Last night’s dream,as anticipated, was comforting. It should
have beenobvious, because for the first time in weeks I went to bed with a sense of eagerness rather
than dread or mere tiredness.
The imagery was significantly Worldly. I played in a Concert
Band again.I played the trumpet. This enterprise was somehow
formally linked with a theatre production wherein I
was thankful that I did not have to perform, at the dreaded
prospect I contemplated (unusually rationally, for a dream)
of having had to perform thoroughly
unrehearsed.
The production was put on within a very large fortress
most akin to a palace. It was somehow
or another related to our survival or safety, as though each partcipant’s part were not merely for
his success andnot really for anyone’s entertainment,but
was in fact of imperativeand dire
urgency to the prosperity of the group.
It was as thogh we were in a castle preparing for a war that may or may not
have struck, but vigilance Necessitated that we behave as though it
would.
My role
involved affair deal of improvisation and perhaps a bit of work on my
trumpet,and it had a tremendous
deal of memorisation, as a
pivotal role.I can only recall, upon
contemplating it in passing, immense gratitude and almost the maddening
vertigo of someone who has just unwittingly survived what would have otherwise
been a fatal and totally unexpected fall. I had an entirely Uncarved Block
-an unadulterated tabula rasa – in regards to my part.
It
followed that the dream segued into a dramatic battle for
the freedom of some Damsel in Distress.Set in the same compound,I found
myself a fugitive and Undesirable in the midst
of this fortress which felt most akin to a map from Halo.
I had to pull off an exquisitely delicate yet
straightforward procedure. How I had become an enemy spy
I do not recall, either because the reason was not divulged or my memory is
unsubstantiated in regards to that transition.
Even nowwriting it, at any rate, I am inspired and moved to chart the design of this mission, for it was so
precise and felt unmistakably like a Video Game.
An image from a prior dream resurfaces in memory. One of many islands or images of the
same Island, each the setting of a Monkey - Island-style puzzle
that indicated quite plainly an underlyingand ineffable Mystery,had
this setting. It recurred incalculable times (if not incalculable
because of sheer number, then because of obscurity) :
A tunnel towards the North Shore of the
Island, at the left foot of a hill with a monumentof central
significance, wherein a small train
entered as though part of an amusement park ride.
In this
instance, the tunnel was without a train, but its interior resembled
most an extended stairwell. The walls were the primer gray of a grim
warehouse and it seemed to have
the feel of one continuous,
twisting landing,
labyrinthinebut not Byzantine,
direct but stark and foreboding in its deceptive simplicity, asthough being
caught would be that much more intolerable and torturous a fate.
My ideal was not to be seen as I approached and
traversed the narrow, rectangular corridor that circumvented the
young maiden’s holding cell.
This was an ornately decorated rectangular cubicle whose scrambled-egg golden fact, one of its
elongated sides, looked out over the
entire courtyard through (either windows or) window - panes in the
corridor that led past itsentrance.
The vibrant house
was most like the monk’s temple in Ripto’s Rage wherein Spyro confronts
the Yeti; it may have been almost identical.
The holding cell was not the centerpiece of the compound,
but it was probably a close second. My actions might have been very barely, if
at all, visible from the Courtyard, probably by virtue of the narrowness of the
windows,the thickness of the bars between them, or their opacity,if memory
serves.
I knew that the
cards were stacked against me, asthough an intelligent agency had
predicted(and even orchestrated, like level designers) my strike,
My advantage over being spotted owed to my ability to
incapacitate what guards didspot me. They were almost uniformly young everymen
who lookedsoewhat (but very notably,and
probably more than incidentally)like Joseph Gordon-Levitt.
I entered the chamber and met the young woman. The
word ‘maiden’I had used previously is
not to be misleading; contrary to being idealized or ‘old-fashioned’, she was
covetably Realistic and Modern.
The interior looked as though it were the inside of the
vault in Battalia ( in Ratchet and Clank) that one accesses by the Hacker
device; Plain and almost homely, like a warehouse but with traces,unlike the
Ratchet and Clank level, of the
quality of a traditional
Japanese lodging.
We quickly orchestrated our escape.
Whetheror not it had been successful may have never been
resolved,My guess and hypothesis is that we managed to escape the
structure, if notthe compound, but to what extent is a blind spot.
I almost recall repeating the infiltration several times,as
though it had been,in fact,a video game. Several times, it seems, or at least
Once, I had to run the long
way around after reaching the North Wall of the rectangular building (to the right of the fromt
door, from the girl’s position looking out). This was because, almost
sinisterly, the girls guarding the perimeter seemed to know Exactly where I was
and often even gave me the haunting impression of leading me on to ambush me by
suddenly changing direction. I had to killthe girl when this
happened.
This felt as though it were the most significant episode.Prior
to it, probably, I had been on a
train.
I was leaving a city
most akin to Prague as I imagined it from reading Kafka. My interest in
psychology as a potential career seemed to have been alluded to by the setting,
for it was in ‘fictional’ Prague that the Contessa hypnotisedCarmelita Fox.
I remember the train being like the
Coaster,but feeling Behemoth.I was
grateful that I had not left anything on the Platform, but I was terrified at
the sheer prospect of it.
I was disturbed by
the realization that, had I realized such an emergency mere seconds
after the doors shut, none would sympathise, and there would be nothing I could
do by screaming for them to stopthe train for even a second. Even if it
were my Life’s Work, any such apparently merely
material concern would at best only prompt incrimination from the driver that
I could be so stupid to
le ave such a purportedly
precious thing unat tended. The episode seemed to end with my
wondering, matter-of-factly and
almost as Camus wouldhave, what could
be so important.
[ I recall a
dream I had wherein I would up within a home on my street. It was ineffably
prophetic.Today, I realized that this was probably Parham’s home.
10:43a. Nov. 27,2013
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