Dream Journal

Dream Scream

I am sitting at the top of a climbing apparatus like the ones in junior school gymnasiums, except it is “adult” size, putting me two stories above the floor without a crash mat. Beside me are two school crushes whom I haven’t seen in real or dream life or thought about since early adolescence. We are talking and they are making it seem as though I have been neglecting them all these decades or something like that. They are wearing flowing clothing, carefree and seemingly oblivious to our location . . .

I am on a campus, it is the present but the atmosphere in the college I’m in is decidedly 70s. People are engaged in reckless partying and wildly indulgent artistic endeavours with generous overlap between the two. I have combed out my afro to larger than life dimensions. It feels silky . . .

I am in a corporate meeting of entertainment executives and they are listening to my responses to mass sci-fi culture, as if I were an expert. Somehow this develops into me being chosen for a low orbit space mission. The feeling of being chosen for something apparently important is exhilarating . . .

I go for a long walk at night through the forests surrounding the campus and encounter shadowy beings who seem friendly and are trying to speak or sing to me through the trees. They are ethereal, and engaging in some kind of ritual dance, a quiet celebration . . .

I am sitting in a chair in my home with my back to the floor (like an astronaut in launch position), interacting with online friends about creative items we are posting. One of us – we don’t know – has presented some audio or graphic art that analysis has revealed to be of extraterrestrial origin or design (of course) . . .

I am so engrossed in this that I don’t notice two intruders have entered the room and are going through my equipment, taking technology. I want to confront them but it’s not clear whether I’m still on my back but I cannot move . . .

I begin to shout at them. They continue taking things and appear to be moving to subdue me. I shout “Help!” with a rasp in my voice. The shout wakes me, my wife, and our baby daughter (real life here). Luckily it is 6:30 a.m. The night is over and it’s exactly when we predicted the baby would wake anyway. Still.

Yeah, stuff is a little intense right now. Great and less so, overall intense. This dream seems a little run of the mill for me, except for the ending. Afterward, I had the desire to be held. Thing is, I’m not a hungry baby just waking up. Journalling seemed in order.

By elmahboob

Bruce A. Russell, aka Ibrahim El Mahboob, is a composer and self-taught pianist. He studied composition with James Tenney and Phillip Werren at York University, as well as ethnomusicology. He has composed music for the Madawaska String Quartet, McMaster Dancers and Modern Times Stage Company. He was host of Radio Music Gallery, and has written for Musicworks. His interests are in contemporary concert music, especially postminimalism; music of the African diaspora; and the intersections of technology, media, popular culture and critical race theory. He lives in Toronto.

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