Don’t you love how several discrete dream sequences can run together in your brain at night, producing one crazy montage of subconscious what-the-fuckness that doesn’t even make sense during the actual dreaming process?
Case in point: last night.
I won’t even try to create a timeline, because it will make no more sense to specificy a sequence than to just spit it all out, stream-of-consciousness style.
I am in the kitchen of a house. It is a weirdly modern house and in this particular room, the range is a shade of lime-green and very angular. In fact, this applicance seems to have no right angles at all. It’s a galley-style kitchen, quite small for the rest of the house in which it is located. In the back of my mind, I know that this is my friend (in real life) Gennie’s house.
The living room, which adjoins the tiny kitchen is sunken and dimly-lit. It is furnished in the same muted-neon shades as the kitchen applicances, and I think there is shag carpet. Instead of this being a truly modern house, it is modern in the Tomorrowland sense: when I recreate the room in my mind now, all that’s missing is the happy housewife serving cocktails on a silver tray to her suit-wearing husband and his poker buddies.
As I stand in the living room, I am given a baby. A cute little baby of Asian descent. Somehow, I know that this little girl’s mom is gone. Dead, kidnapped, I don’t know – but Mom is in trouble. I am to take care of the baby.
But the baby is sick. She keeps having seizures. I am somehow not alarmed by this. She gets sick after I feed her lemon wedges. (Why am I feeding a 6-month old lemon wedges?) And yes, I know that she is 6-months old. Except I think she is starting to talk and can walk. A highly advanced 6-month old I guess.
I learn that my father has had a heart attack and has died. I wait two days to tell my friends, and then, I do so in a Twitter message. (What the fuck is wrong with me?). I do not cry, and am confused as to why I don’t cry.
I am in a restaraunt, with the baby. It’s a diner; Steak n’ Shake-esque. I’m at a large table with many other people. I don’t remember who the people are, but I knew them all in my dream. We are all important people, for some reason. I think we might be after the people who took and/or killed the baby’s Mom. We sit at the table, and I think we’re having a good time. The restaraunt is very crowded.
A group of men enters the restaraunt. The front door is very near our table. I see that they are armed with very large, automatic weapons. I know that they are after the baby, so I hold her closer to me and hide under the table. No one else at the table with me notices the 5 dudes with machine guns not three feet away. They also do not seem alarmed that I suddenly hid under the table with the baby.
As I sit under the table, I realize that the baby is not sick, she is just allergic to acidic fruits. Hence, having seizures after I feed her lemon wedges. I demand, from underneath the table, that someone hand me my water glass. But there is a lemon wedge in it, and I cannot give it to the baby (do 6-month olds drink water? They certainly don’t from glasses) because of the acidic fruit (yes, that was exactly how it was phrased in the dream).
It’s unclear if the Armed Bad Guys have attracted attention from my friends at the table, and I un-hide myself, just as I feel the barrel of a gun to the back of my head. I don’t know if they want me or the baby. But I am heroic, and I cover the baby as best as I can so she is not hurt. I’m pretty sure my friends at the table are just sort of staring as this is going down (some friends). For some reason, the Armed Bad Guy With A Gun Pointed To My Head leaves. I am relieved, and it occurs to me that I should cry, because I was just quite close to having a bullet shred my brains.
I get up, still holding the baby, and walk through the restaraunt. Armed Bad Guys seem to be gone. I see a man who I instinctively know is the baby’s father. I hand her over to him, making sure to explain that his daughter is allergic to acidic fruits: “No lemons, or oranges.” I walk away, then remember something else, and turn around: “And no grapefruit, either.”
Then I woke up.
(On a side note, when I write my dreams out like this, I can pretty accurately pick out where each of these odd details came from during my previous day. It’s incredibly fascinating, and you should try it sometime).
the sloppy copy 