If you read this blog with any degree of
regularity, you may have already noticed that I have a tendency toward the
weird–and the weird for weird’s sake. I like the obscure, the odd-ball, the
lunatic, and the crank. I like the horrific and the terrible. I like dreams…usually.
But I swear that what follows is not just another case of me being strange just for strange’s sake.
When I was seven years old I had the following dream. I do not know what it “means.” I do not know why I would dream such a thing as such a young boy. My parents did not let me watch scary movies, and certainly not the kind that would inspire the images I saw as I slept.
I watched in my dream as a green sedan pulled up and parked in front of what looked like a government building of some sort, with lots of concrete steps and tall white columns. Two women dressed in professional suits exited the car; they were laughing and conversing with each other. Together they approached the trunk of the car and opened it so they could retrieve their briefcases.
But when they’d removed their bags they were surprised to discover a shiny piece of blue fabric, shimmering, blue–something like a sash made of silk. They saw that words were written on it in a strange foreign language, but they could not read it. The women agreed that this was very strange and that they should take it to their friend and co-worker, a doctor-a scientist, who could determine what it was, and what the writing said. They closed the trunk and carried the strange piece of cloth with them up the stairs and into the building.
As the women walked away from the car, a man-wrapped like a mummy, except for his face, in the same shimmery blue fabric-crawled out from underneath the vehicle. He was laughing.
Inside, the women delivered the mysterious material to the doctor and he began his inspection of it. He stretched it out flat on his examination of it, turned on the overhead lights and laid out his tools. Using a magnifying glass he looked closely at the weave, then made a careful transcription of the foreign words into his notebook. Behind him, on a shelf, were a number of thick dictionaries bound in leather covers. He poured through the pages until he found the reference he wanted.
“No.” he said in gasp, and then began to translate the words on the fabric. “J-E-S-U-S-I-N-S-A-N-E.” He checked and doubled checked. “My God!” he said. “Jesus insane.” He looked up just then to see the blue-wrapped mummy man coming into his study, wielding a long hunter’s knife. He started to scream, but was stopped when the mummy-man stabbed him in the throat.
But I swear that what follows is not just another case of me being strange just for strange’s sake.
When I was seven years old I had the following dream. I do not know what it “means.” I do not know why I would dream such a thing as such a young boy. My parents did not let me watch scary movies, and certainly not the kind that would inspire the images I saw as I slept.
I watched in my dream as a green sedan pulled up and parked in front of what looked like a government building of some sort, with lots of concrete steps and tall white columns. Two women dressed in professional suits exited the car; they were laughing and conversing with each other. Together they approached the trunk of the car and opened it so they could retrieve their briefcases.
But when they’d removed their bags they were surprised to discover a shiny piece of blue fabric, shimmering, blue–something like a sash made of silk. They saw that words were written on it in a strange foreign language, but they could not read it. The women agreed that this was very strange and that they should take it to their friend and co-worker, a doctor-a scientist, who could determine what it was, and what the writing said. They closed the trunk and carried the strange piece of cloth with them up the stairs and into the building.
As the women walked away from the car, a man-wrapped like a mummy, except for his face, in the same shimmery blue fabric-crawled out from underneath the vehicle. He was laughing.
Inside, the women delivered the mysterious material to the doctor and he began his inspection of it. He stretched it out flat on his examination of it, turned on the overhead lights and laid out his tools. Using a magnifying glass he looked closely at the weave, then made a careful transcription of the foreign words into his notebook. Behind him, on a shelf, were a number of thick dictionaries bound in leather covers. He poured through the pages until he found the reference he wanted.
“No.” he said in gasp, and then began to translate the words on the fabric. “J-E-S-U-S-I-N-S-A-N-E.” He checked and doubled checked. “My God!” he said. “Jesus insane.” He looked up just then to see the blue-wrapped mummy man coming into his study, wielding a long hunter’s knife. He started to scream, but was stopped when the mummy-man stabbed him in the throat.
And that’s when I woke up, terrified, too afraid to move, too afraid to even call out for my parents to come comfort me.
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