Thursday, February 05, 2004

Living After Midnight

A rough couple of days; it seems like every time I turned around, somebody had a foot out, trying to kick my ass. I said bad luck comes in threes a few days ago; I think I'm on my second three.

All of us from work were going to lunch, and I was driving, and we discussed this, and I think half the vanload thought we were going to get in a wreck to finish out the third bad luck moment, and the other half weren't sure but were looking for some wood to knock on.

It reminds me of when I had a very vivid dream about an alien invasion years ago. We ended up living with my in-laws at their farm way out in the country to ride it out. One part I remember was that my father-in-law and I sneaked through the cornfields at night to a little mom and pop store in a neighboring town. We found the proprietor had shot himself but left a note that said to take what you want.

(Of course, astute readers will note the similarities between this dream and a movie that came out later called SIGNS. Should I take to wearing a foil-lined baseball cap, so others won't read my dreams and steal them for best-selling movies? The voting booths are open.)

I was retelling this dream at my in-law's house one night when my brother-in-law asked where he was in all this. I told him that when I last saw him before we escaped out into the country, he and his wife were sitting on the roof of their house, watching the skies and waiting for the invasion.

He seemed very disturbed by this. He kept telling me that they got down off the roof and took off too, but I wasn't around to see it.

So I guess my point is, I don't care what people say about technology and the modern era, there's still something primal, a biological superstition, that tickles at the back of our minds, and we'll probably always have that.

Two recurring dreams I have had: back in the Reagan era, I used to always dream I was lying in bed, and that my bedroom window became a brilliant white, and then the flesh was flayed from my body by the force of a nuclear explosion. In my adult life, I have dreamed often about going to my new office, which is institutional cinderblock green, with a narrow window and a metal desk in a corner down a short nondescript hall, and when I open the door for the first time I see dust motes spinning lazily in a warm beam of sun, and there's a few pieces of mail somebody slipped under the door lying on the generic tile floor, and I have a metal desk, and a tan phone.

Interpretations welcome at

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