Recent DJ Posts

As mostly my IRL self, I'm following a news story about a court case. The girl on trial is a minor, but the people involved in the case keep talking about her as if she's an adult; there's racial connotations. Her outlook is not good. As not-exactly-my-IRL-self, I'm thinking this is an injustice. I've allowed them long enough to work this out themselves, they've had their chance; I'm going to step in and remove her from this ridiculous trial. There's a connotation here that this means dropping everything going on in my life. I'm nearly out the door when IRL-self stops to wonder exactly what I think I can do.

I'm standing in a dimly-lit, brown-toned library where I'm meeting Mazikeen for the first time in a long time. The dreamer part of me is critiquing the way the dream is representing her half-alive half-dead status; the parts of her without skin are tinged green, and it crosses over her body, so that her left arm and right leg are dead. I think of this as a clumsy representation of the life/death mix. The character part of me is remembering seeing her a long time ago, when she'd just been made immortal and she'd been elated about it, saying that she'll be able to continue to serve as long as I need her. I'm wondering whether she'll think what I'm doing now is worth serving - or rather, what I'm not doing now; I've abandoned certain ambitions.

Morning of June 6, 2015. Saturday.



Sometimes dreams are so surreal and unrelated to life and every facet of a person’s personality and thoughts and interests, it is a task to make any grounded reasonable associations. This is a good example. Nightmares are very rare for me and always seem linked to sleep apnea or my lifelong cardiac arrhythmia (which my father also had) though only problematic for a period in the 1980s, but this one comes close with the strange mood (though I still would not call it a true nightmare, as there was no residual negative emotion carried from it).

My recent vampire witch dream had a typical carryover (though it was atypically divided by more than one day) - being embarrassed about wearing clothes in public.

I am seated in a dark movie theater (while the unknown movie is showing) and realize that I am wearing clothes and thus become embarrassed since I “know” that you should not wear clothes in a movie theater, especially this particular one which is also a library. Even more frustrating, I seem to be wearing a clown outfit (with no back story on how this occurred) or at least a white shirt with dark pink pompom (or pompon) clown suit buttons that are about the size of a small fist.

I stealthily leave the movie theater with one hand each on the top two buttons to hide them. I get the impression that someone is laughing at my clothed body. However, I manage to suddenly find myself (as if by teleportation) in a different scene in a library checkout area - which is also somehow the same theater’s lobby - where my shirt seems to be normal though I still seem to be holding pompoms in my closed fists. However, they are moving. I place them on the counter and they are each a small cuttlefish, which writhe around (as if disoriented) a bit and then decide to mate. This in turn is my payment for an overdue fee regarding books I did not even check out, but I do not question it. (I think cuttlefish are metaphorical for human hands as with spiders, because both instantly make me visually associate human hands - in fact, my “Things From Outer Space” childhood dream seemed to feature more of a giant cuttlefish-like creature than an alien spider - though actually recognized in-dream as a “giant” hand with theatrical enhancements - this being the first time I have clearly made that connection even though other creatures, such as the octopus-man, were also ocean-related).

In another scene, I become aware of an annoying (stray?) cat, possibly a darker tortoiseshell. I am not sure who it belongs to. I eventually see that it is only a piece of a cat; the head and front part of the body (with two legs), yet almost flattened into a two-dimensional form (though still with perceivable volume). It cannot possibly be alive, but it somehow is. When I pick it up to check on its status, it makes strange meowing sounds and I consider that it may be just a residual muscle reflex and that the animal is not aware of anything. However, there is slight movement as it meows, but I decide it will probably not live very long so I put it in a cardboard box and into a commercial dumpster in an alley in a business district. I do not have the will or interest to “put it out of its misery”.

After this, I have a very uneasy awareness that the cat will exist like this forever (long after I am gone) and I feel a bit guilty over its immortality as such, as it goes (without any of its own intent) to places unknown (perhaps trapped beneath layers of debris and not able to do anything or to be a “proper” cat and enjoy its cathood). It is a haunted feeling, although the creature cannot move much or walk (and thus cannot threaten me). It is almost like being aware of a human mind being “trapped” in a particular time period or culture (or religion) for endless years.

A man's talking to a woman he's recently made immortal. She's very upset, talking about the moment when she'd thought she was about to die, and how she'd thought back on all these things in her life - her family, and the man she'd almost married. I see an image of that man lying in a pool of blood with her kneeling beside him - injured in the line of duty; he's a fed, she was a cop. He survived that. She's saying to the man who made her immortal that she doesn't expect him to be able to understand any of this - it's implied that she thinks of him as too inhuman. He's annoyed. He says to her, if she's so fixated on dying, go right ahead. If a year goes by and she's still feeling so "inconsistent," come tell him, and he'll kill her himself. He's entirely serious, but he believes that this won't be necessary - he believes that trying to make her focus on living will just drive her further into this self-destructive line of thought, but that if she spends time thoroughly thinking about death, she'll stop desiring it.

(Woke up. Back to sleep.)

The soprano from the other night, looking a little younger here, is sitting in a room with another woman, both of them dressed all in white with long white gloves. There's a mirror on the wall behind them. This other woman is standing up and singing, holding sheet music in her left hand - it's light popular music; she sings prettily but not professionally. The door to the hall opens, and a third young woman says, complaining, "Cora, it's almost dawn."

Ariel, Samael, Rick.

The group of survivors have made it to an open courtyard surrounded by stainless steel fencing. The entrances are similar to cattle corrals, and apparently zombies aren't smart enough to get in. The horde is separated from us, but a few renegade zombies are still trying to eat us.

"Oh my god, just shoot them already!" shrieks a girl with dark hair. There are probably half a dozen of us, but only two guns. A shotgun blast goes off, taking out the zombie. The man holding the gun starts reloading. The blonde woman with the other gun lays down cover fire.

One of our members is somehow a conscious zombie, fighting off other ones and getting bitten in the process. The bites don't bother him much.

A zombie no one else seems to have noticed is sneaking up on one of the youngest, unarmed, members of our group. I curse, and rush the zombie, blocking the kid from its view. The thing immediately starts in on me, and, stupidly, I let it close enough to get in a bite.

"Fuck!" I shout, calling the attention of the rest of the survivors. I grab the zombie's head and twist the neck, severing the spinal column. The zombie drops limply to the ground.

I put a hand to the side of my neck, wincing when it comes away sticky with blood. I can already feel the wound starting to close. I look up, noticing that the man with the gun is eying me speculatively, his shotgun fully loaded and pointing straight at my head.

"Rick," I say, warning in my voice. "Don't even think -"

He pulls the trigger. My head explodes in a spectacular fountain of red chunks.

I come to some time later. I sit up in the grassy field, and I'm covered in my own blood. I purge the various fluids and chunks of brain matter with a thought, and stand up, cursing Rick's entire family tree as I do.

Already, there are more zombies shuffling toward me.

They scurry away when I send a telepathic, high pitched whine toward them, scrambling what's left of their brains and causing blood to pour from their ears. The closest zombies collapse immediately, the rest stay away.

I head toward the stone building. A school, before the apocalypse hit, and by coincidence, the perfect place for a bunch of insects to make their last stand.

---

The blonde woman is on edge the moment she sees me. "You're dead." she accuses, bringing her own shotgun up to fire. "Sam, I'm sorry, but -"

"You know, Ariel." I say, casually swatting the gun away, "That didn't work last time."

Ariel lowers the weapon when she hears my voice. "How the hell?"

"None of your goddamn business." I say brightly. "Now, where are the others?"

She's suspicious. "You know Rick meant well, right?"

"By shooting me in the head. I know. And I considered slaughtering every one of you without mercy," I say, willfully ignoring Ariel's horrified expression, "But the world would be so boring without any humans to torment."

Ariel makes a choked sound.

"So let's call an end to your little scouting mission," I say, starting down the concrete tunnel, "And go find the others."

If I can't kill them all, I can at least look forward to the expression on Rick's face.

The Devil You Know. Scare Factor: 2.

ETA: It was just like this, actually.[/QUOTE]