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I'd like to take you inside of me
There is something in people's dreams lately; I don't know what, but if anyone dreams an inexorably festive parade, I am out of here.
Just before I woke up, I dreamed I was lying in bed in an army hospital, where the bedstead was white cast iron and the ceiling plastered the color of a yellow peach, ribbed with whitewashed rafters; there was nothing else in the room to suggest a war. If there were windows, their curtains were drawn. I would have needed to turn my head to see the door. Out of the rafters started to bulge the throats and leaves of pitcher plants, translucent green and mottled with crimson, like the mouths of lizards. They were as densely clustered as barnacles; there was no sense of time-lapse in their proliferation. I knew they were not there in a way that anyone else could detect, even if I were to scream for the day nurse, and I knew that when they brimmed over, something terrible would happen. I screamed anyway, I think.
This was the only portion of last night's dreams that was not a nightmare.
Just before I woke up, I dreamed I was lying in bed in an army hospital, where the bedstead was white cast iron and the ceiling plastered the color of a yellow peach, ribbed with whitewashed rafters; there was nothing else in the room to suggest a war. If there were windows, their curtains were drawn. I would have needed to turn my head to see the door. Out of the rafters started to bulge the throats and leaves of pitcher plants, translucent green and mottled with crimson, like the mouths of lizards. They were as densely clustered as barnacles; there was no sense of time-lapse in their proliferation. I knew they were not there in a way that anyone else could detect, even if I were to scream for the day nurse, and I knew that when they brimmed over, something terrible would happen. I screamed anyway, I think.
This was the only portion of last night's dreams that was not a nightmare.
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If I'm lucky, I get stories and poems out of these . . .
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Ouch.
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I want to fire the network executive of my subconscious.
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Ah . . . ?
There is something in people's dreams lately;
Oh . . .
This was the only portion of last night's dreams that was not a nightmare.
Hmm. So perhaps you were delivered from the battlefield of nightmare to receive medical attention? Some nice, and nicely put, visuals you have there, anyway. Since I just woke up a moment after sleeping three hours, I'm now going back to sleep with your images and I'll let you know if anything happens . . .
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PJ Harvey's "No Girl So Sweet." It seemed to fit both the act of sharing a dream and my memory of those pitcher-plant mouths.
Oh . . .
I've noted four or five other people on my friendlist reporting either nightmares or more than usually unusual dreams. I can't even blame Paprika, since I think it started before anyone I know saw the film.
Since I just woke up a moment after sleeping three hours, I'm now going back to sleep with your images and I'll let you know if anything happens . . .
Heh. I'm not sure if I should wish you luck or hope you have a straitjacket handy . . .
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Ah. I like that song. I hadn't looked at the lyrics yet . . .
Heh. I'm not sure if I should wish you luck or hope you have a straitjacket handy . . .
Nothing too much came of it--that I can remember anyway. I remember something about a girl walking a real big dog, random images of Crispin Glover, and finally, a big shadowy guy having sex with a glowing white woman, which seems Paprika inspired (and was not a wet dream).
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Sorry to hear about the nightmares, but the imagery of that last bit is fascinating.
I hope you sleep better tonight.
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Thanks. I suppose I'll report if anything truly weird surfaces . . .