Monday, October 31, 2005

of melted enemies and the chase

There are only half remembered fragments of how the dream began: insomnia leads to a midnight bike ride through the Paris streets, I get lost and find myself face to face with a two story brick fountain, then searching for my way home on the unknown streets amidst an unfamiliar tangle of brass sculpture and towering bank buildings.

Somewhere along the way, night turns to day, I lose the bike, and find myself wandering aimlessly on foot through the crowded streets of a city that resembles San Francisco's Fisherman's Wharf more than it does Paris, France.

It's while walking that I first feel the uncomfortable prickle of someone invading my personal space bubble. I don't know why I know, but I know that there is someone following immediately behind me. When I pause on the sidewalk, this unknown man who must have been about 12 feet tall bends down and eats the baseball cap from off of my head.

As odd as it may be, a giant eating my hat freaks me out pretty completely and I tear off on foot in an attempt to avoid him. This is where the chase begins.

A large part of the rest of my dream goes as follows: I run, he catches up to me, tackles me, and starts to punch the crap out of me. Wash, rinse, repeat. Over and over again, I escape him only to be caught and beaten again with different scenery in the background.

Occasionally, I attempt to punch back and actually injure my attacker. Problem is, he doesn't seem to be made of solid human being. Instead, he has the consistency of something more akin to Silly Putty or Stretch Armstrong. Needless to say, all of my counterpunches are absorbed into the semi-solid mess of a blob that he is. Meanwhile, his fists fall on me like normal flesh and bone (emphasis on the bone).

There's no escaping him; and yet, somehow I end up at my family's house. I'm frantic. I'm pacing. I know I'm being hunted. I ache from being beaten and from the stitch in my side I acquired from running for my life. While a steady stream of inane conversation wafts around me, I keep checking the windows, the locks on the doors, etc.

Not that it helps, though. At one point, in walks The Stranger. Something in me snaps and I fly off the handle into survivalist mode. I tackle my would-be-attacker, drive him to the ground, and begin to pummel him amidst a string of half-coherent obscenities. Working up to a violent crescendo, I eventually just reach around his neck and twist with all of my might.

There's a cracking sound and my family looks on in horror as I shatter his spinal column. Then nothing. No one in the room moves for a moment or two. There's no more movement from The Stranger. Eventually, the shock wears off and I'm berated with a flurry of murder accusations. I try to plead my case. I try to explain about how he wasn't human, how he'd been beating me senseless earlier. No one believes me; they only believe what they saw and heard.

It's only before the dream dissolves into a mess of disjointed images again that I notice The Stranger's body has started to smile and laugh.


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