dry skin

I dreamt of a man who was held prisoner under the sea for twenty years for crimes he did not commit. He lived deep in the water, where all was hued in murky greens and browns with dim, black, empty expanses all round. All surfaces covered in slimy-slick green growth, and the soft silt underfoot disturbed at the slightest movement. I do not know whether he was able to breathe with some sort of apparatus, or if he grew gills, or utilized some magical means. He was tall and strong and quiet, and had a missing leg taken by some toothy sea creature.

I took him to places of the earth. I took him to fields of sunlight, fields of wildflowers and grass. We leant against huge, ancient trees on firm ground, grasping one another solidly. His sense of time was that of the depths, still and unchanging, and we could spend long hours this way. I would concentrate upon him, kissing and caressing, as if with love I could acclimate him to the surface, assure him, make up for lost time, I don't know.

dr... who?

I have not seen many episodes of Doctor Who. But I dreamt of him last night. He was a conglomerate of Eccleston/Tennant and, for some reason, Malcolm McDowell. There was an atmosphere of adventure, but it was not fun or quirky. It was all stress, intrigue, and more stress. The Doctor revealed himself to me as an agent for MI5, and that set the tone for the story, the specifics of which I can't recall except there were elements of time travel, an assassination plot, and forced impregnation on myself (I was supposed to give birth to someone who we would travel into the future to assassinate-- since no one came along to do the job of knocking me up, the Doctor took the task upon himself, as politely and methodically as he could manage). The TARDIS was very shabby, as well, a lot of old laundry lying about, which we lay upon to do the necessary. It was distinctly uncomfortable for us both, but it wasn't a pleasure operation.

so what has become of Mr. B now?

Oh, he's around. A different face, perhaps (though not so very different in the eyes), a different name, but it's him. I was sad in the dream because I was away from him, but I awoke knowing that such separation does not last for the likes of us.

the little brown fellow

I was a girl again walking along the sidewalk of my hometown in the afternoon when it's lovely and quiet and no one much is about, but I was very sad and lonely, and felt I had lost something, and I was crying. And then from across the road I saw a strange man sitting all in a bundle, and I knew he would say something to me, and I bent my head demurely in anticipation, hiding my face in my long hair. And then he called to me, and I knew he could see my tears and detect my sadness. So I crossed to him. 

He was a small, bent fellow, dirty clothes and hair and skin, looked like he was in hard times. He was not so very old, but his hands were very knotted and arthritic. He had a lot of wild, curly black hair, matted in places. His skin was brown with some wrinkles, almost that sort of wrinkled appleskin type face. Wise and sly, kind and cunning. Sort of a Tom Bombadil + a caveman + Charles Manson + a faun (somewhere midway between a randy satyr and Mr. Tumnus) in looks and demeanor. I sat with him, right there by the sidewalk, and then my younger siblings approached from around the corner and sat near him as well, like in a painting of a saint. His hands pained him, and his pain made me want to weep. He had a little flute which he played, and as he played it I rested my brow against his, and listened to his breath beneath the music, and it calmed me. My siblings thought me mad. He asked me to rub his aching legs, which I did; they were skinny and tough, and I tried to fill my hands with warmth to soothe him. 

I was simultaneously able to enter the consciousness of a policeman who was watching us from an unmarked car parked across the street, and sense how through some prescient authority he was able to suspect something untoward was going on, identify us, and upon learning our names receive the knowledge that he was Mr. B- and I was Mrs. B- (I cannot remember what name it was, only the B), his legal wife, and we had been long separated and were now reuniting in a bizarre, predestined ritual. Now I knew the strange man to be my husband, and it was as if I had known it all along, and we were only playing at strangers for the zest of it. And then I helped him stand, and I wasn't a girl anymore, or even in the same body at all, I had a totally different appearance, and was much older. I was taller than he and his gait was peculiar-- a slow, beastly caper. And we walked to my home, and I was elated, for now I knew we had been apart sixteen years. And I was immersed in love for him, but he was still strange, and wild, and not made for ordinary life, and there were difficulties. But I tried my best. But oh, how strange he was.

-

A few others: jotunn in the mountain pass; myself as a man with a group of four others robbing and terrorizing a Chinese restaurant; flipping out in a department store.

It was J and I in the woods, in a small, clear area. He sat on a fallen log and I upon the ground. A large black bird swooped down in the opening of the trees, and we watched with surprise as it landed on J's thigh. It had the general appearance of a crow, but larger, and there was something buzzardish about it. The bird cawed clearly, grabbed J's wrist with its claws, and drew its beak in a straight line across his hand, as if to convey a message which we could not understand. More birds began flying down. I stood up, startled, and turned as if to flee, and the first bird flew from J and landed heavily on my shoulders, and I felt its beak sink into the back of my neck as it tore away a hunk of flesh. I knew, in dream knowledge, that it had ripped away something significant, some bit of brain or spine or who knows what, and that I was no longer the same.

I dreamt I was cultivating orchids, but they grew much too quickly, proliferating like weeds.

Card of the Day: The Bouquet - Aesthetics, loveliness, a gift.

Card of the day: The Tower - Detachment, isolation, observation, plotting.

Looking down from my tower. Story of my life.

like stone in the belly

I couldn't sleep last night, and caught only shallow, passing snatches in the morning.

It was Midgard. Many images, shifting too quickly to focus, all faded, bleached, none joyful, I let them pass. Burning whiteness, but it must have been colder than cold; I was beyond feeling it. There was only kith and kin to eat. But there was mead, there was ale, there was wine, but none of us knew from whence it flowed. Drunken hunger, death. And then some of us ate.

Madhava, dark and sweet is my delight...

I had a dream, a few years ago, of Krishna. It was unlike most dreams I have, ordinary dreams, mundane dreams, where I am viewing the scene from the outside, an observer, like watching a film, experiencing what's happening but seeing myself separately as I go about it. In this dream I viewed everything through my own eyes, as in life, from myself, as myself. It is difficult to describe how it was; it was so different from waking perception. The colors were different-- not more vibrant as one might expect, but more muted in a sense, sort of subdued, subtler, but sensual in a way they are not in this world, caressing shades, shadowy-rich, like velvet, like the texture of flower petals; you could almost feel the colors with your eyes. The light was clear but soft, soft as twilight, as moonlight, as the light before dawn, but it was not dim, and I could see perfectly.

We were in a natural bower, wild with verdure, fragrant with unchecked bloom. His limbs were beautiful, his arms and hands and shins, his skin darkly luminescent, greyish-black, like clouds hovering round the moon. The tilt of his face. Slow, slow glances. The turn of his lips. We were playing with one another's hair. First he with mine, then I with his. Young fingers, by turns clumsy and shy, bold and sure, deft and artful. Long strands of my hair twined round his fingers. He laughs. My fingers reaching for a curl by his cheek, capturing it gently, timidly. All is quiet. His eyelashes. His eyes. More play. Laughter, and silence. The delicious tingle in my scalp at the gentle tugs of his attentions. The feel, the indescribable texture, and oh, the warmth, of his locks as I play with them.

Waking was a.. regretful experience, in a way. But I was grateful, ooh to be sure, for the night's sweetness.

sporting simple

Last night I was a minor, very minor, actress, fallen on less fruitful times. I think I must have been in some pretty terrible films, but now I wasn't making any films at all. I lived with my manager of the last few years, i.e. the last few years in which I had no significant roles, in some major mid-Southern city. It was somewhere in the region of late seventies/early eighties, and I probably mostly did commercials and advertisements and crap. I banked on having the dumb, sexy look, big hair, big tits, tight ass, tight skirts, airy little-girl voice, mincing gait like my engorged sexy body might at any point bust out of its clothes. I had the dumb, sexy act, too, down to a tee. I lived on that shit.

We had a nice but rather sleazy little trailer, with decor telling of the time, all shag carpets and cheap wood panelling and orangey-brown interior design. My manager looked suspiciously (read: exactly) like Brad Dourif in one of his more slimy incarnations, with greasy ponytail, sleazy suit, pointy nose, rodenty movements. We had a perverse relationship which only ostensibly had a thing to do with my so-called career. He found me enough work to keep us in frozen dinners, and he hung around because of this, but I kept him around for subtler, sicker purposes. I played it really, really dumb, as in can't-take-care-of-myself dumb, with every move calculated to play this up. My whole persona was a deception. He was simultaneously an absolute asshole, emotionally abusive and just a prick, and absolutely devoted and protective of this stupid little person in his charge. I would work him up with my helpless idiocy so he'd get pissed off and ready to smack me, then assuage his rage with my simple, childlike affection. I strung him out in sexual frustration, having never allowed him to fuck me, giving the impression I had some babyish "fear" of explicit sexual activity, letting him fill in the blanks as to why, what sort of trauma or ingrained reasoning I had. But I teased plenty, and this was apparently titillating enough to lead him along. He'd be sitting, and I'd come up behind him and squish my big old boobs into his head in a hug and exclaim with love, "You're like my daddy and my big brother all rolled into one!" We both found this dynamic satisfying. Sickos. And I'd fall on the floor before his standing form and nuzzle my cheek into his thigh, begging for us to go out to eat, begging forgiveness, begging for love, expressing gratitude, whatever, and he could look down on me benevolently. Oh, I loved it.

He would say frightfully offensive things to me, phrased as compliments, but I shan't repeat them lest I appear socially backward. Really, he was an amazing asshole. I loathed him, which was why I took so much pleasure in manipulating him. But I also loved him, because sometimes he would be legitimately sweet, like when he tried to play some word games with me to improve my vocabulary. I of course played so stupid and incapable of progress that he gave up, but his attempt and patience were darling. And I would intentionally plot little acts and phrases throughout the day to see how he would react, and whether I might hate him or love him as a result. Like when I "accidentally" left a burner on the stove going as I went into the living room for a chat, and later as we walked into the kitchen together, he saw it, and was actually rather gentle about reminding me that I really needed to be more careful and not burn the place down. So I rewarded him with a big, squeezy hug before he went to his room for a nap, pressing my boobs to his chest and moving my hips, innocently intended, close to his, and whispering how I loved and needed him, etc.

He could very mean to me, though, and was for the most part a nasty fellow, which was what I liked; I liked nursing a hatred, a hatred tinged with affection, dependence, deceit. I wanted an excuse to loathe him, and I wanted to give him opportunities to allay my hatred. I enjoyed having this man under my thumb, who thought I was under his thumb, and forcing him into the daddy-brother role, which I could enjoy from the detached perspective of being in control of it. I liked the danger of his simmering violent nature, and I liked the power of fooling him into believing himself the dominant force, when it was I who guided his hand.

And then something happened offstage in the dream: he had tried to kill me. I was there but not there, in the theatre of dreams, it happened to me but I didn't actually witness it, just got the notion of it. So I am not sure what exactly happened, but it was such an attempt that could have looked like an accident, and it failed. But he reckoned me dead, and returned to the trailer for a drink and a pill and a sleep. And then I returned to the trailer, alive, gloriously enraged, thrumming with excitement and anticipation, lusty with hate, and thrilling at my chance to reveal myself. He was curled up asleep on the couch, face contorted in bad dreams, and I crept to him, and perched over him like a vampire, and nibbled at his neck and ear and whispered for him to wake up. My ditzy voice was gone. He fluttered into consciousness and was sleepily surprised to see me, but fell back into drug-and-alcohol induced languor, supposing me an illusion. I rubbed and groped him and coaxed him to wake up, telling him I was fine, I was fine, here I was, here I was with him. He became more alert as I pressed myself to his body, kissing his face, kissing his mouth, murmuring into his skin that I was here. He was drowsily flabbergasted as I began to undress him, while speaking in a low, serious tone about how I had lied so thoroughly, and played him for a fool with my fool's play. I told him I was clever indeed, cleverer than he, my little pawn, and now I would have him, and he would be my little fool. He didn't protest, too surprised at my not being dead, at my not being dumb, and at my clever hands in his clothes, and I pretty much raped him, a sweet, long-delayed consummation, made all the sweerer with its legal and psychological implications. I woke with the knowledge that I'd be raping him many more times indeed, oh yes, before we were through with this game.

Ahhh ha, there are some bad trends in my dreams. Some really awful paradigms which play out repeatedly. Good fun.

Maybe I'm an elf.

I had a dream around a week or so ago that I was abducted and held on a huge estate in the mountains of NC, very grand and green, lots of misty gardens and low stone walls. I was escorted to an office where I met the man who claimed to be my father, and I knew this to be true. He owned the estate, and was the heir of the Mayfield ice cream fortune (?!). He was also more elven than man, and entreated me to "remember who you are" and alluded none-too-subtly that he intended to impregnate me, to expand the line. He wore an expensive, finely tailored pinstripe suit, had a tallish, whippy body, slightly pointy ears and slanty eyes, sharp features and a thin mouth, but he wasn't handsome. He looked like me, or I like him, I guess it would be, with similar chin, cheeks, brow, head, but his face had an obvious otherworldly tinge. I was incensed at being held against my will, and spent the rest of the dream attempting to escape. I managed to browbeat a guard into opening a gate for me ("I am a Mayfield! My father will have your ass!" etc.) but didn't get far. I woke up before any of the threatened impregnation got rolling.

Then last night, I dreamt I was at the old house where I grew up. It wasn't quite the same house, it seemed, but that made no sense, so I didn't concern myself. My family was setting off for a trip, and I was to watch the house. Moments after they departed, I was in a certain room (I know which one), and my hand was drawn to a hidden lever on the bookshelf, which opened to a secret compartment. My memory was triggered when I found hidden books and trinkets within, including a tiny little bookshelf filled with tomes no larger than half a fingerlength. I had hidden these things; these were my things.

Another lever in the compartment opened the wall itself, leading into a room, of totally different design and decor from the house to which it was attached. Pristine, silken, white. There was a bed, so I got on it. Then there was a man, in finery that ought to have seemed absurd, but didn't. Satiny breeches and white hose and cravat, etc, and he was disguised with a bubble of dandelion fluff round his head. Like a walking dandelion. He told me to close my eyes and lay down. So I did, and he pulled up my shirt a little, and told me to keep my eyes shut. He began tracing a pattern low, low on my belly with what felt like a stick. I felt something inside me, not phallic, but like growth within my cunny, like vines and lichen and tiny mushrooms sprouting up and along the walls and passages, up and up, lining my chambers. I peeked through my eyelids at the man; I think he knew, but did not seem to mind. The fluff had fallen away. His face and hair were pale as milk, his face too thin and sharp, painfully so. I could not say whether he was some elf or fairy prince or knight or what, but he was something, all right, and he told me to open my eyes. He looked at me with dark, strange eyes and said something or other about my not being completely human. He told me I must go now and find a man and persuade him to have me as soon as I could, to "strengthen the growth." He directed me out of a door which led through to a huge, cavernous tunnel chipped out of stone. I knew at the end I would find a club with many revellers, and there would be the grown man of a boy I knew long ago ("the boy who smelled of summer"), and I must find him, and persuade him.

I was rummaging in a bin of clothes in an alcove of the tunnel for something nice to wear, and when I turned around there was a mass of people heading out. In a stellar example of dream contamination, these people turned out to be dozens of copies of the people-cylons from the hit remake series Battlestar Galactica. The moment became portentous; I could either continue on my search for the golden man, however long it might take, or I could seize the opportunity to heed the elf's advice and strengthen the growth more immediately. So I took the bad-feeling route and approached a Leoben: with a lame pervy come-on along the lines of, "Hey big boy, my model needs servicing!" To which he responded with mild annoyance, "I did it with you last time," and walked away. I couldn't exactly recall what he was referencing, but somewhere in my head I knew what he was talking about, so I hmmphed and approached another Leoben and one of these:  and said something provoking about which one might fuck me or kill the other or something, I can't recall specifics, but it worked and they began fighting, real nasty. I found all this, with the bloodied mouths and crunching noses and angry rolling and grunting, to be most arousing, and I fell to the dry, dusty ground and lifted my ass like a cat in heat and hollered to them that they should both have me, now-now-now, but they barely paused to glance at my vulgar, exposed genitals before going at each other with more gusto, disinterested in the over-sexed animal writhing around a couple feet away. Finally the Leoben pulped the face of the No. 5 (thanks, Google) enough that the other admitted defeat and stumbled off. The remaining cylon undid his trousers and rolled me over and we had a bit, and that was that. I left the tunnel and arrived at the club, where there were more members of the BG cast of characters. (So my chance with the sunny, golden lad was gone; I had made my choice.) Before the dream was up, I had had a strong flirtation with Admiral Adama, and woke up in the course of a jolly, laughing roll in the hay with Saul Tigh, who was, I must say, just loads of fun in the jabbing-in-the-ribs sort of way.

Sooo.... does this mean I want fairy babies, or.. robot sex?

somewhere in-between

I was in England with immediate family, mother and siblings, but it seemed there were more of us than there should have been. We rented two small boats to float about on a river. The river turned out swift and treacherous, and we had no control over the boats. All we could do was keep from tumbling over as we were carried along.

We came to a calmer point of the river, and we forced ourselves to capsize near as we could get to a bare bit of shore which wasn't covered with wild growth and debris.   Soaking, we clambered onto the sandy bank to contemplate our next move, when within minutes a group of people approached from around the over-large stones and shrubs which surrounded us where we lay. They were grubby, shabbily dressed, mockingly hostile, threateningly friendly, and offered/forced us along to their nearby abode.

It was a low rambling house, with many small rooms, more than one would surmise from the outside, all leading off in an asymmetrical, hodge-podge design. My brothers were directed elsewhere in the house, and my sisters and I were given towels and ordered by a few leering, scraggily-bearded men to wrap them about ourselves and disrobe. Wouldn't want to catch a chill in those wet clothes. I had my eye on one fellow in particular, with dirty, lank black hair falling just past his shoulders, a sharp nose, dark eyes aglitter with rural malice, and a sly, twisty smile with a missing tooth. I had him pegged as mine, because he leered at me more than any of the others, and looked especially, enticingly wicked. I was having a pretty good time and hoping to have quite a deal better of one, but I could tell my sisters were in states of agitation. I helped my younger sister secure her towel about herself and showed her how to take off a bra without  removing one's upper garment. As I struggled to remove my underpants (because apparently I was of an all-or-nothing mind about the clothing removal business), I hopped along the floor closer to the wall where my fellow stood. After a few moments of my standing before him, he reached a hand up my scanty towel and gave the underside of my bottom a sweet, discreet, welcoming squeeze, and I got to feeling quite jolly, more at home, in a blushy, flustery way. Our clothes were placed in baskets and whisked away, never to be seen again.

A very long table was set with a white cloth and many platters of meats. So many varieties of chops and roasts and whatnot, some of unidentifiable origin, and the numerous inhabitants of the unending house rushed into the room and sat and ate with great, ravening immediacy for a few moments, and then with indifference, finally leaving most of their portion on the plate to scuttle off like an abundance of spiders. My sisters and I were charged with clearing away the wasted feast, not being offered a plate for ourselves. I had a few plates stacked when my fellow came up behind me and whispered an indistinct suggestion in my ear for me to follow.

I followed him out a door leading to a wooden deck. He leant against the railing and we watched the things going on in the fields. There were mad dancers, mostly girls in white dresses and messy, falling-apart garlands of flowers round their heads and necks, with a few men, young and old, scattered in, circling and circling, joining hands and dropping hands, falling to the ground and jumping up again to circle, circle, circle, faster and faster, then break away, come to a circle again, dancing closer, spreading out, faster, faster. There were men playing a violent, loose game of football (UK not US), muddied and bloodied and grinding one another into the disturbed turf. There were lights and revels. Tables set with drinks, and drinkers. Everything was charged and strange, and these people seemed much different from those in the house, who had the grim air of isolation and poverty about them (despite those feasts). I climbed down the little steps to get a closer look, and my fellow hollered at me to stop, but I was already gone.

I didn't see the house behind me anymore, and I didn't see the people dancing and drinking and playing before me anymore, but none of this came as a surprise. This part of the dream I scarce remember. It was thick and slow in parts, and too quick in others, cold honey, warm honey. There were people who ought to be dead there, and people who ought to be living were not known to exist. I stumbled far afield, but there was not so much to see. I found a robe and put it on, tied it close, lost my towel. I saw into rooms through their windows, but I could not enter their doors. Many times I would sit and speak with someone, but I cannot recall who, or what was said. Always I would rise and wander away.

Somehow I got the feeling I needed to go back someplace, I couldn't think where, and somehow I trudged through a sort of thick, unyielding barrier to get there. My fellow was on the deck, and I suddenly remembered, and I climbed back to him. He was surprised, downright shaken, to see me again. He held my arms and looked at me; his hands were large and warm. He said he thought I might never return, that where I went most were lost. I asked where I had been, and he said, "Neither here nor there."