48, 49, 50 — Dogs Barking, Sasha Fierce, There’s No Crying in Power Rangers (Three Short Dreams)

December 8, 2008

 

From M.

Last night i dreamt that the gnome i gave you was returned to me while i was in the middle of eating heavily salted and buttered rice. I was then pushed into a pink plush chair and forced to listen to dogs bark.

huh?

 

From M.

I was on a roof of a building with my fellow power rangers. I was the pink ranger along with another. Monsters appeared out of nowhere and my teammates began fighting them off. I stood there on the roof with another girl blue ranger, we didn’t want to fight. We were scared to. When the fighting was over, the red ranger came up to me and wondered, ” You can’t fight?” I replied with, “Yeah.”

Out of nowhere he charged at me with the intent to hurt me. When he came closer, out of instinct I kicked at him, and he managed to dodge it easily. ” See, you can do it if you tried.”

 

From J.

First of all, I’m a dude.  You should know this.  I’m comfortable with my dudeness. 

That being said, I had a dream I was in a white room in a unitard.  Music played, and I was suddenly flanked by two similar looking guys in unitards.  We started dancing the dance from the Beyonce video– “If You Like It Then you Should Have Put A Ring On It.”

…and we fucking owned it.

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46 — The House That We Once Shared

December 8, 2008

From E.

Edward Hopper

In my dream I walk back into the house that we once shared and as if by magic, it is once again filled with laughter.
I walk in to the dining room and its packed with people. Some I know, some I don’t but I see you and our eyes lock. I get that feeling in my stomach. You know the one, where it feels like you’ve been punched and all of the air is sucked out of you?
I notice that dinner is being served and I am being asked by a stranger to take my seat. I sit across from you. Everybody is talking and we, remarkably, fall into easy conversation.
Then you start laughing. You laugh and you laugh, throwing your head back, as if you don’t have a care in the world. As if you didn’t abandon me. As if you didn’t abandon your newborn son. As if nothing ever happened and my hurt never existed.

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3 — Dating/Being Patrick Bateman

November 19, 2008

From S:

 

A realm in the variance of perspective:

 

I’m in an elevator to the top floor of my new executive position job to meet my new boss, hoping to charm him with my charisma and sweet smile. I meet him in his suit; his partner is Christian Bale as Patrick Bateman from the movie of Ellis’s book “American Psycho.” I have personal romantic relations with Christian (or Patrick) at first, but leave him for the top honcho who is the most attractive man I have never seen in my life. Christian/Patrick is not surprised. A little tiffed and pissy like large family youngest children get, but not surprised. We remain friends. In both relationships; flashes of sweet frolicking bed smitten type cuddling. No hot sex; but it’s implied that we’ve been intimate many times before. Lying in bed with the handsome new man I’ve won over, the perspective changes. 

 

I am Patrick Bateman in my suit walking underneath a muddy bridge, shoes sticking and getting sucked by mud. I find two girls in wheelbarrows on the verge of death, naked, barely breathing. It’s implied that these girls ended up there by a drought; there had been no rain and they were dying of thirst; mermaids, with feet. I walk up to the first girl, a pale brunette, mouth something spiteful to her feeling angry, cut her throat with a razor, one long clean line from one end of her neck to the other. A bright red showers her gray chest, her perfect breasts, blood pouring out of her throat as she makes a final gasp, unmoving, a small twitch, a jerk, eyes glazed, open. I stare at her as she bleeds–hating her. I walk to the other girl in a wheelbarrow, legs dangling, just a few feet away: a blonde, staring at nothing, unblinking, breathing shallow. I tell the girl it’s her lucky day; that she’ll be spared; that I feel merciful. I fetch a dirty wet rag and wring it above her mouth, water grazing her lips as her throat constricts gestures of swallowing. I tell her she should tell people I spared her. 

 

The perspective changes, I’m walking towards a lunch bistro to have cocktails with my work associates, I see them waving, smoking cigarettes and chatting over scotch and barely touched plates of food. I sit down and have a martini before returning to work. I am no longer angry. I feel nothing.