I seldom dream these days. I think it has something to do with the sleep meds I’m drinking. On the odd occasion that I have not, I’ve dreamed. Vividly! So much so, that the morning after, I’ve woken up feeling like I’ve had a hectic night on the town. A while ago, I wrote about a Sleepless Mindfield. Today it’s all cloak ‘n dagger, except for the fact that I had no idea everyone in my dream was a spook – not the boo kind, but the type that is neither confirmed nor denied. I am bloody exhausted! And to crown it, my one incisor chipped. There goes my fantasy of becoming a vampire. Damn!
I spent the night at Eliza and Nathan’s place as I do every Thursday night. We somehow got talking about cults, which is the same thing that set off a post earlier this year.
“I watched an episode of NCIS: Los Angeles on Sunday at Harriet’s place. It was about a cult called The Church of the Unlocked Mind. I’ve been told that watching TV is not conducive to my recovery, but I didn’t think forty-five minutes would do much harm. Well, I had nightmares the entire night about being held captive- and attempted to be brainwashed by an inescapable sect that I was quite exhausted when I woke up on Monday morning.”
For some reason the three of us sat at the kitchen counter last night, eventually talking in whispers, as if the house was being bugged by a sect trying to recruit us to do their bidding. Later the subject changed to foreign words and their meanings, which had us all in stiches. One in particular that stuck with me is schnapsidee. I’m sure if you close your eyes and think hard enough, you’ll be able to identify at least one such idea from your own life.
Back to cults ‘n spies. Almost everyone that is close to me featured in my REM-sleep kopfkino.
In my dream, I’m in familiar surroundings, a house, but it’s not mine. Like a shitty-B-grade-no-budget-made-for-TV-movie, virtually everything happens in the dark, except one point where The Toppie and I are in search of a manuscript of sorts on a mountain top that is protected by Sumo wrestlers. I’m thinking this last bit was his ikigai.
I’m alone, unpacking dusty boxes, when I come across a photo album – an actual booklet-type one. In it are photos of almost everyone I know (in real life), but they’re all in disguises: The Bean a femme fatale of sorts, her mouth bright crimson and she looks deadly posing with what I hope is toy-gun, but my gut tells me it’s the real McCoy.
The I come across another photo of my friend Allice. She’s dressed in a technicolour coat, donning a Ziggy Stardust mullet and pointing at something off-picture with glittery gold nails. She’s laughing, her mouth open wide enough to see her tongue-stud. Judging from her demeanour, it appears that she’s at a party. Halloween, perhaps?
Just as I’m about to place the Kodak memories in my jeans’ pocket, a weathered note falls to the ground from between the photos. The ink is faded, and the page is torn. All I can really make out are the words Nothing seems, but it’s not betrayal and protect you. Cryptic and mysterious. Right up this wannabe-Nancy-Drew’s alley.
I head off to share my findings with Eliza. She’s open-minded, and imaginative. Maybe she will have a theory. Turns out when I show her the album, her skin flushes. She takes me downstairs into a dank basement and insists that we talk there, behind a newspaper. Every conversation I have with her takes place behind a newspaper. With Carla, clandestine conversations happen in an ornate, old church and every time we speak, it’s behind The Bible. With neither do I ever find out what’s going on, but they clearly know something. The only advice Carla gives me is to go back to where it started.
So, back to the boxes. This time I find a loose photograph of Nathan and Eliza in front of an aeroplane. It looks like a model one, but upon closer inspection, I see the words In Service. I swear I see Allan in the shadow too.
It takes me a while to unravel the mystery of the dream, but I realize that everyone in my life is in a cult of spies and I’m in the thick of things but not any kind of agent. Even as I trek up rocky slopes with The Toppie to find the ancient book, I find myself wondering WTAF is going on.
Good thing the alarm went off when it did, because if it hadn’t, I may have found out that I’m related to 007.
Talk about convoluted…
Here’s hoping tonight’s sleep is deep and dreamless again. I’ve come to prefer it.
Reflections of a Misfit 