Deus ex machina.
I went back to sleep after an early superhero dream and woke two hours later with that single phrase.
My mind wants to sleep but body is completely awake.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Documentary of the grotesque and familiar
My dream documentary host was narrating the story of a small mining town in Alabama. To get to work the inhabitants daily crossed a swamp that unbeknownst to them was built on a buried nuclear waste dump site.
A village person related how the swamp water seeped through cracks in his boots. Another person said that he'd often walk ankle deep through the water for yards at a time; in the rainy season it could be up to a half a mile. One day, he took off his boot at the end of the night and discovered bleeding sores.
"Finally," said a third, "it was like everyone in town was bleeding from the ankles." The sores wouldn't heal, just reopened at the slightest touch, and spread, seemingly contagious.
"We didn't know what it was," the voice of the first interviewee floated over the closeup of men's ankles bleeding underwater, their hands scratching at the sores.
Meanwhile in another part of the village, Superman, born here the year the toxic site was closed and buried, was flying through the air saving people from a venomous local hawk.
An old-timer reminisced about the bird's sharp and evil talons, over footage of the hawk catching a rabbit. The rabbit shrieked and twisted in agony as the venom took hold.
Pan to Superman, flying in to rescue a baby from a tree. He barely stayed to receive a tearful thank you from the distraught mother before relaunching into the air.
The narrator began reciting statistics on his stamina, range, average versus maximum flight speed - "our Superman tends to be a little lead-footed compared to others I've heard of." The video showed Superman coming in for a fast, steep landing. Over his shoulder a speck began to enlarge until
"Left shoulder," the narrator yelled suddenly, his voice cracking, "Superman, hawk coming in hard, your left." Video Superman rolled and weaved at the very last second, managing to miss being skewered through the ribcage. Instead a small piece of claw lodged itself in his left thumb.
The narrator was already on the phone to 911. By the time Superman arrived, which is to say, stumbled from the sky into the ER, a gurney was waiting to whisk him to the prep room.
The hospital was all out of antidote but one of the younger doctors, a surgical resident, was testing a brand new procedure to prevent what had been an excruciatingly painful 48 hours that rendered the patient unusable for open casket. The latest deaths of the 12 in the last four months, they had just burned the bodies on a pyre, on the bank of the Mississippi, like it was the Nile.
The narrator gasped as he read his next notes, his intended statement rising, falling on a note that indicated shock and a question, if somewhat rhetorical. "They are going to amputate SUPERMAN'S arm??"
I woke needing water. Played my first game of soccer in two years last night. It was so good. I am sore.
A village person related how the swamp water seeped through cracks in his boots. Another person said that he'd often walk ankle deep through the water for yards at a time; in the rainy season it could be up to a half a mile. One day, he took off his boot at the end of the night and discovered bleeding sores.
"Finally," said a third, "it was like everyone in town was bleeding from the ankles." The sores wouldn't heal, just reopened at the slightest touch, and spread, seemingly contagious.
"We didn't know what it was," the voice of the first interviewee floated over the closeup of men's ankles bleeding underwater, their hands scratching at the sores.
Meanwhile in another part of the village, Superman, born here the year the toxic site was closed and buried, was flying through the air saving people from a venomous local hawk.
An old-timer reminisced about the bird's sharp and evil talons, over footage of the hawk catching a rabbit. The rabbit shrieked and twisted in agony as the venom took hold.
Pan to Superman, flying in to rescue a baby from a tree. He barely stayed to receive a tearful thank you from the distraught mother before relaunching into the air.
The narrator began reciting statistics on his stamina, range, average versus maximum flight speed - "our Superman tends to be a little lead-footed compared to others I've heard of." The video showed Superman coming in for a fast, steep landing. Over his shoulder a speck began to enlarge until
"Left shoulder," the narrator yelled suddenly, his voice cracking, "Superman, hawk coming in hard, your left." Video Superman rolled and weaved at the very last second, managing to miss being skewered through the ribcage. Instead a small piece of claw lodged itself in his left thumb.
The narrator was already on the phone to 911. By the time Superman arrived, which is to say, stumbled from the sky into the ER, a gurney was waiting to whisk him to the prep room.
The hospital was all out of antidote but one of the younger doctors, a surgical resident, was testing a brand new procedure to prevent what had been an excruciatingly painful 48 hours that rendered the patient unusable for open casket. The latest deaths of the 12 in the last four months, they had just burned the bodies on a pyre, on the bank of the Mississippi, like it was the Nile.
The narrator gasped as he read his next notes, his intended statement rising, falling on a note that indicated shock and a question, if somewhat rhetorical. "They are going to amputate SUPERMAN'S arm??"
I woke needing water. Played my first game of soccer in two years last night. It was so good. I am sore.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
Reincarnation; that is all
In the middle of a vast North American evacuation I found myself with my sister on a ferry boat. I was sad about dying as it seemed likely we wouldn't survive the journey and even if we did, our destination was uncertain.
At my lowest point, as a deep sense of grieving enveloped me, I suddenly found I believed in reincarnation. Not a romantic fantasy in which "I" survived lifetime to lifetime. My life, my identity, would end, and in the universal, it would end soon. On this flight from disaster to the unknown or in forty years of heart failure, the "me" I clung to would die. But I had this sense of continuation.
A purely scientific version of reincarnation is recycling - the physical material that made up my body would become part of trillions of other beings and features in the world, as happens every day of my life right now anyway.
I had the sense of something beyond that, a sense of who I had been in this life informing the world and future "me"s, a sense that I was shaping myself and the universe by existing through lifetimes, in a way that was real despite my own ignorance in each lifetime that I had already existed and evolved.
At my lowest point, as a deep sense of grieving enveloped me, I suddenly found I believed in reincarnation. Not a romantic fantasy in which "I" survived lifetime to lifetime. My life, my identity, would end, and in the universal, it would end soon. On this flight from disaster to the unknown or in forty years of heart failure, the "me" I clung to would die. But I had this sense of continuation.
A purely scientific version of reincarnation is recycling - the physical material that made up my body would become part of trillions of other beings and features in the world, as happens every day of my life right now anyway.
I had the sense of something beyond that, a sense of who I had been in this life informing the world and future "me"s, a sense that I was shaping myself and the universe by existing through lifetimes, in a way that was real despite my own ignorance in each lifetime that I had already existed and evolved.
All I want is English cheese
I ate so much last night that I dreamt I wasn't hungry. Or, I should say, I ate so LATE - it was 130am when I got home from a 20 hour workday. Taco Bell cooked me dinner and then I passed out.
I dreamt I was at breakfast meeting to plan my best friend's wedding. We made popcorn soaked in red wine, then set it on a paper towel. When it was dry we stamped each kernel with "0544N" in tiny white script.
We were ordered onto a huge ferry boat because we were being evacuated from America. The boat held 5000 refugees. Attendants dressed in air hostess uniforms were seating everyone individually in reclining leather seats scavenged from the airlines. Hundreds of rows of seats had been bolted straight to the deck of the boat; the portholes looked like the windows of a giant plane.
A mid-forties black couple entered the cavernous passenger deck; an attendant grabbed the woman's large duffel bag. The man had no luggage. The woman sat down at the back left in a row that was nearly empty. The hostess moved four rows forward, and put the bag down in a seat right next to mine. "I'm giving you the best seat in the house," she said.
"I want to sit back here," the woman replied.
"The problem with the world today," declared the attendant, "is that people can't tell good quality from bad."
The woman reclined her seat and shook her head. "This is very comfortable. I want to stay."
The hostess sighed. "This seat is the ultimate in luxury; it would be senseless to refuse it."
The woman came reluctantly forward, her eyes darting back to the seat she had just vacated. Just as she sat down, a newcomer claimed her old seat. The attendant looked smug, and left.
Our row was crowded, with almost no elbow room and when she reclined it, the woman's new seat wouldn't stay put, slowly inching a return to vertical. There was one advantage to our row: leg room; it was located on a walkway so the next row of seats was ten feet away.
Though I was bone tired, being upright made it hard to relax; I drifted in and out of consciousness, the need for sleep like a physical ache. Several people to my right got up for lunch and I wanted to stretch out but I had no idea how long my rowmates would be gone.
I started flirting with the woman who'd been bullied into sitting with me, just to pass the time. She seemed to welcome the distraction, and gradually, turned into my sister. "Dad is parking the van in the car deck," she told me. "We could go down and sleep in there."
"I don't know, " I said. "Will they let us in? I thought that after 9/11 access to the car decks was restricted in case people tried to use vehicles as bombs."
Now she had planted that hope, though, I was compelled to explore. There were stairs leading to a second deck that opened into a long dormitory packed with beds. Shockingly, about two beds down on the left, my old tiger lamp was nailed to the wall, and under it was the bed I'd slept in as a child. I even recognized the bedding.
I raced back to my sister and reported what I had seen. Now she was skeptical. "How is that possible?" She suggested it was wishful thinking.
I shook my head. "No way." I grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the stairs.
Fog filled the cabin. We walked out onto a cobbled street. It was cold even in the bright sun, a fine mist swirling in from the English seaside that lay directly to the left. Down the street, on the right, a sign said, "Olde Cheese Shoppe." Suddenly I was hungry.
"Maybe Dad's in there," I said. My heart leapt. I really needed it to be true.
I dreamt I was at breakfast meeting to plan my best friend's wedding. We made popcorn soaked in red wine, then set it on a paper towel. When it was dry we stamped each kernel with "0544N" in tiny white script.
We were ordered onto a huge ferry boat because we were being evacuated from America. The boat held 5000 refugees. Attendants dressed in air hostess uniforms were seating everyone individually in reclining leather seats scavenged from the airlines. Hundreds of rows of seats had been bolted straight to the deck of the boat; the portholes looked like the windows of a giant plane.
A mid-forties black couple entered the cavernous passenger deck; an attendant grabbed the woman's large duffel bag. The man had no luggage. The woman sat down at the back left in a row that was nearly empty. The hostess moved four rows forward, and put the bag down in a seat right next to mine. "I'm giving you the best seat in the house," she said.
"I want to sit back here," the woman replied.
"The problem with the world today," declared the attendant, "is that people can't tell good quality from bad."
The woman reclined her seat and shook her head. "This is very comfortable. I want to stay."
The hostess sighed. "This seat is the ultimate in luxury; it would be senseless to refuse it."
The woman came reluctantly forward, her eyes darting back to the seat she had just vacated. Just as she sat down, a newcomer claimed her old seat. The attendant looked smug, and left.
Our row was crowded, with almost no elbow room and when she reclined it, the woman's new seat wouldn't stay put, slowly inching a return to vertical. There was one advantage to our row: leg room; it was located on a walkway so the next row of seats was ten feet away.
Though I was bone tired, being upright made it hard to relax; I drifted in and out of consciousness, the need for sleep like a physical ache. Several people to my right got up for lunch and I wanted to stretch out but I had no idea how long my rowmates would be gone.
I started flirting with the woman who'd been bullied into sitting with me, just to pass the time. She seemed to welcome the distraction, and gradually, turned into my sister. "Dad is parking the van in the car deck," she told me. "We could go down and sleep in there."
"I don't know, " I said. "Will they let us in? I thought that after 9/11 access to the car decks was restricted in case people tried to use vehicles as bombs."
Now she had planted that hope, though, I was compelled to explore. There were stairs leading to a second deck that opened into a long dormitory packed with beds. Shockingly, about two beds down on the left, my old tiger lamp was nailed to the wall, and under it was the bed I'd slept in as a child. I even recognized the bedding.
I raced back to my sister and reported what I had seen. Now she was skeptical. "How is that possible?" She suggested it was wishful thinking.
I shook my head. "No way." I grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the stairs.
Fog filled the cabin. We walked out onto a cobbled street. It was cold even in the bright sun, a fine mist swirling in from the English seaside that lay directly to the left. Down the street, on the right, a sign said, "Olde Cheese Shoppe." Suddenly I was hungry.
"Maybe Dad's in there," I said. My heart leapt. I really needed it to be true.
Thursday, July 4, 2013
Retired ninja, will work for food
I was a 45 year old retired ninja with a muscular frame, receding hairline and the beginnings of a tiny middle-aged paunch. My post-ninja gig was as a security contractor. Companies hired me to inspect their premises and either prophylactically try to break in or, more often, figure out how somebody else had outsmarted their alarm system/trained dogs/security guards/walls,locks&fences.
My latest client was an elite underground spa for wealthy businessmen. I went on the welcome tour, mentally noting gates, locks, and steroidal staff. After a group steam bath in the cavernous natural shale-lined sauna, I exited to the main lobby with the other guests, then did a u-turn in a dark stairwell and padded silently back downstairs to the locker room.
This time, rather than sauntering in like I owned the place, I hugged the walls and calculated each footfall, while adrenaline, despite years of experience in sneaking, drove a familiar pounding bloodrush in my ear drums.
I never met with my clients in person until after a job was complete. I'd come to Steele Spas unannounced, armed with an alias, and as far as the staff knew, I was just another supremely wealthy CEO/arms dealer/minor middle eastern prince. I was therefore at the mercy of any of the security measures, however angry, muscular, or efficient. I would not identify myself even if caught and handed over to the police. In theory. In two and a half years of practise this had never happened.
The locker room door was true to its namesake: locked. A very solid, gleaming deadbolt slid visibly through several thick wrought iron slats. The lock mechanism itself, however, yielded easily to my handheld pick set, and I observed the gate wasn't truly floor to ceiling but had a good five inches of clearance at the bottom, two at the top. I eased the gate open just wide enough to slip through, and, hearing footsteps echoing somewhere behind me, froze.
The acoustics of the underground caves made it impossible to be certain which direction the noise was coming from. I silently pulled the gate closed behind me, and slipped to one side just as the WWF-sized security guard ambled by on his timed rounds. Having seen him or his clone pass during my impersonation of a guest, I estimated I had five minutes. Not much time, but hopefully enough.
At the far end of the locker room was a pleasantly rusted set of decorative saloon doors that led to the several pools and temperature controlled caves. This time I stopped, dropped, and rolled through the generous waist-high gap, rather than risk the small double squeak I'd heard every time a guest had pushed open the doors and let them swing back.
In the corridor beyond it was dark; before it had been dim, but not so much you'd risk tripping or stumbling into another guest. Now they'd turned out all but the small blue security LEDs set high on the outside side of the curving hallway, spaced about every ten feet. They glowed but only enough to see a small disk of surrounding wall. I walked and counted LEDs, trying hard to ignore how unsettling it was to be unable to see the floor, like I was just a head, floating through an inky darkness.
I turned a corner and walked into a busy dining room, sat down across from two business partners at a firm on Wall Street that had once used my services. I pretended to take part in the conversation, an easy task at this point as I was several whiskeys more sober than either man at my table. Behind them a carefully dressed, delicate-featured Malay girl was having dinner with some friends. Her musical soprano laughter easily outstaged the high-decibel bass of my drinking companions ever raunchier jokes. My desire for her felt like a red haze.
I excused myself when I saw her rise; the boys were having too much fun to notice it was my second break in under fifteen minutes. The restrooms were set to the right of the unmanned front desk. I surreptitiously beheaded one of the Tiger lilies in the chest-high vase, and tossed it expertly against her retreating calf. Rushing forward, I bent to pick it up as she turned, having felt it brush her ankle.
"You dropped this?" I asked, handing it to her, enjoying the puzzlement in her eyes, her small, automatically outstretched hand. Instead of handing it to her, I set it gently behind her ear, allowing a tiny thrilling graze of her cheek with my pinky; I observed a satisfying flush in her cheeks. I gave a faint smile, then moved past her to the men's room. I had crossed the line entirely, now it was time to give my prey a little space.
I opened the door and stepped from the floor of a Chicago city bus onto the sidewalk. Two blocks down I spotted the sidewalk cafe where Jarod, my best friend from high school, was waiting. We hadn't seen or spoken to each other in fifteen years. He looked good - older, heavier, but still the same big brown eyes, olive skin. Unlike me he still had all his hair.
Spotting me he waved, stood, and gave his trademark hundred-watt smile. That smile, together with his stocky six-foot-two frame, had spared him from the usual harassment meted out to the foolhardy uncloseted gays in my midwestern 1990s city.
Jarod folded me in a bear hug, signaled the waiter for another drink, and we entered into conversation shockingly naturally, as if the intervening years had been an insignificant fortnight vacation from our friendship.
Halfway through my second beer, he put his hand on my knee. He held his alcohol well, but there was a tiny weave in his frame as he leaned in, his eyes serious, holding mine. "I think I am in love with you." Then he sat back, as if he'd just told me in confidence that he'd won a bet in a horse race. He took another pull from his lager, gave his dazzling smile, and said, "I have to hit the head. Be right back."
I chewed thoughtfully on a cracker smeared with Brie, trying to decode my best friend's confession, and woke to scratching at my door, and mews clearly demanding breakfast.
My latest client was an elite underground spa for wealthy businessmen. I went on the welcome tour, mentally noting gates, locks, and steroidal staff. After a group steam bath in the cavernous natural shale-lined sauna, I exited to the main lobby with the other guests, then did a u-turn in a dark stairwell and padded silently back downstairs to the locker room.
This time, rather than sauntering in like I owned the place, I hugged the walls and calculated each footfall, while adrenaline, despite years of experience in sneaking, drove a familiar pounding bloodrush in my ear drums.
I never met with my clients in person until after a job was complete. I'd come to Steele Spas unannounced, armed with an alias, and as far as the staff knew, I was just another supremely wealthy CEO/arms dealer/minor middle eastern prince. I was therefore at the mercy of any of the security measures, however angry, muscular, or efficient. I would not identify myself even if caught and handed over to the police. In theory. In two and a half years of practise this had never happened.
The locker room door was true to its namesake: locked. A very solid, gleaming deadbolt slid visibly through several thick wrought iron slats. The lock mechanism itself, however, yielded easily to my handheld pick set, and I observed the gate wasn't truly floor to ceiling but had a good five inches of clearance at the bottom, two at the top. I eased the gate open just wide enough to slip through, and, hearing footsteps echoing somewhere behind me, froze.
The acoustics of the underground caves made it impossible to be certain which direction the noise was coming from. I silently pulled the gate closed behind me, and slipped to one side just as the WWF-sized security guard ambled by on his timed rounds. Having seen him or his clone pass during my impersonation of a guest, I estimated I had five minutes. Not much time, but hopefully enough.
At the far end of the locker room was a pleasantly rusted set of decorative saloon doors that led to the several pools and temperature controlled caves. This time I stopped, dropped, and rolled through the generous waist-high gap, rather than risk the small double squeak I'd heard every time a guest had pushed open the doors and let them swing back.
In the corridor beyond it was dark; before it had been dim, but not so much you'd risk tripping or stumbling into another guest. Now they'd turned out all but the small blue security LEDs set high on the outside side of the curving hallway, spaced about every ten feet. They glowed but only enough to see a small disk of surrounding wall. I walked and counted LEDs, trying hard to ignore how unsettling it was to be unable to see the floor, like I was just a head, floating through an inky darkness.
I turned a corner and walked into a busy dining room, sat down across from two business partners at a firm on Wall Street that had once used my services. I pretended to take part in the conversation, an easy task at this point as I was several whiskeys more sober than either man at my table. Behind them a carefully dressed, delicate-featured Malay girl was having dinner with some friends. Her musical soprano laughter easily outstaged the high-decibel bass of my drinking companions ever raunchier jokes. My desire for her felt like a red haze.
I excused myself when I saw her rise; the boys were having too much fun to notice it was my second break in under fifteen minutes. The restrooms were set to the right of the unmanned front desk. I surreptitiously beheaded one of the Tiger lilies in the chest-high vase, and tossed it expertly against her retreating calf. Rushing forward, I bent to pick it up as she turned, having felt it brush her ankle.
"You dropped this?" I asked, handing it to her, enjoying the puzzlement in her eyes, her small, automatically outstretched hand. Instead of handing it to her, I set it gently behind her ear, allowing a tiny thrilling graze of her cheek with my pinky; I observed a satisfying flush in her cheeks. I gave a faint smile, then moved past her to the men's room. I had crossed the line entirely, now it was time to give my prey a little space.
I opened the door and stepped from the floor of a Chicago city bus onto the sidewalk. Two blocks down I spotted the sidewalk cafe where Jarod, my best friend from high school, was waiting. We hadn't seen or spoken to each other in fifteen years. He looked good - older, heavier, but still the same big brown eyes, olive skin. Unlike me he still had all his hair.
Spotting me he waved, stood, and gave his trademark hundred-watt smile. That smile, together with his stocky six-foot-two frame, had spared him from the usual harassment meted out to the foolhardy uncloseted gays in my midwestern 1990s city.
Jarod folded me in a bear hug, signaled the waiter for another drink, and we entered into conversation shockingly naturally, as if the intervening years had been an insignificant fortnight vacation from our friendship.
Halfway through my second beer, he put his hand on my knee. He held his alcohol well, but there was a tiny weave in his frame as he leaned in, his eyes serious, holding mine. "I think I am in love with you." Then he sat back, as if he'd just told me in confidence that he'd won a bet in a horse race. He took another pull from his lager, gave his dazzling smile, and said, "I have to hit the head. Be right back."
I chewed thoughtfully on a cracker smeared with Brie, trying to decode my best friend's confession, and woke to scratching at my door, and mews clearly demanding breakfast.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Cats in cupboards
I dreamt I arrived home to find my little grey cat agitated and distraught. She herded me to the kitchen where I could hear the muffled cries of another cat. Some brief searching later, I rescued my giant orange cat from the prison of the kitchen cupboard
and woke to find him mewing pitifully at my bedroom door for breakfast.
I dunno. I think it's going to be a weird day
and woke to find him mewing pitifully at my bedroom door for breakfast.
I dunno. I think it's going to be a weird day
Deep cover
5am
I have a head cold and it's 91,000 degrees outside. I've risen to the border of consciousness about six times already tonight.
Each time the contents of the room insert themselves in the plotline like a fever dream, then I sink back into sleep.
This time the satiny finish on my duvet smoothed a turbulent dream moment to peaceful.
Everything is congested; it feels like my brain is swollen.
I have a head cold and it's 91,000 degrees outside. I've risen to the border of consciousness about six times already tonight.
Each time the contents of the room insert themselves in the plotline like a fever dream, then I sink back into sleep.
This time the satiny finish on my duvet smoothed a turbulent dream moment to peaceful.
Everything is congested; it feels like my brain is swollen.
Monday, July 1, 2013
Jet lag
This morning I can't remember my dreams but can feel the residual tension of a busy night in my neck and jaw.
Apparently I grind my teeth in my sleep. Dentists discuss the wear pattern on my teeth, the stress cracks in my bone. Partners and sleepover friends have heard rubbing sounds coming from my persistent jaw. Mostly I would be unaware of it, but sometimes right before I wake, I can hear it, my mouth busy at its lifetime's work or wearing down my enamel.
I am getting up at 630 despite feeling like I could use another 3 hours of sleep. I am trying to move myself into the correct time zone, out of the 9am start I accidentally slipped into sometime in the last few years. My body wakes me at the crack of dawn but usually my mind, which has been held hostage and forced to stay awake till 2am, convinces me to sleep in.
I have a theory that repeated cycles of cortisol on waking over and over in the morning are making me fat.
I need to drink water, and stand my ground. I will ignore the seductive pull of sleep.
Today the body will win.
Apparently I grind my teeth in my sleep. Dentists discuss the wear pattern on my teeth, the stress cracks in my bone. Partners and sleepover friends have heard rubbing sounds coming from my persistent jaw. Mostly I would be unaware of it, but sometimes right before I wake, I can hear it, my mouth busy at its lifetime's work or wearing down my enamel.
I am getting up at 630 despite feeling like I could use another 3 hours of sleep. I am trying to move myself into the correct time zone, out of the 9am start I accidentally slipped into sometime in the last few years. My body wakes me at the crack of dawn but usually my mind, which has been held hostage and forced to stay awake till 2am, convinces me to sleep in.
I have a theory that repeated cycles of cortisol on waking over and over in the morning are making me fat.
I need to drink water, and stand my ground. I will ignore the seductive pull of sleep.
Today the body will win.
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