dream log 001
When I emerge from the black unawareness that I was previously in, I see that I am at some kind of sinister discotheque. Plush carpeting tugs unpleasantly at my rubber shoe soles. Large spots of light rotate around the room and reveal harlequin patterned stained glass clerestory windows. I feel relief when I recognize some acquaintances in the crowd of partygoers. But when I rest my gaze on any one person’s features, they contort into something strange and unfriendly.
I try to ground myself in the facts of the space—size, shape, location, purpose—but it’s hard to get oriented in my nauseous state. The room is big and then it’s small until it’s big once more. No one at this eerie fête acknowledges my presence, not even in passing glances. They are dancing automatons whose source of movement is unclear. Intermittently, I hear a cacophony of small, shrill jingles. Though everyone is dressed in a range of styles, I notice their shoes are all elongated at the front with the toe curving up and back towards the ankle. The sound I hear must be the gleaming silver bells fixed to these pointed toes. I look down sheepishly at my tattered round-toe combat boots. The taste of metal blooms unpleasantly in my mouth.
Eventually my unease gives brief way to a rapturous glimmer that I’ve never felt before. There is something beautiful in the danger of this gathering, like a radioactive glow. Or maybe the danger was all in my head. Perhaps it was my own provincial biases that distorted my fellow dancers’ faces into grotesque masks! Now my heart is soft and open like an oyster. I close my eyes and start to spin along with the bokeh lights. I enjoy myself until my nausea returns.
My dancing begins to feel compulsive. My spirit becomes small and impotent, but aware, within my body. Despite the terror, I remain somewhat pleased that I am finally participating.
After an undeterminable period of time, the disco ball reflections fade, and the harlequin windows begin to glow in warm, technicolor hues of scarlet, yellow, magenta, and cerulean. The sun must have risen. This realization brings a sinking feeling to my stomach. I feel dancing bodies closing in on me.
Shifting my gaze in the direction of the intensifying current, I see that the center of the dance floor is collapsing and everything in sight is being pulled into a whirlpool. Light from various sources bends impossibly towards the newly formed void. The scattered haze that filled the room earlier is now a dense river of fog rushing past us. My chest cannot expand against the bassline, and the flares in my vision multiply and swell until I cannot see at all. I no longer feel carpet under my boots.
A gentle afternoon light nudges my eyes open. It must be Sunday. I see faint, multicolor rhombic forms drifting across the drywall of my bedroom ceiling. Despite the optimism of the vibrant autumn day and an empty to-do list, I am disturbed by an ambient sense of doom and a metallic echo in my mouth.
