my brain just threw up a little…

April 17, 2009

Not really a nightmare.

Filed under: dreams — Sol @ 4:41 am

Mr Sterno was a bit too sloppy to be what people call a virtuoso. Violin in his hands somehow seemed bulky and sounded like cello. A very poorly tunes cello, at that. It would also help if Mr Sterno wasn’t stopping to scratch himself in the middle of some rather complicated nauseating piece he was squeezing out of his violin. Paled and saggy cloth of his washed out red boxers was crawling with what appeared to be either white polka-dots, or malformed hearts, or maybe white paper cutouts of cartoon crabs. It would just make sense if there were crabs because of the way he was scratching himself with the bow. Scratching was not at all helped by the fact that he was wearing a tux coat and a very tasteful bow-tie. I expected to see a mustard stain on the front of the tux when Mr Sterno turned to take a bow to a silent room filled with pictures of old buildings drowning in sunlight and greens.

Old vampire hag with what I thought was a large wooden spoon  scooped something off of a ledge on the wooden log wall and raised her gnarly finger without turning around as if asking to wait a moment. A charred doll from the fireplace coughed up some sooth and went quiet. Now there were people with old guns and bad breath, filling the room with smoke and profanity laced conversations about local politics and sports. Pictures of houses were disappearing and Mr Sterno was asked to leave the stage. Hag was the first one to throw something at him. Mr Sterno dropped something wet and ran for the fireplace. Doll wanted to scream, I am sure, but the only thing that happened when Mr Sterno reached was that Mr Sterno grabbed a handful of soot and flung it back over his shoulder. Floor started smoldering… it was like burning in reverse. Some person wrapped in black cloak drew his wand and was immediately shot by some guy with an amazingly bad skin. Apes grabbed the body and started dragging it to the vampire witch who was now dressed like a paramedic. “Oil!” she hissed, and Mr Sterno dove out the window as the floor vanished into the void of the pit.

Safety in my brain flipped the channels and it became Past. Mr Sterno, Hag, Potter, proletariat farmlanders with old rifles and air of fake intelligence all were assuredly gone and for good and now this was going to be a calm dream. With things majestic and happy. With none of those ridiculous crabby-hearty and itchy underpants.

And if any of you think your explanation of this dream is required, go brush your teeth and stand in the corner. You may play with your Harry Potter there.

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