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    One Must Imagine Sisyphus Happy

    Metafiction

    by , 03-01-2016 at 07:53 PM (408 Views)

    A very long dream. It surely must have been multiple connected dreams, but I never explicitly chained. Nonethless, even while morphing, the narrative was strong and connected throughout. There are just a few spots of lucidity but some very rich thematic content. I don't have DILDs so often anymore, but when I do they become these sprawling bizarre sagas.

    M*A*S*H

    We begin in a large army tent. I am attending a reunion of the cast of the TV show M*A*S*H and I recognize several of the actors. They perform a skit, satirizing the show (which, itself, was also a satire). Alan Alda is playing the role of Hunnicut and the actor who played Hunnicut is playing Hawkeye. This is evident because they have swapped hair styles. Or maybe it's Trapper instead of Hunnicut. We all think it's hilarious. Soon it's time for bed and everyone finds a makeshift spot on the furniture or the ground to sleep on. As the lights go dark, I hear Colonel Potter shout something. I think to hush him, but first I wait a beat in the hopes that no one else was disturbed. It's quiet for a moment. But after another beat, everyone starts shushing the Colonel at the same time. It's as if everyone was thinking the same thing as I was: to wait and see if anyone else will act before taking action for oneself.

    I get up and slip out of the room. Perhaps I was thinking to go to the kitchen to get some water for the Colonel. As I exit that room, I am now in the Daisetta house. In the dining room ajoining the kitchen, I find more characters on the floor, trying to sleep. But one of them is listening to a radio and that is preventing them all from sleeping. The man with the radio turns out to be J, who is technically my Godfather even though we have long since lost contact. I help him up and quietly get him to turn off the radio.

    "What are you doing on the floor?" I'm not fully lucid, but I am aware that I am visiting a place from my past. "We had a futon in this house, you could have slept there." I turn to lead him to the office/guest room, but in our path enters my sister. Uh-oh. Not this. (Dreams with my sister tend to be boring, so I have developed the reflex to avoid her.) I turn back around. You're on your own Godfather, lotsa luck. Walking away leads me into the kitchen, which is a dead-end. Trapped! Survival instinct kicks in: I had better eat. I scan the fridge and pantry, looking for something to eat. Anything to lead the narrative somewhere else. Not finding anything, I turn to the counter and my sister is still there. Grrr.

    A Strange Orange (but not clockwork)

    On the counter are some oranges, so I grab one and start peeling it. Looking more closely, it's a strange orange. It's not full and round, but rather shrunken and withered. It doesn't seem spoiled though. Opening it, I find the center is hollow and surrounded by a dryish pith with stringy fibers and seeds. Quite like a pumpkin. I intuit that my Godfather brought these along with him with his visit. They are some rare variety and he gives them as gifts as a novelty. It's quaint, but pretentious, so thinks I. And I would be an expert on pretentiousness.

    My sister is still there, watching me struggle with this orange. She imposes: "You have to remove the seeds like this." She demonstrates scraping her fingernails along the string fibers to free the seeds, which are also rather pumpkin-like. My indignation boils. Oh yes, please, Your Highness. Won't you educate me in the fine art of orange peeling? Liberate me from my ignorance. Sarcasm notwithstanding, I copy her anyway. It's tedious removing the seeds and I'm almost done but really just want to taste the thing once.

    Before I can taste the orange, my labor is interrupted by the voice of my mother from some other room. "Bring your sister!" It's not a bad idea. Ditch the sister with the mother and let them annihilate each other like matter and anti-matter.

    I wander through a few rooms, following the sound of her voice. But now it seems that I'm in an airport, as if I have just picked up my sister from travel and now we are to find the parking lot. We exit through a side door and are briefly in a courtyard with tables for eating. There sits my father. My sister and I walk past. I say, "Oh by the way, there's your father." We glance, but just walk on by and through another door.

    More doors and now we're back in the dining room of the Daisetta house. Sigh, I'm always going in circles. Still pushing that rock, eh Sisyphus? Can Penance with no end be fairly called Penance? I think the right word is Damnation.

    The DCs from before are gone. Just me and sister. I sit at the dining table. She sits too and pulls out my laptop. She starts typing something and, as I peek at the screen, I see she's writing a journal entry using the same software that I use. I become rather nervous that she might have read one of my journal entries. On the other hand, at this moment, it is me who is snooping on her journal. Tu quoque?

    I stare at the screen. I notice that she uses a font different from the default, like I do, both in my dream journal and personal journal. Her font choice is much stranger though, almost wingdings. I continue to stare, trying to read the words but distracted by the font and how each letter shows an animation as it is added, simulating a typewriter effect (or affect). The periphery of the scene fades to black around the glowing screen.

    "Can" and "Should"

    The software on the screen changes into what looks like an image-editing program. This change seems to have disrupted the entire scene. Maybe we're through to the other side of this modern looking-glass? We are still in the dining room but it's no longer my sister using the computer, it's a teen-aged girl. As best I can tell in the dim light, she has dark brown, almost black, hair cut to shoulder length and very pale skin. She might have a stud piercing in her lip or nose, I forget which. She is aware of me but pays me no mind. She is as entranced by the glowing screen as I was.

    Without a word or a glance, she hands me the device, which is now a tablet instead of a laptop. She pulls out another one for herself and resumes her revery. Now in control of my own device, I try to determine exactly what this software does. I see that it is called "Tiny Perfect" but that doesn't give much hint to its function yet. I am first given the option of a range of numbers. I choose 18-19. Now, a grid of pixels appears with some more guide lines overlayed on the grid. I intuit that 18-19 is the number of pixels in length of the side of a square area. With this square now defined, I can choose an area of the image to clip. The image on the screen is of the dark-haired girl (no doubt a selfie she took when she was holding it). I clip the area around her face. The software makes a scissor-snip sound and clips the face. It then transforms that realistic face into a cartoonish avatar, and shrinks it to the size of an icon. I guess that's what "Tiny Perfect" means. This little image now slides into a collection of many similar images of girls faces, all practically the same, only differing in the shade of color for skin and hair. I am not impressed by this modern tool of vanity. (He wrote. "He" being the author of a public dream journal.) Yet another feat of software that is all about coulda, not shoulda.

    A second girl enters, perhaps the friend of the other one and about the same age. This new girl has long straight blonde hair and just a bit more complexion in her face. Freckles, maybe? Besides the slightly different features, these two girls belong to the same "type," if I may so judge. Without a word or acknowledgement, this girl sits in my lap and takes the tablet from me. And just like the brunette, this blonde assumes an empty gaze at the screen.

    I am confused and annoyed. My attention turns to my body, with this strange girl taking residence in my lap like it was nothing. I put my hand on her leg, but she doesn't react. She wears black skinny jeans. I move my hand up her inner thigh, but still no reaction. Conflicting urges and cognitive dissonance fill my mind, which ironically causes my lucidity to peak. Very literally, lucidity means "clear thinking" but that would be the opposite of my mental state. I simultaneously feel desire and aversion to this little jailbait. Knowing that this is a dream only complicates things. The wiser part of me steers my inner thoughts from What CAN I do? to What SHOULD I do?

    Yes, what should I do? Always with the questions, I am. I should... I should fuck this chick silly. Why not? No, I should slap this little brat from jumping into my lap. Respect another person's space. That'll teach her. No, I should take her tablet away. That will really make her mad. An eye for an eye, a tablet for a tablet. But I catch myself and reflect. Is Vengence what I really want here? Sadly, the word "should" only invites my self-righteous side. However, I know enough about myself to steer away from that course too.

    Okay, forget CAN and SHOULD. What was I SUPPOSED to do? The right question makes for an easier answer. Rather than make a choice right now, let me instead trust in a choice that I had previously made, when I was in a more reasonable state of mind (that is, when I was non-lucid; the irony continues). I was supposed to bring something to my mother. Okay, yes, let's do that.

    Bureaucrazy

    Having chosen a new plan but not a very interesting one, my lucidity is fading now as I return to some more rote territory. I leave the dining room. Of course, the two girls take no notice -- still and forever staring at their screens. I enter the door for the master bedroom, but now it seems I'm back in the parking lot next to the airport. I walk out into the clear day. Nice to be outdoors. Though a bit glum. It's a smoggy airport, all concrete and the noxious smell of fuel. I walk to a nearby administration building, wherein I will find the office my mother works in.

    I navigate office hallways. It's busy and crowded. Over-crowded, I'd say. Some offices, some cubicles, characters having conversations in hallways on benches and standing. Dull, flickering florescent lights reveal the aging white walls and plain, cheap furnishings. I notice that everyone is dressed casually. I get the help of someone, a tall black man who seems to know where everything is and keeps a positive and friendly disposition. I find that surprising, considering that I imagine working in a crowded and busy place like this would burn me out very quickly. In my mind, I walk a mile in his shoes and it doesn't seem very pleasant. Some people are just different though, and they thrive on sociability. My mother is like that, and that's probably why she's here. And why we have so little in common.

    I finally find her office, but our encounter is brief. I deliver her some paperwork. I think it was a questionnaire I had completed for her. She tells me to talk to someone with a G-name who will lead me back to the parking lot. But she warns me strongly not to listen to another woman with an L-name, even though this person works in the parking lot.

    I leave her office. I'm not sure I understood her directions. How will I recognize who these Mr. G and Ms. L persons are? Besides, I just came from the parking lot -- can't I find my way back on my own? How do you get lost in a public building like this? I mean, it might be a bit confusing but there are always signs and maps to guide visitors. But just as I'm entering a hallway that leads to a clearly marked exit, a man stops me and introduces himself as Mr. G and starts to turn me around back toward the office cubicles. Just as I turn, in the distance of the hallway that leads to the exit, I hear a woman shout at me while she is restrained by guards. "Wait! I'm L! I can show you the way!" That's weird. But she gets lost in the sea of people crowding the hallway.

    Mr. G leads me through the building to a meeting room where many other people -- employees, as I take them -- are waiting for a meeting to start. Mr. G says he will be back soon with the directions I need and I should wait here. He leaves and the tall man from before enters, still friendly and sociable, but I start to suspect he's meant to guard the door so I don't leave. I take in the room. There's about 30 people, mostly in a ring around the edge of the room, leaning on desks and chairs. They are waiting that kind of impatient waiting that happens when people are in public and becoming bored and frustrated, but know well enough to remain civil. As before, they are all dressed casually and, as I look a bit longer, I notice about half of them are wearing Denver Broncos gear. Hmm. Fair-weather fans... Of the remaining half, there's still a lot of football teams represented on their clothes. And most of them are chewing gum, which peeves me.

    Gauche... I snark, and smile a cruel grin of self-amusement. But again, I scold myself for my recurring misanthropy, this time in the form of elitism. Lest ye be judged, I remind myself. Once again, the dissonance rekindles my lucidity. If I'm dreaming then these aren't real people, so what does it matter if I judge them? Point. But if I'm dreaming, then these characters are me, so isn't the judgement directed at yourself? Counter-point. They's probably looking at me, so what cruel judgements might they be making of me? Point. But if we're all doing the same thing against each other, don't we all share some universal commonality? Counter-point. Caught once again in my own paradoxes, I again resolve to just accept the experience and continue.

    What was I supposed to be doing? Right, the directions from Mr. G. C'mon, man. Let's giddyup, I don't want to be stuck here. On cue, the tall man gets my attention and leads me back out to the central cubicle area where we find Mr. G, who hands me a slip of white paper taped to a folded piece of red paper. They bid me a hasty goodbye. I find a relatively quiet corner of the room and examine the papers, first the white. In pencil, there are some neatly written instructions: "Take the 474 to the 929, but you must arrive before 5."

    Wait, what? I look around for Mr. G or the tall man, but they are gone. Are these numbers of freeways or bus lines? Was 474 supposed to be 747? Is that an airplane? My dismay grows into frustration. I was just going to the parking lot! I drove here! Why would I need a bus or a flight?! I look back at what I'm holding, in particular the red paper to which the note was taped. If it were a bus schedule, that might make things clear. But no, it's a pamphlet that describes how to submit a formal complaint with the office administration. That really pisses me off. Yes, I have a complaint. No, I do not delight in this irony (not at the time anyway, later maybe). I draw a short but powerful breath, like I'm going to start throwing punches.

    My lucidity is now overflowing. Fuck. This. Place. I turn to the hallway, which is conveniently once again that straight path with the clearly marked exit at the end. I storm through the crowd full of resolve but not much purpose, if that makes sense. Without a plan I walk through the exit. I suppose my intent was: Anywhere but here!

    Can you tame a crocodile?

    I exit and once again I am outdoors. No office buildings. No parking lot. No airport. Not even the house. I'm in a bright and vivid park. The sky is clear. There's grass and trees and curving stone pathways. I see circus-like tents and stages. I hear splashing water and barking seals. I must be in an animal-themed amusement park. There are people strolling. A blond-haired man in front of me laughs a hearty laugh as he speaks into a cellphone with an English accent.

    I draw another breath, this time long and calming. I feel almost dizzy with relief and my lucidity eases to a lower but still acceptable level. I was supposed to get back to the parking lot. But I can do that later. I'm here, and apparently, I got in for free. So why not take advantage and spend the day here? Then I'll find the parking lot.

    I walk toward one of the attractions, which is partly obscured by trees but it seems to be a giant pool in the middle of an amphitheater shaded by awnings. I hear more splashes and that giggling sound that dolphins make. It must be a water show. Drawn to it, I start walking along the paths through grass. I'm startled though, as I see a rustle in the grass to my left. It's a green crocodile, facing away from me but clear as day. It pauses, then scutters a few steps and eats a smaller crocodile in one huge bite. The croc now become larger and its skin turns from green to yellow. It moves forward again and eats yet another croc in one bite and becomes yet larger. It's skin turns to brown.

    I am a bit frightened. At least the thing is moving away from me. But in so moving, it's getting closer to a young boy who is playing on the grass. He has blond hair with a light blue shirt and shorts in a darker shade of blue. I don't act or even speak, but I feel a sense of panic for him: Kid, get away from the crocodile! I look back at the animal. They really shouldn't have these roaming free in the park! As I watch, I analyze. And a semblance of logic progresses. But they wouldn't do that if they were dangerous... So they must not be dangerous. Maybe they are tame crocodiles... Can you tame a crocodile?

    My panic has been replaced with curiosity. I take a closer look at the croc and realize that it is actually a series of animatronic puppets. They move and light up in particular sequence to give the illusion of eating and growing bigger. The series repeats over and over, merely for amusement.

    Relieved, I turn my vision elsewhere. But just to my right, I'm startled again. This time, there's a growling brown bear starting at me. Its fur trembles as it growls. Again, I feel fear but begin to recover. Ah, got me with that one... Another convincing puppet, right? Like the crocodile, right? I stare at the bear for a moment, looking for some evidence that it is indeed a fake. It doesn't move. And enough time passes that it seems it won't move. And no one else around me is afraid, so it must be just another amusement. As if on cue to confirm my belief, another young boy runs, jumps, and plants his foot on the bear, he balances and poses briefly, and then pushes off. A sort of parkour stunt perhaps. This confirms that the bear is just a fake piece of the scenery. Yet privately, I am thankful to this kid for helping to ease my concern.

    That was enough thrill for one day. Now, where's that parking lot?
    DreamCafe11 likes this.

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    Comments

    1. Patience108's Avatar
      Yes much of a sprawling blizzardness to it - I am looking forward to having more long Lucids/semi's like this and experiencing the confidence of making decisions like you do here ...however trivial they might seem
    2. sisyphus's Avatar
      Thank you for the comment. I didn't think anyone would read the whole thing. I think what's interesting about this dream and my recall of it is that I strive to accept interpretation without committing to it. So, my sister and my mother might mean this, and the orange and the airport might mean that. And as a whole, maybe the dream is about hypocrisy, or about cultivating compassion or acceptance, or about escape to a refuge. All these characters, objects, and scenes are loaded with symbolism and possibility. All those possibilities are in play, but I prefer not to favor one over the other.
      Patience108 likes this.
    3. Patience108's Avatar
      Yes - I think I am getting where you are coming from and I like the thinking. Rich with symbology cirtainly is how I see my dreams ... So to constantly bear this info in mind while dreaming and more specifically lucid dreaming where our consciousness is clearly thinking ( hopefully) seems very very productive - I am inspired to make this my goal and will give it more thought