Crow thought of a palace –
Its lintel crashed on him, his bones were found.

Crow thought of a fast car –
It plucked his spine out, and left him empty and armless.

Crow thought of the wind’s freedom –
And his eyes evaporated, the wind whistled over the Turkish Saddle.

Crow thought of a wage –
And it choked him, it was cut unspoiled from his dead stomach.

Crow thought of the soft and warm that is long remembered –
It blindfolded him with silk, it gangplanked him into a volcano.

Crow thought of intelligence –
It turned the key against him and he tore at its fruitless bars.

Crow thought of nature’s stupor –
And an oak tree grew out of his ear.

A row of his black children sat in the top.
They flew off.

Crow
Never again moved.

~ Magical Dangers, from Ted Hughes’ Crow

Deadlines always seem to bring out my stranger side [which is sometimes also my better side, but not always]. After spending a good portion of the day yesterday getting absolutely filthy and exhausted from prepping masonite panels for painting, I decided I needed to see people die. It was that, or a shooting spree in suburbia. This is not unusual for me. Of course, having a deadline to meet, I couldn’t spare the time that incarceration would involve, so I opted for the next best thing — AHHHNOLD!

Yes, I watched that classic, Commando. The body count was sufficiently high enough to slake my inner bloodlust, and I later trundled off to bed exhausted from my painting labors.

Now here’s where things get weird.

It’s not uncommon that I dream violent dreams; the unconscious works in mysterious ways. Last night’s dream involved a strange hybrid of times — that endless stint spent doing time in high school, my days as a graduate assistant in college, and a dash of the brief period I was working in a high rise office building. Toss in various bits of violence I’ve witnessed up close and personally, a few gang wars, nightly news footage, and you’ll get an inkling of the overall atmosphere of this dream.

I was teaching in a high rise building — several floors up. There was a large courtyard/schoolyard in the front of the building surrounded by a high chainlink fence where I could see a bizarre mixture of individuals: gang members, nondescript businessmen, students, and rent-a-cops milling about aimlessly. One fellow decides to go on a shooting spree — a la The Governator [what a silly portmanteau!] and is eventually ripped to shreds by the authorities. Not particularly interesting in and of itself, no?

What I found odd was this: for once, I wasn’t doing the shooting.

Last night’s dream brought to you by the letters F and U. Enjoy the Youtube of Arnold killing off an entire army, set appropriately enough to AC/DC’s “Big Guns”.

Ugh — so I’m pretty damn sure Freud would have a field day with this one, but I’ll write the gist of last night’s dream anyway.

I’ll preface this entry by mentioning the fact that I’ve been doing loads of research on Guinevere/Guenevere/Gwenhwyfar, various versions of Ophelias of all sorts, and vicious water sprites. So let’s just say I’m on this doomed-women-of-Authurian-Legend-meet-psychologically-damaged-suicide-cases-crossed-with-a-heavy-dose-of-the-aquatic. *shrugs*

I’ve been known to investigate far stranger things.

Anyway, in this dream [a few days after I had finished reading this] I apparently cast myself in the equivalent role of Miles’ Morgan in a strange modern day twist of locale. *shudders* There was also something about the painting of a room — I distinctly recall someone in the dream making an effort to explain to me why a particular bedroom was painted yellow. [Shades of The Yellow Wallpaper, anyone?].

At one point, the dream shifts [as dreams often do] to a scene where suddenly this house that I’m wandering around in is full of rattlesnakes. Somehow I’ve found a shovel, and I spend my time killing the snakes while avoiding them by hopping to and fro on “islands” of furniture. The snakes writhe and slither slowly under couches, behind bookshelves, and into various nooks and crannies around the house.

Later in the dream, I’m repeatedly trying to catch a large green snake by grasping it behind the head. I keep missing it, grabbing it too far behind the head, therefore allowing it to turn and sink its fangs into my hand/forearm/etc. I then wander off to find someone to extricate it from my flesh. It doesn’t hurt [much] so far as I can recall.

Once again the dream shifts — this time to a Six-Flags sort of amusement park. I spend my time looking for someone’s lost child, and wind up in a strange parade/tour group procession of people — they are all carrying the cheap sort of stuffed animal/plastic toy/generic kitsch type of prizes common in such establishments. I wander near an exit point in the park that has a sign reading:

EXIT — Hands must be stamped for re-entry into the park.

I look down to notice that my hand has not been stamped for re-entry. I feel vaguely trapped, and then wake up to the sound of rain falling outside.

All in all, I found this dream somewhat unnerving — although I’ve been dreaming on and off lately [not that I've bothered to record them here as I should ] about amusement parks, snakes, and strange houses.

I’ll have to ponder this variation a little more, I think.

I had a strange dream last night involving a cat-like possum creature that had heterochromia. Not really sure that it means anything [sometimes dreams do; sometimes they don't], but I found it interesting enough that it gave me an idea for a series of drawings.

I ran out and bought fifty bucks worth of goodish quality paper. Not the brand I’d normally prefer [Utrecht American Masters is my workhorse paper], but it’ll do in a pinch. If you’re wondering, what I bought is Strathmore 400 series watercolor paper in cold press — the tooth of it looked interesting, and the price was right. [The only other reasonable looking paper was of course Arches [which is glorious], and well, I just wasn’t prepared to drop that big of a wad of cash today].

Enough blathering. I’ve got drawing to do.

Normally I don’t dream of anything when I’m in such a state; at least nothing that I readily recall. However, after waking a few hours later [around 5am] I grabbed another glass of water, and re-curled myself into a small, slightly hungover ball and continued my quest for sleep. I awoke several times, but managed to snag fragments of a dream.

I was in an urban sort of setting; a cross between a doctor’s waiting room, and a train station. There was a fellow that I knew who was also waiting for something or other. He was apparently there to keep an eye on me, perhaps having dragged me to this appointment [which I have no idea as to the nature of at this point]. He wanders off to check on how much longer we’ll have to wait, and I’m left sitting on one of those nondescript couches that seem ubiquitous in airports, train stations, and waiting rooms. In other words, it had the unmistakable patina of excessive public use. Bored with waiting, I begin digging around in the not-so-pleasant nooks and crannies of the well-worn couch, undoubtedly looking for lost change, or any other sort of misplaced treasure.

I find all sorts of foreign currency, which strikes me as odd. British pounds, Euros, Pesos, Icelandic Kroner, and Zlotys are the coins I’m able to remember this morning. I stuff my pockets with all the coins I can find, and there are hundreds of them. Further inspection of the abused waiting-couch reveals a plastic bag stuffed with old papers. I open the bag and find that it contains many Art Nouveau prints. The fellow I know returns just as I discover the prints, and I’m forced to hide them quickly — fearing that he’ll take them from me. He moodily asks me what I’ve been doing whilst he was gone, and I produce a few of the coins for his inspection.

I recall a feeling of loathing for this fellow at this point in the dream. How dare he ask what I’ve been doing?

I awake feeling both guilty and triumphant.