So, probably as a result of watching too many comic-book based movies recently (Sky High, X-Men III, V is for Vendetta - hey, it's been a while since I got to see many movies, and yes, this is a paranthetical inside a paranthetical, go away, I just woke up - Blade) I had a dream last night about being a mutant/superhero sort of thing.
My powers were both extremely useful and excessively annoying to other people:
I could pick up any object and know immediately what it was and who had been the last person using it and what they were thinking when they were. But it never quite seemed cool, or anything, to know that. It was all "well, of course it's a rocket built into a spear for the purpose of killing you, what else would it be" and seemed all very intuative to me. It wasn't so much a flash of inspiration, but something that it seemed like I always knew. Which annoyed everyone around me. And me.
My other power was having Sandi-memory. I remembered things about five minutes into the future-flexible. Future-flexible, of course, meaning that whatever I saw could actually be changed, provided that five minutes was enough time to do something about it. Getting out of the way of incoming fire, for instance. Sometimes I could see things further ahead, which was called future-static. If I saw anything that was happening more than five minutes from now, it usually meant there wasn't anything that could be done about it. The methods would change, but not the madness. (For instance, if I saw Fly-Boy being shot in a future-static moment some two days from now, I might be able to help him dodge the first bullet. Or the third. Or even live for another day or so, but eventually, he would be shot, and my messing with the future-static usually meant that the consequences were worse than if I'd left them alone. For instance, letting Fly-Boy be shot, he might be only grazed and he can recover. Trying to save him meant I was shot, and Beastie was shot, and Fly-Boy was shot, and this time he died.)
And we didn't have cool names, really. No SuperMan or Rogue or Wolverine... we had nicknames given to us because there were so damned many of us that the press gave us stupid names just to tell us apart. Fly-Boy, for instance. Flew. He had this wing-webbing stuff from his wrists to his ankles that he used to fly - more like a flying squirrel than a bird. Beastie could shape-shift and usually chose some sort of monster-shape. He could be a mouse or a cat or even another person, but mostly he chose to be a sort of cross between a large insect and a wolf. I was "Miss Know-it-All". Yeah...
For some reason, I woke up thinking this was all very oddly appropriate.
Miss Know-it-All...
I hate waking up annoyed because of something that happened in a dream. But, it isn't the first time (ask Matt some time about the "Tracey Dream." On second thought, don't.) and it probably won't be the last.
A friend of mine was putting on a big, fancy dinner. For something like fifty guests, and they're all really important people, doctors and generals and politicians. (No clue who this friend is. All my friends have normal friends. And normal kitchens.)
She asks me to help her because I'm a good cook and she really needs the help and if I help her, she'll give me a present.
Sure, why not?
I'll tell you 'why not.' Because she was a dictatorial perfectionist wench, that was why not.
First she wanted me to cut this pineapple upside down cake. "I can't do that, I'm allergic."
"Oh, you are SO not getting a present. Here, slice up this turkey for me. No, no, don't use that knife, use the 524."
"The what?"
I look at the knife I have. In tiny letters on the bottom of the hilt it says 522. I search the kitchen looking for the 524. Can't find it.
"You are so useless. Useless. I tell you." She searches the kitchen, but she also can't find the 524.
"Well, the 524 is what you'd use if we had one, but it looks like we don't, so use the 522."
I glare. "You know, if you'd let me do it my way, I'd have been DONE with slicing the turkey by now."
"You have SUCH an attitude problem, I swear."
Then she set me to laying out the meat-tray. I was doing a fabulous job, chicken, roast beef, turkey, ham... each piece rolled up and spiraling in on this platter towards the dip in the center silver bowl. I'd even garnished the thing with carved cherry tomato florets.
"This is awful! Just awful! How could you make such a mistake? It should be roast beef, chicken, turkey, ham. Useless. Pathetic. Now I'll have to start all over again."
She scampered off again and without any idea of what to do next, I started cleaning the kitchen - I washed a metric boatload of dishes and silverware and put it all away.
One of the Important People came into the kitchen. "Oh, this looks just lovely. I'm so glad you could come. I know Blahblah just really needed the help, and you look like a capable woman. Maybe you could help next time, at my house?"
My 'friend' comes screaming out of the other room with an official looking sort behind her. "Get this trespasser out of my kitchen! She's... ruining everything. And she CAN'T COOK!"
You can just skip this if dreams bore you.
Even nine years after I stopped working for Exxon, I still have dreams where I'm back there, or I'm called in to work and I absolutely have to go in, despite the fact that I don't work there anymore and there's no reason that I would feel obligated to do so...
Last night, in my dream, I'm leaning against the counter, talking to someone who worked there and she's telling me how desperately they need someone just to work these eight hours.
"Gah," I said. "No way. Even nine years after I stopped working here, I still have dreams about working here. I'm NOT working here anymore."
I love NyQuil, man. Because NyQuil has never changed, man. It's never changed. All the other medicines are doing that inner-child thing. "we know that there's a small child inside of you, so now we have grape and cherry and orange flavor." Not NyQuil! They still have the original green death fucking flavor! You know why!? Because it doesn't matter what it tastes like! It's so strong you go, "*wheeze* Hey this stuff really tastes like.." Bang! Yer in the coma already! "What happened?" "He said tastes like and he went right into the coma, it was unbelievable!" We have reached the point where the over the counter drugs are actually stronger than anything you can buy on the street. It says on the back of the NyQuil box, on the back of the box it says, "May cause drowsiness." It should say, "Don't make any fucking plans! Kiss your family and friends goodbye. Say hello to Klaus!" NyQuil, NyQuil, NyQuil, we love you! You giant fucking Q!
-- Dennis Leary, Drugs
I've been having trouble sleeping recently, as you probably know. My idea - and this is actually a pretty good idea and is mostly working - was to take a sleep aid for about five nights running and hope that I can get myself back on track. Or at least be a little less tired for a while.
Today is day three. You don't really want to do that sort of thing for more than a week - sleep aids can become addictive and ... you know when I was recovering from my car accident a woman was talking to the doctor and I overheard. Her last doctor had her on a script for Darvaset, 2 a day, for the last year or so. She'd been taking them both before bed and now her script was run out and she couldn't sleep. I'd say so, lady!
I'm not actually taking NyQuil. I'm taking Excedruin PM, two tabs about a half an hour before I'm ready to go to bed. And I have been getting more sleep recently. Although my dreams have been pretty weird.
I think it might be the fault of the other flavor combinations I deal with at bed time. Two inhaled scripts - dust and lemon-flavored dust. One pill that always turns sideways in my throat (no, I can't cut it in half, the bottle SPECIFICALLY says not to.) and one pill that has a weird metallicy aftertaste (this would be my iron-supplement.) After that, I brush my teeth - my new toothpaste is orange-flavored. I think this is a decided improvement over mint. I also have citrus Lysterine.
But last night... last night I was having some other difficulties. Who, exactly, had the bright idea of making something CHERRY MINT? CHERRY. MINT. YUCK!
Anyway... with those flavors all combined, no wonder I dreamed about being back at college where my roommates were Megan D., Carrie G., and Tim M?
UG.
And double ug.
Maybe it's Matt's fault.
(Well, you know, aside from the general clause 47 that says that everything is Matt's fault.)
This weekend, he made me a CD with a bunch of MP3s on it. I had asked him for the MP3s from a Bob Marley CD I'd lent him about six years ago or so because I lost my copy - I think it was in the Catbus when I wrecked it and I think it slid under the seat, so I didn't get it back when I went to the garage to collect my personal things out of what was once a perfectly good car and was now a pile of leaking scrap-metal.
Since there's a lot of room on a data CD, he added a bunch of other stuff, to see if I liked/wanted it.
He included a neat little song by the Pogues called The Turkish Song of the Damned:
I come old friend from Hell tonight
Across the rotting sea
Nor the nails of the cross
Nor the blood of Christ
Can bring you help this eve
The dead have come to claim a debt from thee
They stand outside your door
Four score and three
Did you keep a watch for the dead man's wind
Did you see the woman with the comb in her hand
Wailing away on the wall on the strand
As you danced to the Turkish song of the damned
You remember when the ship went down
You left me on the deck
The captain's corpse jumped up
And threw his arms around my neck
For all these years I've had him on my back
This debt cannot be paid with all your jack
And as I sit and talk to you I see your face go white
This shadow hanging over me
Is no trick of the light
The spectre on my back will soon be free
The dead have come to claim a debt from thee
I really like creepy ghost stories and songs. Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner, by Warren Zevon, Eye of the Zombie, by John Foggarty, Graveyard Waltz, by The Hooters and Dead Man's Party by Oingo Boingo are some of my favorite songs. So, this song got immediately added to my list of favorites (or as I described last night to Karen, my new favorite song)
So, after listening to Turkish Song of the Damned about twelve times yesterday, I think my dream might be Matt's fault.
I have this friend who may or may not be in Iraq. The last time I heard from him, he was going to have some leave in May and was going to stop by and visit if he could before getting shipped out to Korea. He did not stop by or call. He hasn't answered my emails recently. And with the shift of troops from Korea to Iraq... well, let's just say I'm really considering calling his parents to see if they know how he is.
I saw John walking through the endless maze of hallways.
"John, wait!" I yelled after him, but he kept walking. I chased him, running with great effort, as if the very air was trying to hold me back. (Of course, I often feel that way, not being a great runner or anything.)
The hall was getting darker. I had to stop and squint to make sure I was still behind him. He didn't pause. I clutched at the stitch in my side and followed.
Finally, he crossed into a room and turned, as if he heard my voice. I staggered up to the door.
"You can't go there," he said, blocking the door.
"What?"
"This room, it is not for you."
"John, what?"
He reached across the threshhold and took my hands in his. His hands were ice-cold and a bone-deep ache crept up my arms.
"The living can't go there." He leaned over and pressed frozen lips to my cheek. "I won't forget you."
He crossed all the way into the room and closed the door in my face. All my pounding at the door wouldn't open it again.