moon_custafer (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
moon_custafer) wrote2012-05-24 07:57 am
moon_custafer) wrote2012-05-24 07:57 am
Entry tags:
Dream Journal
After the usual jumble of preceding dreams, I found myself dressed in a t-shirt, loose, vaguely military trousers and boots. I was hanging about waiting while others talked business. I began trying to put together a playlist of appropriate music to keep myself awake. All the tracks I chose were from different sources, all vaguely apocalyptic.
In some parallel dream narrative, there was a dwarf who was a reporter; his beat seemed to be union politics, with an emphasis on the taxi-drivers' union.
I was there to participate in/write about a possibly dangerous ritual. My companions and I paced up and down a nondescript room; when blue stains mysteriously appeared on the floor we licked them and waited for the presumed hallucinogens to kick in. A man who looked a bit like Stellan Skarsgård was sweeping up; I asked if he was a shaman, or a participant. He shrugged and said "I'm just the janitor." I'm not sure if he was telling the truth. My companions had by now run out into the darkened parking lot, arguing about whether they could see headlights. I still felt nothing, but decided to follow them while I still could. I knew the point of all this was to fight until we were killed or enlightened. I told the janitor, "I hope I see you again," and ran out. The highway had become a sort of park; there was a main trail they'd taken, but I decided to follow a smaller one up into the hills. I realized then it was daylight, and spring, with trees in bloom. Whenever I heard voices, I was unsure whether to pick a fight or avoid, since I was alone and furthermore they might just be innocent passers-by (it was clearly a public park). However, when I came across a display of white flowers laid out very obviously at the bottom of a hill, I jumped down to land on them and ran on, waiting to be chased for it. Eventually I was aware of a small group of adolescent boys behind me; I was running faster than I can in real life, but not as fast as I wanted to. I could hear them telling each other who to look for: "It was an old lady." "No, it was a big Irish girl." I grinned wryly at these descriptions, but I was worried they were getting too close, so I rolled sideways down a bank, intending to take cover behind a shrub and double back.
In some parallel dream narrative, there was a dwarf who was a reporter; his beat seemed to be union politics, with an emphasis on the taxi-drivers' union.
I was there to participate in/write about a possibly dangerous ritual. My companions and I paced up and down a nondescript room; when blue stains mysteriously appeared on the floor we licked them and waited for the presumed hallucinogens to kick in. A man who looked a bit like Stellan Skarsgård was sweeping up; I asked if he was a shaman, or a participant. He shrugged and said "I'm just the janitor." I'm not sure if he was telling the truth. My companions had by now run out into the darkened parking lot, arguing about whether they could see headlights. I still felt nothing, but decided to follow them while I still could. I knew the point of all this was to fight until we were killed or enlightened. I told the janitor, "I hope I see you again," and ran out. The highway had become a sort of park; there was a main trail they'd taken, but I decided to follow a smaller one up into the hills. I realized then it was daylight, and spring, with trees in bloom. Whenever I heard voices, I was unsure whether to pick a fight or avoid, since I was alone and furthermore they might just be innocent passers-by (it was clearly a public park). However, when I came across a display of white flowers laid out very obviously at the bottom of a hill, I jumped down to land on them and ran on, waiting to be chased for it. Eventually I was aware of a small group of adolescent boys behind me; I was running faster than I can in real life, but not as fast as I wanted to. I could hear them telling each other who to look for: "It was an old lady." "No, it was a big Irish girl." I grinned wryly at these descriptions, but I was worried they were getting too close, so I rolled sideways down a bank, intending to take cover behind a shrub and double back.
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He had with him a variety of exotic parrots and budgies, all of which he refused to cage. So that at any given moment, five or six colourful, terrified birds flapped wildly around his head.
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