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December 27th, 2004


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06:34 pm - A dream.
Last night I had a dream. Apparently, this is the kind of dream you have when you can't sleep because you're in a bit too much pain. Here is what it was about:

A.J. Drew was on television. The line across the bottom of the screen identified him as an "authoritative author". Well, right there I knew it was a dream, but I've never been much for lucid dreaming, so I let it take its course.

AJ and some kid were talking about death, and the kid was showing a picture of a patient in a hospital dying. The photo was taken at the moment of death, and AJ was describing a strange, amorphous form that was hovering over the body.

"You see here," he said, "the soul leaving the body. This is one of five beings that we all have within us. This one represents who we think we are. In another second, the one that shows who we really are would be emerging. . ."

His head kept talking, but I stopped listening. Instead, I focused on doing a Chaos Working to contact these five beings. I called them up from the depths of myself, and they surrounded me.

The first was tall and lanky. Its head was larger, broader than its shoulders. It was my past.

The second was short and yet graceful. It wore a beard and carried a horn. It was my future.

The third was similar to me, but broken in places. Skin hung off its face, and it had no feet. It was my deep self.

The fourth was young and its face was soft. It tilted its head, listening and its right hand twitching, like it wanted to reach out. It was who I think I am.

The fifth was strangely similar to the fourth, but rather than tilting its head to the side, it tilted its head forward. It was who I truly am.

The air grew thick and damp, and I suddenly realized that I was in a jungle hut. It was night, and the "selves" faded. In their place came shapes of men. One man held a bloody knife in one hand, and a mass of flesh in the other.

The men spoke Vietnamese, and I knew these were VietCong. One stepped behind me and said something. He laughed hard at his joke, and cut my hands free.

I didn't move. I didn't want to. I fought back a terror, one that would force me to put my hands to my face. I fought it because I knew what I would find.

I knew the mass of flesh one man had was my face.

There were no lips. There were no eyelids. There were not even ears. My nose was a hole in my head.

I fought the terror. I calmly stood up and took a step forward. I felt pain as the stub where my foot once was hit the straw mat on the ground. I gritted my teeth, knowing that there would be no change in expression because there was no face to show it. I continued walking, precariously balanced on two stumps, listening to the laughter of the five men in the hut.

I moved into the jungle, slowly learning to balance on my stubs. The laughter died out, and was replaced with the dull beat of the rain on my now-bare skull. I shambled through the trees, intent on returning to base.

The moon rose above me as I traveled. I moved with it through the night, not stopping to rest. There was information I had that needed to get back.

Finally, I saw a light in the distance. I walked straight toward it, knowing that this was where I camped the night before with my platoon.

When I arrived, there was a fire and boxes of munitions, but none of my mates.

I heard laughter behind me, and I turned.

A small figure sat on a crate next to a small rocket. "Your friends are gone," it said. "I can get you to them."

"How?"

"On this," he said, as he gestured to the rocket. "You ride it, and it'll get you to your buddies. They're on the other side of that hill, and you won't make it in that condition. The VC are on their way."

"And what do you get?" I asked.

"Nothing. Not from you, at least." Laughter came from the jungle. "Better hurry. Be sure to jump before you hit, or you're going to be in much worse condition."

I nodded, and climbed onto the rocket.

And I woke up.

Just for fun, anyone wanna try to interpret that?
Current Mood: weirdweird
Current Music: "Nautical Wheelers", -JB

(21 comments Leave a comment)

Comments:


From:ravenlaughing
Date:December 28th, 2004 02:47 am (UTC)
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OK, here goes. I work off a theory a friend taught me, that everyone in our dreams is actually ourself. You show that with the soul issue quite well. I don't know who AJDrew is, but you don't seem to have much opinion of him as a writer. Is there some part of you that doubts or critiques your own writing? It can be a very destructive little voice, but it does have things to teach us. Perhaps try to figure out why you're showing these facets of your essence to a younger self. Why is it important the kid know this?

Viet Cong... For our generation, a faceless enemy, no pun intended. We weren't the ones to come face to face (sorry) with them, we only heard stories of "Charlie" as the boogeyman. What is it about their culture, their environment, their treatment of you that makes you use them as a symbol of both authority and fear? Why do they have power over you?

They have taken your face. The face humanizes and personalizes us. Look at all the serial killers that mutilate faces. It's to de-personalize the act. The face, being the window to expression and the soul, can also be a symbol of self or even ego. Why have these figures in power stripped you of your outer self, your ego?

You're trying to find the way back to connections that are important to you, your "buddies". Part of you knows a quick and easy way to restore these connections, (your "little voice")but you may not get the results you want by doing it this way. If you don't make it back to them in a decent condition, does that mean they'll see you without your face? That you will be stripped and vulnerable before these important pieces of yourself? Are you taking the easy way out that could blow up in your face?


That's how I interpret, by showing someone where to look themselves for the answers...
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From:chronarchy
Date:December 28th, 2004 01:29 pm (UTC)
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You can always do a search for Drew on Amazon.com. I'm sure his books are there.

*grins* You and the faceless facing of faces that blow up in my face :)

I have no idea why they were VC. Heck, if anything, after having read A VietCong Memior, I'm actually somewhat sympathetic to them (don't let my dad know that, though). The only thing that might make sense is that I'd heard a lot about them from my father, but I haven't. I recall one story, and they weren't boogymen at all, but rather simply figures that don't do much but run away and occasionally shoot.

When I thought about getting back to the platoon, it was about getting them information, not about getting to 'em. Though I admit having no idea what the information was.

Thanks. Nifty interpretation. :)

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