Makyo in My Mind
hallucinations of the unconscious eye
Other half of my short life
In short story form
Wednesday, November 26, 2003
I'm in a run-down old city at night, outside a building with some other people. There are chain-link fences everywhere. We enter some club. EM from FL is there. After some dancing, a tall Asian girl (from earlier in the dream somewhere) gives me a hug and whispers in my ear, "I love you. You can have me if you want." This is unexpected, as I thought she was married. I nod silently to acknowledge I understand. I caress her hair, and her head falls to rest on my shoulder. I hold her for a while before she tells me I should stop or people will suspect something.
Next I'm riding a motorcycle on the freeway, chasing someone. A few other cars join in the chase, thinking it's a race. When I stop, one of the cars opens up from the top, and there's a black chick inside, talking on the phone. I give her some sass about how she shouldn't listen to this other dude. She gives me some lip back about my racing skills, as if I were hitting on her. I let her have the win and take off, later regretting I didn't have a comeback.
I find myself on a tropical island overrun with tiny, mechanized aliens. I run barefoot, up and down various slopes, trying to make it to a human hideout from another decades-old dream. Instead I run into my boss, who says we need to make a few runs to make some quick cash. I grab the wheel of a huge tanker and we "Mad Max" it through some depot. I give my boss the wheel and go out onto the truck bed to scope out our tail, expecting an army of purple, mechanized, flying aliens in pursuit. I see nothing. I shout up front that it would be cool if we had some sort of anti-air weapon on this thing, just in case.
At top speed, we screech to a halt in a narrow cargo-loading zone of some old auto plant. The proprietor looks at us funny, as if he expects us to pay a fine, but bossman quips there's not a new scratch on the thing. We jump out and walk inside, following the old sailor-like guy in. I'm expecting to make another run, but a female cop busts in with her gun out, waving it everywhere. She doesn't see me, though, so I get her in a full nelson. I reassure everyone I have her incapacitated, but they're not consoled...and neither am I once they point out that we're surrounded. I let her go, and she's actually quite friendly about it. I think I'm off the hook.
But I'm not. I'm in a jail cell that's more like a locker room. It's painted maize and blue--ceiling, floor, everything--and "Detroit Pistons" is painted on the wall. There's a number painted on the ground, too, but in a font such that I can't tell which way I'm supposed to read it. I finally conclude it's the number 1805, whatever that means.
I have two cell-mates. Some fat black dude and my friend ND. "Fat" by Wierd Al started playing, and we all hip-hop danced to it, all around the cell. The song, however, once I paid attention to it, had homosexual lyrics, instead, and some rather bizarre interpretations of the original lyrics. When the song and dance were over, I deciddeI have to go to the bathroom, so I open up the cell door--which is just a regular door--and go out into a normal house and into the bathroom. Apparently we were under some sort of unsupervised, low-security holding.
An icy apparition appears back in the cell when I return, making threats. It closes us in somehow. I crawl into a claustrophobic duct, blocked every few inches by a sheet of ice. I remove or break the ice sheets systematically as I crawl through it. The tunnel gets tighter and tighter as I continue, and the exit never appears any closer, though I'm never afraid of getting stuck.
Comments: Post a Comment