I stumbled across an interesting quote the other day while working on an art project/ birthday present for my sister. Who told me she got my package, but never said she liked my art work. Thanks a lot Megan! I wish my birthday was in June maybe I would get some cool art work as presents instead of, “Oh, do you mind if this is both your birthday and Christmas present?”
A two-fer. Yay?
Yes I mind, I mind very much, but thanks anyway.
Where was I? Oh right, the quote. So I stumbled up on this quote, and it made me sit up a little straighter and think a little harder. (I tend to over analyze things.)
Dreams are illustrations from the book your soul is writing about you. – Marsha Norman
I have some of the most unusual dreams I’ve ever heard recounted. I’m not even kidding. What’s more, I remember nearly every dream that I have, which happens frequently. Like last night for example when my downstairs neighbor came popping into my apartment sans invitation to determine if I had hot water or not. While trying to usher her back out (note in real life my downstairs neighbor is a man, who plays the keyboard without head phones, and even more tragically, SINGS) I was also trying to get my sisters to stop organizing my Barbies in my secret closet under the attic (note I own neither Barbies nor do I have an attic).
How do all these dolls have sexier little black dresses than I do?
The strangest dream by far I had was when I dreamed that a young girl with blond ringlets and a pink party dress was standing in the middle of the gravel road screaming her head off. I was in the middle of changing a flat tire in pitch black while using my cell phone as a light when I heard her. I turned my head to the left to see what was wrong and she decided at that moment to split in half down the middle of her face and body falling into paint gloops onto the road. Out of her now disintegrated body stepped the skeleton of an old man, with star light bones lit and glowing and a loincloth around his hip bones. His lower jaw hinged open and he spoke to me, “It’s opposite day, the pound cake becomes a wedding cake.” And he walked away.
See the full sketch from artist Adam by clicking the picture.
So I was thinking of all the really weird dreams that I have and this quote when I drift off to sleep one night. And of course, I had a strange dream. Very young adult dystopian in nature. I have these kind of dreams a lot. Maybe I’ll write them all down one day and write a book. Often they are cross pollinated by books I’ve read and this dream is no exception, but there are dreams where I truly have no idea how my brain came up with them. Like the day I ate my cheetoh fingers. Anyway. As I was saying, I dreamt yet another strange dream while napping from a long day and an even longer week. Two jobs will do that to you.
I was a little girl in a blue gingham dress and all the children in my dream were being rounded up for some Bad Reason. We were all in some huge facility, and I knew where they were taking us next was not a good place. In order to get out I had to find hidden messages in weird places. I had some sort of device put in my wrist that allowed me access to certain places when I scanned it. I gleefully entered a public bathroom and found a hidden message. In an ironing board. In a public bathroom. You heard me.
I was attempting to add the knowledge I knew to the hidden message (since we were all trying to help each other get out of the facility) when a guard entered the room. I slid into a stall, climbed up on the tank which went to the top of the stall. I pulled my feet up and waited, barely breathing. At this point, as happens in many of my dreams, my vision blurred and my range of seeing shrunk. But I was determined to not get caught, so I carefully felt around to position myself to not be seen. The security guard was talking to someone outside, who was trying to bribe him. But like all good bad guys the guard could not be bribed to save the life of a child.
The security guard came in to the bathroom, but I never saw who he had been talking to. I was hiding after all. He began checking every stall, starting with the one furthermost from me. I was sure I was going to be found out especially when he opened the stall right next to mine. I was terrified he was gong to come to me next and drag me away, but instead he found another runaway. A little boy who stared at me in horror as he was pulled from the bathroom by the guard.
Suddenly I was standing in a slum area in front of a door, two girls were sitting in the door way. One, who looked like Dianna Agron on drugs, said, “How is a dead b—- standing here?” The other girl who Dianna was slumped against shut her up with a firm hand across her mouth. The other girl and I had a look of understanding pass between us. I leaned forward and said harshly,” I have information to trade for an artifact.” Then I thought, wait how did I get away and end up here, I need to go backwards in the dream and found out.
I woke up.
Marsha, Marsha, Marsha. You don’t know what you’re talking. (I hope.)
I’m hoping Marsha Norman is wrong because, otherwise I have a very very scary soul drawing some horribly fantastical illustrations.