The Werebear

I was at the Maine house on a hunting trip with Dad, Grampa, Matty, and the sisters. The girls weren’t going hunting, they were just there. It was very cold, and for some reason Dad thought it was a good idea to start a fire with gunpowder. I was leery, but he and Matty ignored me, and set the thing off. It made a lot of smoke, but it worked.

There were strange things going on in Brownfield. There was tons of construction. They had built a road going right past our house, and on the other side were building some huge, ugly electrical transformer. Dad and Grampa talked about making an addition to the house, and taking out the windows on that side so we wouldn’t have to look at it. Someone (possibly Matty) was in the process of building another house in front of ours. It was almost done, closed in and had windows and insulation and everything, just didn’t have siding yet. And strangest of all, along the road behind our house there was now an enormous dilapidated warehouse that contained aviation machinery. Apparently some guy kept his little fixed-wing prop plane there. So the whole area had this ugly, ominous industrial feel to it, though the pines still loomed everywhere around it.

It was very late at night, we had just gotten in and settled, and Dad and Grampa wanted to be up at seven to go hunting. They would have liked to wake up at four, but we had arrived too late for that now, and nobody wanted to do that. At that point it was about one, and we were getting ready for bed.

Well, just then several cars pulled up into the driveway, and there piled out of them some rauckus inconsiderate people who apparently were renting or staying the night in the half-built house belonging to Matty, just generally rowdy and unusual folk who didn’t seem to understand we wanted to go to sleep. They barged in on us, and I stared at them bleary-eyed as they hauled into the house this very strange wooden rack on wheels that had a bear carcass all cut up and rather carelessly screwed onto it. They were going back and forth from their car, bringing gear inside, so I took hold of the thing, seeing that it was about to fall apart, and tried to screw it tighter so it would hold. But to my consternation I discovered that the screws were not screws at all, but just cheap metal plugs without threads. I stared at the bear in confusion, wondering why they had it cut up this way. It was very gory, and not quite bear-proportioned. It looked more like a hacked-up guy in a bear suit than a hacked-up real bear–though the head and claws did look real. I noticed, with oddly muted feelings of disturbance, that some of the parts were twitching like they were still alive.

Then the whole rack started to fall apart in my hands. The head tumbled to the floor, followed by a hind paw, and a long, armlike limb. They lay on the floor, panting and bending and wiggling. “That’s enough of this,” I thought. “This is ridiculous.” I let go of the offensive thing and went outside to yell at these people. I told them angrily about the bear, how it had come loose from the wierd rack, and how it was not dead–like it was a werebear or something, that they had forgotten to stake or shoot with silver.

They looked at me uneasily, like I was insane, but not entirely. I led them back inside to show them, and the bear was completely gone. No blood or anything. I knew it had regenerated and disappeared into the woods.

The Dubious Gift of Indiscriminate Capping

A thoroughly gory and violent dream with matrix/superhero elements, and a very clear moral message, obviously due to the fact that I had been writing the Morrigan’s origin story for the Elusory Edge the day before, and that I had been reading Jekyll & Hyde before I went to bed.

It began with going back to work at GD, riding in the car with my dad. I was a little muddled, and had forgotten some things and had to rush to get out the door. But as usual with dream GDs, when we got there it was a wierd pseudo-GD where I had nothing to do, which promptly fell apart into a towering semi-futuristic city crowded with people, a large proportion of whom seemed to have guns.

Some disembodied superior being bestowed upon me and my fellow resistance fighters a nebulous and soon-to-be obviously allegorical ‘gift’. He didn’t say what it was at first, but it seemed clear enough that it was some kind of time-slowing, physics-bending, ass-kicking power, with a little bit of zombie voodoo magic brewed in. We resistance fighters now had the dubious advantage of being able to cap as many people as we damn well pleased without actually killing anyone or reducing the numbers of our foes, because despite the bullets in their skulls they would only perpetuate as the living dead. We soon caught on to this, and started capping our own people so that they could not be killed. A clever idea, sure, but that of course got out of hand and soon it seemed everyone in the whole city had a beretta with a sticky trigger (mine sure did) with which they were trying vainly to lay out everybody else. Add to this the complication that many of the original resistance fighters had acquired through practise the standard dream power of clumsy flight, and at the same time a deep-seated resentment of their fellow resistance fighters who had tried to cap them early on to give them the gift of living death.

It was at about this point that the moral lesson of the disembodied superior being finally dawned on me. His gift was not a gift at all, but a punishment. In a manner of minutes, in our idiotic knee-jerk reaction to violence with violence, we had turned a perfectly pleasant distopian future into a living hell. Well, I wasn’t about to let this lesson go un-learned. So I voiced aloud my realization, threw down my gun, and made as if to flee by flight. Those around me, however, shouted aloud to me that I couldn’t fly; it was all just a part of the superior being’s trick. Apparently I had convinced them, but only partially, not having managed to impress upon them the main point of my realization, which was non-violence. They grabbed onto my legs and started dragging me down, and bam! The dream shifted lickety split.

Now I was in another part of the city, a deserted part, heavily damaged by the fighting, with two girls clad in red and black leather superhero outfits. There was a big group of people just around the bend from us (it seemed like a highway off-ramp, but completely deserted of cars), also clad in superhero outfits, but still deluded and following their murderous ultra-violent tendencies. Our goal was to negotiate peacefully with these people, and show them the error of their ways. Of course, our selflessness backfired, as they just took us for their enemies, and capped one of the girls, starting another mini-riot. The other girl and I flew off into the apocalyptic sunset, just as if we had been sucessful in our superheroing and were getting our romantical fade-out, instead of having been utter failures.

The Dumbek

Last night I returned in dream to a place I had not gone in years, that of a very strange non-existent DeLuca relative. She was big and round and didn’t care what anybody thought. She was somehow estranged from her husband, but had two or three adult sons about my age apparently still living with her. The house was big and broad and cluttered with strange objects, much like you would expect the house of a DeLuca to be, with sort of orangish cream-colored walls with pastel trim. And the thing which made me realize I had been there before in dream was a section of wall in the hallway between the kitchen and the bedrooms that was actually some kind of enormous, amazingly clear projection tv, that at times pretended to be just a colorful section of wallpaper, but other times came alive. It was across from an arched doorway that led into the living/dining area. In the last dream I had I recall being afraid to mention it, I think because I was much younger and did not know this woman who apparently was my relative. This time I asked about it right away. “Does it stay on while you sleep?” I asked. “I could never stand that. I would be listening to it all night long.”

I was there with the family, and we were bored, so one of the kids offered to play a board game in which none of us were really interested. So instead I suggested Diana play chess with me, and she accepted readily. I went off to explore or possibly to visit the bathroom while she was setting up, and by the time I came back she had played out the game so that it was down to king, queen, pawn, bishop on both sides, and I was in checkmate. I was only slightly annoyed, because I was interested in the house.

One of the woman’s sons had the peculiar ailment of growing up every day from a little boy to an adult, and then going back again. At first this struck me as kind of fun, but then it was revealed that the kid had to kill himself ritualistically in a particular way at the end of every day in order to come back. He was tired of it, and wanted to go on living, just once. But his younger brother yelled at him, saying he would die for good if he did that. A scene most tragical.

It was clear from all the oddball stuff she had around that this woman was a collector of exotic but useless knicknacks, and as a matter of fact she had just recieved that day a wooden crate full of mayan or other tribal artifacts: little stone figurines, tall pieces of polished mahogany with sun gods or little people painted on their faces in black, and a lot of straw, for packing. She was in the midst of taking these items out and setting them up around her house. When I went to the bathroom, I found some of the stuff and was looking at it. Mistakenly I dribbled pee on one of the boards. Then suddenly as I turned to leave, I saw a tiny being standing on the floor behind me. He must have been only three or four inches high. He was brown, wore a large shapeless black hat, and bore an eerie resemblance to the things depicted on the boards. I shivered, but spoke to him courteously. I called him by his name (“Dumbek” or something–it was the name of the type of thing he was, like a gnome or fairy), introduced myself, and asked him if he understood me. He said something back in another language, a very small, froggy voice, then said my name back to me. Apparently he was there to ensure the safe treatment of his artifacts. Like a house spirit. He reminded me somewhat of the little stone-headed spirits of the forest from Princess Mononoke. Anyway, we parted courteously, and I went back to relate this encounter to the lady of the house. She explained that he wasn’t in fact a Dumbek, but a close relation of theirs. I exclaimed in no undue amazement that this was the coolest thing I had ever heard. I had met a magical creature! The world would never be the same.

Elephants with Four-Fingered Limbs

I saw the Plieades in a dream. How long has it been since I have seen them in waking? I had forgotten it, and only remembered upon perusing the numerology primer given me by Purpura some months ago. They were alone in a twilit sky — dawn or dusk I know not. Only for a moment could I perceive them, out over the still waters of some Pawtuckaway-like Lake, then they were obscured by shifting clouds.

Elephants with four-fingered limbs, settling down to sleep among the trees in the driveway of the lake house, which of course was not quite the lake house.

A small, white sailing yacht. Erin and I were going to go out in it with dad, and sit and read while he sailed.

I Get Kicked Out of a Matrix Clique

I walked out of a brownstone apartment building onto a street corner in a city like Boston. Across the street was an italian bistro/deli type place. I was wearing all black — black jeans, black leather motorcycle jacket, black boots. In each hand I had an M5 submachine gun, a la quake, and I had some extra clips taped together a la the stupid drug runners from Clear and Present Danger. I turned, and watched four other people emerge from the building: three guys and a girl, all clad in Matrix-style monochrome garb and heavily armed. One of them, skinny and all in white, had two long, thin, curved swords in plastic sheaths, and I said to him, you ought to get a belt to hang those on. He agreed somewhat indifferently.

The girl was the leader. She had red hair and was hot. They were planning to raid the bistro across the street, but for some reason I only thought they wanted to go there for lunch, and then go elsewhere to do their violence.

One of the guys, thinking about the getaway, asked if any of us could fly. Perfectly normal Matrix question. Everyone shook their heads. I said, I can. Sometimes. I thought, but didn’t say, When I’m dreaming. The kid said, That’s not good enough. We need someone who can fly all the time, and pick people up.

Oddly, It didn’t occur to me at all that I might be dreaming. I fly, yet I don’t know I’m dreaming.

We stood there on the corner for a minute in broad daylight all trying to fly. I got a good six inches off the ground and stayed there for a minute. Not great, but better than anyone else. Look, look, I said, I’m levitating! They looked grumpy. I think this is because I wasn’t really a part of their group, and they didn’t want my help. I landed, and tried again. This time I shot up like a pro, whipped like a gale around their heads, then took off down the street. I was watching them to see if they were impressed, but they just went into the bistro like they were glad to be rid of me. But again, i only thought they were going to lunch. I flew once around the block, bouncing off gutters and balconies and roofs of other brownstones (the city started to remind me of the North End, which wouldn’t be entirely discrepant with the storyline). I saw a bagel place, wanted to go there instead, but figured I should stick with the others. So I landed, and went into the bistro.

They weren’t there.

For an instant, I was the red-headed girl, or was with her at least. She was with a huge, ominous, Dark Lord-type villain who had some sort of mind control over her, a la Paul Melko’s story ‘Skin’. He was forcing her to kiss him and talking about how big his dick was. Then I pulled back and was myself again, in the bistro, watching as the red-haired girl repeatedly and brethlessly kissed this man-shaped lump of dough or marshmallow, as the bistro’s owner stood by yelling at her that she was going to have to pay for that.