was dead, the viser answered, “He’s been taken care of,” in reference to my shrinking. Then a voice popped into my head saying that “wasn’t it a cliche that the villain thinks the hero is dead due to a shoddy job by an assassin halfway through the plot? Plus the miscommunication of the instructions.” I resolved to fix the plot so such blaring cliches weren’t present. But I was still a shrunk Christian Bale with a woman partner exoskeleton with too much gear.

I went around a corner to the front of the theater to see two aliens talking in the manner of a “Shadows of the Empire” cutscene. One green female alien said in a floating text box “Oh no… Melchior finally did it…” when the alarm woke me up.

Star Wars - Shadows of the Empire (E)  snap0073


Dreaming Confessionals

I don’t often dream about real people.

I’ve been having a reoccurring dream about one particular woman.

She’s the object of perhaps the greatest love I’ve had for any woman. Perhaps just a great first love. We split under rather extreme circumstances. I avoided all contact with her and knowledge of her life — partly our of respect for her and partly out of necessity.

For years since, she has appeared periodically in my dreams.

Understand, I thought I would spend the rest of my life with this woman. I thought I would have children with her. There was passion and love and fierce physicality when we were together, in addition to her being, for all intents and purposes, my best friend. But for years, as she appears in my dreams, they are not sexual.

Even to bump into her accidentally in real life, I would begin to disassociate. Colors and patterns of the world around me would shift and move. Sound would muffle and my depth perception would vanish. Shapes and objects would seem equidistant. It was like being in a wind tunnel.

I was hospitalized shortly after she left me and I imagine this reaction is something akin to shock, with the heavy association and emotional distress that the events had been tied to her for my memory. I find, however, that positive emotion has a much longer shelf life than negative emotion. I have grown over the years.

Become stronger, smarter, better. I even fell in love again. The kind of love in which I thought, again, I could and would be happy forever. But here I fell victim to a similar literal insanity I had fallen upon her.

But the dreams. They were simple, or at least her part in them. Amongst the other images and dialogue I underwent, she would appear. This was similar to way I had seen her those few times by accident in life over those years. And we would talk. And we would be civil. I can hardly remember what we would say to each other.

When my rage had managed to subside and I thought I had found an actual True Love, I began to mull the idea of intentionally talking to her. I came up with the two things I wanted to say: “Thank you for everything you did for me,” and “I am sorry for any pain I caused you.”

I felt these were what I owed her. And of course, I was still in love with her. Passionately. I would never not be. But I had gotten better with dealing with it. Only time really helped that.

For years, sex with other women resulted in a hollow emptiness in the chest. A heavy gut rot that didn’t end in the stomach. The sensation felt literal and it was powerful. Only until I fell in love again did the sensation truly go away.

But that love ended too: a difficult reality of combined mental illnesses. The feelings of the other being important for recovery and hardship, despite all that seems to stand bare and exposed is the cosmic fiction of what we created together. This is something I have not yet fully been able to grasp emotionally in its entirety and I do not expect it to occur any time soon.

Yet when I thought of my first love recently, the guilt and pain and tearing depression did not accompany it. This excited me. I had been fantasizing for Earth, consciously and subconsciously, at the ability to speak to her again. And without that, I had nothing to lose.

So I reached out.

The event went well. The first few seconds and first few minutes were strange. Bearably so for me, I have practiced skill staying calm and collected and in control during the most dangerous or trying of situations.

“It’s like seeing a ghost,” she said. This was certainly accurate.
She was very beautiful. We exchanged information about our lives during the years apart. I said my two pieces, the pieces I had been thinking about for years.

“Likewise,” she had said very quietly. It was something.