lucyoncolorado

Things have slowed down a little so I should be able to more regularly record my dreams again- for at least the next two or three weeks. I’ve been too stressed and busy lately to dream very much, but with the holiday I’ve had some down time. The first one is really weird because I was never interested in metal.


In which I’m Dave Mustaine’s theater teacher…

I’m a high school theater arts teacher. Dave Mustaine has just been booted from Metallica and is now returning to school. He has a minor role in a musical production that I’m arranging. He’s polite and humble, but as the other students are only boys, he towers above them and seems out of place. An MTV reporter asks me how he’s getting on. I tell him that Dave’s having some trouble with the more abstract aspects of the play but that he’s got a lovely singing voice and a great attitude. They ask if I think this could be the beginning of a new career for him. I answer that it’s more likely just a temporary diversion, as I believe he will start Megadeath soon enough. They tell me it is 1986, and I spend some time confused since I’m pretty sure that Megadeath had already come along by then. They are worried that he might become depressed at having been booted from such a great rock n’ roll band. I’m less convinced. “C’mon. We’re not talking about Pete Best,” I say.


In which I’m preparing to be executed…

I’m in the final minutes of a failed attempt at a battleground escape. I’m running towards a ferry crossing which I hope will bring me to safety, but the enemy is gaining on me. I jump into the river and start to wade across, heavy in my suit of armor, towards the ferry- it is too far away. I’m up to my shoulders in water at this point, and I can feel the enemy’s horses galloping into the river right behind me. I realize I cannot escape and decide to face them, honorably.

I turn around in the river and announce that I am had. When the enemy army sees that I’m caught and have nowhere more to run, they stop their horses and do not pursue. Their leader comes out from their ranks and calls me to walk to shore. I appreciate him allowing me the dignity of not being dragged out.

I make the best of trying to walk tall. I hold eye contact. I think that death won’t be so bad.

“I’ll allow you a clean death,” their leader tells me. I keep my sword, remove my helmet and kneel in front of him. I can’t think of anything to say, so I tell him exactly what I’m thinking. “It won’t be so bad. Make it fast.”

He raises the sword above my head, preparing to drive it through my subclavian artery and on into my heart. At the last second, my mind panics at the thought of how much it is going to hurt, and it takes all the strength I can muster to hold my body steady and not roll over with fear. As the tip of the blade touches my skin, I scream “Wait a minute! What if this isn’t a dream?”

My enemy stops, stunned. The sword tip is still resting on my shoulder. “If it’s not a dream, you are going to die in anguish.”

I turn and face him. I beg him to give me more time to think about it. I feel desperate. My mind races; there must be some way out.

“If it’s not a dream,” my enemy repeats, “You have died very badly.”

I feel ashamed.