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Tuesday, May 12, 2015

Welcome to My Nightmares

I don’t often have nightmares. There are certainly plenty of stress laden and just flat out perplexing chimeras but dreams where I wake screaming are rare.

Thank Bast.

In the other night’s horror I entered an ATM cubby that was only slightly larger than a phone booth. It was a rickety, temporary structure, built of plywood. While tapping in my passcode a sweaty, bald man, slightly taller than me and broadly built entered. He was wearing a denim jacket over a musty, needs-a-wash-NOW T-shirt.

The brute-in-need-of-a-laundry made a big show of locking the door behind himself before getting all up in my grill. He then attempted to menacingly tower over me as he demanded I extract all my money and hand it over. He said he’d cut me if I don’t. The goon wasn't flaunting the knife but I knew he had one. Rather, big with fear, I wasn't up for betting he didn't.

Still, I took the time to weigh the pros and cons.

Fer instance, I figured I'd go all Trinity on his ass. It was all so damn clear in my mind’s eye. Me, leaping into the air—levitating—kicking him in the nuts and head, breaking down the door he was blocking. Possible kicking the walls out. And then a burst of self-awareness came over me and I began screaming instead.

Unlike other scary dreams where I'm often unable to make a sound in protest, I went full metal banshee, shrieking long, loud and at great length.  I was so horrified that I woke myself up, surprised that I'd not roused Bob or Rocco with my cries.

I wanted to go back into that terrifying dreamworld—resolve shit, get my happy ending, beat the crap outta or at the very least elude, the menacing toad-faced, feces-brained ruffian.

I was too afraid though. What if I couldn’t?
I’ve spoken of my moving-back-to-Brighton dreams. They’re generally unhappy things with occasional exception.

In this particular torment The Amazing Bob and I had to shift digs back to Brighton while Jen and Oni could remain here in Valhalla. Bad enough that we needed to leave our cozy, comfy seaside cottage. Worse, Jen, Oni AND the cats (!!!) won’t be with us. I mean, YEA for them but FUCK, I want all my damn loved ones with us if we're to be downgraded back into the beast.

OK, OK, Brighton isn’t all that bad. Really. It’s just that, apart from the pesky lack of ocean for front yard, this section of Boston is more jam-packed with rowdy, hard partying college kids than any other. That’s how it felt during the 20 years that TAB and I lived there anyway.

We were speaking with a real estate office—trying to get as decent an apartment as we could in this unappealing, crap area. The heavily painted, brittle, termagant of a an agent looked at me as though I was rockin' six ugly heads when I told her we wanted a crib NOT in a student area. Please, she says, ALL of Brighton is a student area.

Of course. Right. Knew that. NOT happy about this!

What do these two dreams mean? Fuck if I know. Must discuss with Janice later today.

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