If You Know, You Know

Drifted off during cartoons, and woke up from a strange dream (I think it had babysitting elements from Leave It to Beaver, which was on): Me and Mike were at Loop Dr. and K&S had dropped Kam off. Mike was complaining about the sudden nature of it, then he started speaking in rhythm, then singing Laughter Loving Dionysus [a poem I had written and that John used SUNO to put to music]! It was just like the episode of the mother-in-law in Amadeus. That woke me up! But I drifted off again, and suddenly he was singing about smoking cornsilk and Gene Autrey, ala I Wonder What My Poppa Dreamed [another song]. Then I was just awake. Needless to say, the playlist I had made was going.

Strange Coincidence

It was definitely … eerie. I was sitting around yesterday, mulling over our trip to Second Chance Books in Geronimo when I suddenly felt a tickle of memory. Didn’t I …? It seemed very familiar, somehow, and when I ran down the record of a dream I had posted here six months ago, I found myself a little dumbfounded.

‘[M]y brother John drove me to a second-hand bookstore in a small nearby town. Only when you drove up close enough could you see the small, hand-lettered signs announcing the name and hours. It was cavernous and nearly windowless; it looked like it had once been a barn or a large garage at one time. The floor was rough and uneven … there were rows of bulging mismatched shelves [of books] against the walls …

‘And what a motley lot of offerings they were. I identified lots of texts that were obviously assigned for old college courses, once-classic books reduced to paperback form, things no one read anymore. There were faded fantasy books from decades old trends and fashions … Rows and piles of all kinds of niche volumes, the detritus of the reading of generations. For me, a perfect hunting ground.

‘John and I started browsing with hope springing eternally in our hearts.

‘After what seemed about half-an-hour I had selected a load of six or seven dusty old [books], vaguely interesting but nothing to set the world on fire. But at the store’s desperately low, low prices worth the gamble. … The day was starting to warm up. … We decided it was time to leave. “We had seen everything Snake’s Bend had to offer.” - Buying Books, posted July 29, 2025

There are, of course, significant differences in details, as you will see if you look back at the original post. But ‘a second-hand bookstore in a small nearby town’? With ‘desperately low, low prices [making the books] worth the gamble’? Second Chance Books in Geronimo did not exist in July; it opened just about a month ago. 

 

Friday Fiction: A Jumping Off Point

The dream began in media res, as it were, with a lot of stuff already set up and implied. I'm going to tell it as I dreamed it, and I'm going to put what I call "festoons" in square brackets [] to tell you what I think a developed story might include.

The story opens inside a terraforming center on an alien planet. [The planet had biological possibilities before; perhaps a low level of life develpoment that went extinct.] Anyway, they've let off a mutagenic "bio-bomb," sort of like in Wrath of Khan, and now the development is spreading around their grounded spaceship, which is like their colony and station. They are supposed to have limited contact with the outside at this stage, so it is rather claustrophobic.

Who are "they"? A group of humans, not many [probably between 10 and 20], scientists and engineers all, though there is a hierarchy [from command down to what amounts to flunkies]. The two main characters of the story are the focus-character [who was my point of view], a scientist rather low on the totem-pole of command but high in the necessities of the science, analyzing and monitoring results. The real stirrer of the soup though is an officer [not the highest rank; I think of him as the Major. Possibly what happens is the actual commander is dead from some accident or other (was he an older, wiser man?) and now the Major is in charge]. And the Major is going stir-crazy.

In his boredom he is venturing out with his arsenal and shooting up stuff, like an asshole blasting cactus in a desert. [All the virtues for which he was chosen for the mission, his courage and proactivity and vitality, are turning against him. I imagine he was more on the technical side; he used the 3-D printers of the lab to make weapons, first primitive ones to exercise with, then more guns and whatnot.] The scientist [who I shall now refer to as the Minor] keeps protesting his interference and pointing out his violations of protocol, but the Major is in charge.

In fact, his authority goes to his head. He gets more and more eccentric, down to the point of wearing clown make-up and lording over and scaring and even terrorizing his fellow crew members. He comes to think of them as lower beings, stupes, stooges. He comes down even to declaring himself the de facto deity of this new planet [Mistuh Kurtz, he dead; I am the Angel of Destruction] as he blasts around on his swaths of destruction. When the Minor protests, the Major says they have a whole damn planet to play in; a little mayhem won't hurt it. [The Minor, on the whole, has as the second string of his character the Humanities: Art, Music, Literature, Philosophy, probably even Religion.] The Minor is not so sure about the effects this will have, what burgeoning pieces of the eco-system might not be destroyed or affected. The mumbo-jumbo, meanwhile is accelerating at an unprecedented rate.

It all comes to a head when they come across a species of swamp-ape that has been evolving stealthily out in the wilderness. [There have been some clues that they exist at an earlier stage, but then the signs disappeared. The Minor thought the Major had wiped them out.] I say come across: the Major kills one and brings it in, and that's how they discover it.  The Major starts tormenting them, messing with them [he calls it "testing}. And suddenly the swamp-apes [who seem rather vegetable in nature, kind of like Man-Thing; was human DNA in the mutagenic matrix? Can they regenerate under the right conditions?] attack the compound, not only in a pack, but in a concerted, planned effort, launching spears in vast clouds, diverting lumbering beasts to smash into the compound, etc. They are intelligent, and they work together, unlike the humans, who have fragmented in their aims.

But not anymore. The Major now panics, and finds he has to come out of his 'fortress of solitude' headquarters and work with his despised crewmates if he wants to survive. Everyone is scrambling and afraid, but none more so than the Major now that he faces a foe that can fight back. The other scientists are trying to find out in a hurry how to use weapons (which they have all been deploring but now resort to) from his arsenal that they are unfamiliar with; the Minor thinks he knows a way that he can use their technology in a less destructive way to pacify them [Happy gas? Holo-graph trickery? Or perhaps just fly the ship/station away to escape] and struggles to get to his lab. I didn't actually dream an ending, but I knew in the way one knows in dreams that the Major was doomed.

Themes and Memes: So my final take-away is that whatever utopia Man proposes, he always carries with him his own stain that dooms what he tries to build up.  He cannot give what he doesn't have. I see Aliens, Avatar, Southern Comfort, Planet of the Apes, Man-Thing, The Wrath of Khan, and Apocalypse Now in this strange brew, along with some rather C. S. Lewis philosophy.

Notes

I've said before, a lot of times I have some odd dreams that seem totally bizarre stories worked out of an unlikely subconcious stew. Some of the dreams I have 'translated' into tales; others just suggest ideas that tease me with possibilities. Some merely have elements that I use as narrative 'thickening'; perhaps (it's hard to tell at this distance) this dream-story had an influence on Daisy and the Swamp Ape, since published here. I can't say that I've ever written an entirely science-fictional story that I can think of; at best a sort of 'soft' sci-fi with elements of horror.

Buying Books

Nowhere near this well-organized or light.

Last night (or rather in the early hours of this morning) my brother John drove me to a second-hand bookstore in a small nearby town. Only when you drove up close enough could you see the small, hand-lettered signs announcing the name and hours. It was cavernous and nearly windowless; it looked like it had once been a barn or a large garage at one time. The floor was rough and uneven, stones and gravel that had been worn smooth by years of use. But there were rows of bulging mismatched shelves against the walls and ancient tables groaning with books laid in rows, spine up.

And what a motley lot of offerings they were. I identified lots of texts that were obviously assigned for old college courses, once-classic books reduced to paperback form, things no one read anymore. There were faded fantasy books from decades old trends and fashions; I identified a particularly ‘groovy’ copy of The Last Unicorn that offended every aesthetic twinge in my body; but, you know, a variant, one I’d never seen before. Children’s books whose target audience had long since died or were sitting mumbling in old folk homes. Rows and piles of all kinds of niche volumes, the detritus of the reading of generations. For me, a perfect hunting ground.

Nobody else was there; not even, at the moment, the proprietor, a rather dim but bustling elderly man (even more elderly than me) who yelled politely at us in greeting and who sounded like he was busy in another part of his house, which somehow linked up to the store. John and I started browsing, none too enthusiastically, but with hope springing eternally in our hearts.

After what seemed about half-an-hour I had selected a load of six or seven dusty old friable paperbacks, vaguely interesting but nothing to set the world on fire. But at the store’s desperately low, low prices worth the gamble. John had found nothing and was looking a little frustrated. And more and more people were starting to crowd the store, which had drawn the proprietor out to mingle and shmooze. The day was starting to warm up. I glanced up into the rafters; there was a bale of books hanging, spines down, overhead. We decided it was time to leave. “We had seen everything Snake’s Bend had to offer.”

Perhaps needless to say this was all a dream, not unlike several I have with some regularity. It was no doubt brought on by the fact that I have a little birthday money burning in my pockets and I’ve been wanting to get to the library bookstore for almost a week. I suppose this is a quest I’ll have to attempt this morning. The dream commands. A journey of only a few blocks, but with my right knee like it is and as warm as the end of July is getting, no small undertaking. I’m afraid it will also take up any ‘juice’ I might have applied to Tolkien Tuesday this morning. But depending on how I feel … “Yet we may, Mr. Frodo. We may.”

February 2020: So Much Ramen

 

Whimsical Disney Kid Show

2/1/2020: First day of February. Up about 5 AM to write down Chesterton book dream. Straighten up house and catch up Diary. Now the rest of my prayers and Bible. I prayed a rosary also.

Went in and made the omelet at 8:40 AM; finished at 9:30 AM.  Took in a pot and potatoes and started boiling a soup with the caps of the bell peppers for taste. It takes quite a while to cook taters on a hot plate. Watched a couple of episodes of “The Owl House”: I fear that show, while amusing, might actually be accidentally Satanic. What I mean is I think they’re playing around with spiritual realities that they don’t believe in, thinking they’re no different than pixies or hippogriffs. Added the pork meat to the soup and simmered a while longer. Ready at 12 noon, when I ate half of it. By 3 PM it was all gone.

I love pistachios but have no toothshes. So what I’m doing is shelling them and then grinding them up in the mortar and pestle to make nut-dust.

Ah, me. Weekends, and especially Saturdays, have become the most melancholy of days for me. During the weekdays I have at least SOME regular contact with others; there is much less on the weekends, and fewer shows, both on TV and on Facebook. I look around at my undisturbed bookshelves (alas, they seem to have ceased to grow, and thus, live) and I am loth to disturb their order. The weather was good today, but there is nowhere satisfactory for me to sit outside. I’m not sad or despairing, but mostly bored and wistful. I need someone to talk to, on a regular basis.

Some seem to be in a liberal rage, no doubt exacerbated by the Democrats being unable to bring home any of their accusations against Trump. And Brexit has gone through! I’m no Trump-worshipper, but his support of Israel and anti-abortion stance does seem to cover a multitude of personality flaws; I can’t help but whisper a little guiltily, “Winning!” I would much rather have Ted Cruz as President, but last election it was a choice between voting for Trump or letting Horrible Hilary in.

 

02/02/2020: I write the date thusly because it is a rare ‘palindrome date’; not really significant because the date wasn’t written like this until recently.

Kameron came knocking at my door at 1 AM, feeling sick and wanting to lay in here as he does when he’s feeling bad. I gave him one of my pillows and the purple comforter and tried to get some sleep, but he was very talkative. I kind of went in and out. Gave him a pot to spit phlegm into and a couple of my last cough drops. I got up at 6 AM and got ready for church, at first not sure if I would go, but I did. After I got home, I made a pork and rice dish. Kam kept me running all day, getting him a banana, his phone, his charger, tea, a cone, the chihuahuas: each one a separate trip throughout the day and never letting me sleep, write, or watch what I wanted on TV. I did see bits of ‘The Maltese Falcon’ and ‘The Raven’, though. Poor kid uncomfortable the whole day and talking about maybe staying home tomorrow. I also found out Kam remembers the lyrics of a lot of my playlist and other old things I wouldn’t have credited. Oh, and his banana peel magically disappeared. He finally went in about 7:30 PM. Made a ramen for lunch and tater soup for supper; Susan gave me a banana and a jug of (expired) cranberry juice, still good.

Speaking of things that I wouldn’t believe people would remember, Alan asked me about my ‘Blue Tears’ [AKA 'Crystal Sky'] poem; he’s going to try to put it to music.

While I’ve had plenty of food this weekend, I’ve craved sweet things, even cheap cookies from DG. Probably hop over there the first time possible after John brings me my $20. Weather cloudy early morning, then clear most of the day, and cloudy again come evening. Swept under the loveseat before I found out the banana peel was in the trash; must remember to ask Kameron where he found it [or if he just left it there in the first place and forgot about it].

 

2/3/2020: Up at 6 AM; prayers and Bible, then shower, dress, and straighten up the house. Started my wash. Went in at 9 AM and found Kameron was going to school after all. Peeled him an apple, then boiled eggs and made chicken salad at the same time I made my ramen (with chicken broth from the can, an egg, and 2 slices of bread). We went out to wait for the bus, and it was about 20 minutes late (time which I’m not getting back anytime soon). At 10:30 AM I switched loads and came in to catch up diary and watch shows. About 12:30 PM I went in and got the broccoli and came back to cut it up for salad while listening to DW. Took it in [to the Big House] and prepared it. Made lunch (a ramen with bread). Went out a little after 3 PM to wait on the porch, then John drove up and gave me $22, twenty for the twenty pages and two for my royalties from Kris Jerome. We had a good but short talk; the most unusual fact was that Kenny told him that Berta, Mike’s old girlfriend, had contacted him and, after talking, was sending him letters, poems, and stories that Mike had given her, and that she was sorry about Mike’s passing. John says she has a little girl now, that he thought looked like a Babel at first, but that the times aren’t right. Made supper (salmon curls and tomato & basil couscous) then about 5:15 PM went over to FD and got $7.75 worth of cookies, including Red Velvet Oreos. Took the long route because of evening conditions. Kam came in a little after 7 PM while I was saying my rosary, then we watched the MST3K “Sinbad” on YT. He went in a little after 9 PM and I went to bed about 10 PM.

 

2/4/2020: Woke up a little after 6 AM from dreams about a bear. PB, got dressed. Got a call from Kam about 8:30 AM saying he’s staying home sick. Went in at 9 AM and got ramen. Feels strange not to have to worry about school today. House and DS9 on all day; dipped in and out. Eventually got him lunch at 1 PM. He said S told him I could have his taco from Sunday; mostly bean. Had that for lunch. Weather warm and strangely balmy. As I told John, as I went in and out rolling the bins in: “The Chinese jasmine have been in bloom, and some of those purple flowers [giant spiderwort], and Susan and Andy saw there are bluebonnets (not blooming yet) down at the end of the yard. And I caught a sniff of those bushes that smell like grape soda, also at the end of the driveway. There was an oddly timeless feeling around all day, and for a few days here I've found myself doing things almost automatically, things I usually have to force myself to do or gin up some enthusiasm for. For some reason that adds to the dreamlike atmosphere. Odd.”

About 3:30 PM started supper (sausages and cabbage and taters), grassed dogs. Done by 4:30 PM. In the evening the wind started to pick up; S said it was a cold front. Kam came out and we watched the MST3K “The Sword and the Dragon”, (he had to go in and clean up dog poop at his mother’s stern request: he had forgotten to pin up the Chis when he came out) then he went back in when the movie was over. I ate cookies and watched the State of the Union address, said a rosary, then hit the hay.

 

2/5/2020: Up about 5:30 AM, and I definitely caught Kam’s Kosmik Kreepus, with sore throat, hacking up sputum, etc. That might account for the disconnected feeling yesterday, I guess, or at least part of it. Prayers and Bible, got dressed, and decided today I would NOT go to DG just yet. Dreams and Diary. Ramen with eggs for breakfast. Got Kam off for school just in time. Watched some Nero Wolfe today. Later:

Me: Well, apparently I caught Kameron's bug, and now I'm in a world of sputum. Hardly any surprise, considering how he hung out over here and drooled on my couch and pillows. So I have a couple of days of blecch ahead of me; hardly a comforting thought. Even so, work creeps along.

So, Trump triumphs. I'm sure there will be howls about how he slipped out of their (incompetent) fingers, the rascally dog, and that it only further proves his Moriarity-level skills and his fiendish plan of prosperity and progress, and how the American system is proved to be riddled with rot to the core, with its burdens of proof and legal procedure. There will be cold comfort that he will have an asterisk by his name. And there is bound to be another attempt, soon enough. In fact, he'll probably be impeached over this impeachment. It will be pointed out that it was all along party lines, but that is a double-edged sword; that argument applies to both sides, doesn't it?

“That anyone is surprised that this purely political sideshow broke along purely political lines with the result that everyone knew would occur seems to be highly unlikely. The Dems have stepped on themselves these last few days. I think as tempting as it may be to chalk things up to Trump's having some kind of diabolic genius or luck, it is more due to the utter intellectual, moral, and pragmatic desolation of the Democratic party.” 

Made pork chops with sprouts-broccoli-cauliflower and quinoa-garbanzo beans for supper. Forgot to make the parmesan green beans; will do for lunch tomorrow. Fried myself up some taters, served with ketchup: it’s the only thing that appealed to me in my state. Very cold tonight; put on the heater. Will attempt a (silent) rosary; my throat is so sore. It’s now 9:40 PM.

 

2/6/2020: After a restless, uncomfortable night, broken by dreams (some good; but the one I remember is seeing fire break out in the lower right field in my vision; I don’t remember ever dreaming of fire so close and so vividly). Vein in my left leg bubbling irregularly. Hocked up a large green mass of phlegm. Finally, at 5 AM I decided I was awake (after listening to music who knows how long in bed; about 10 songs, I think). Prayers, Bible, in whispers and a froggy baritone voice that was rather distracting to hear. Washed my beard. Gargled with water. Put my shoes on. Now 5:46 AM.

Kind of stumbled through the day, my timing off. But got Kam off to school right on time. Ramen for breakfast and lunch, and a turkey and cheese sandwich. Went in and started the stuffed bell peppers early, grassed Chis. Kam got home about 4:20 PM. Almost forgot to make corn on the cob. Peppers ready at 5 PM. Throat a little better. Laid down and napped until 7:20 PM. It’s starting to get cold again.

Went in and cleaned up. Susan seemed to think I was responsible for those slashes on the counter; they apparently only saw them today while they’ve been there for weeks. I always use the cutting board. Dang it, if something goes wrong, I’m always the first suspect. Anyway, they gave me some cough and cold medicine that Kameron refuses to take, and that actually helped get me through the night. Up at 2 AM to say the rosary, which had slipped my mind in my groggy condition.

 

2/7/2020: Up about 5 AM and slowly said my prayers, read my Bible, and got dressed. Also straightened up and washed dishes. Considering whether to go to town now or after I send Kam off to school, or maybe even postpone it entirely. I’m feeling ‘better’ but I’m not sure if good enough for a trip. Getting cough drops and something for the weekend (can I face ramen? this bug is giving me hyper-taste in the back of my throat) would let me settle in for a couple of days. I think it would be the prudent and charitable thing NOT to go to church and spread my bug. A shame, since this would be the first Sunday I’d miss since my confirmation. Going to the store today would not expose me personally to a lot of people, especially if I go in the morning. Perhaps by Sunday I’ll be well enough. Mike’s birthday then, too. He’d have been … 58? Pretty cold right now, but warmer later. So, earlier or later? Or let it ride?

As it turned out, I let it ride. Got Kameron off to school, laid down a while, then about 1 PM went off to DG. I wore my black vest and long sleeve shirt and was a little too warm. Construction over by the old Post Office. Got to DG and got cough drops, sweetener, Pringles, ramen, etc. Got home pretty tired. Andy called about 2 PM and told me to make chicken with brown rice and broccoli, which I later did. Not much else all day as I continue to recuperate. Went in at 8 PM to clean up, then spent much of the evening going over some of my Bureau of Shadows short stories, some of which are already 2 years old or so. I make minor corrections and then wonder how I did anything so well. Rosary and then bed at 10:30 PM.

 

Notes:

 

Of course, my bookshelves (at least their contents) would grow again. It’s kind of strange to note that after five years we still have the same sort of ‘family’ meals; in fact, I just made stuffed bell peppers last week, a favorite ‘cold weather’ dish. Monday is always fish and couscous. I don’t even go down to Dollar General (DG) anymore, even though it has better selection than the nearer Family Dollar (FD). Sorry about the political content. I think if they had left Trump alone, he would have just faded away. As it was, they kept him the center of the drama. I don’t wear a red hat or anything and I certainly don’t think he’s some paragon of virtue, but he seems to get the job done. Well, better than that sleepy fellow.

The Chesterton Book Dream: 2/1/2020: I am waiting at a medical clinic for someone to finish with their appointment. There is a little used bookstore attached; I start browsing. Suddenly I come across one of those Modern Library with the dark green pebbled covers. The covers zip together like a Bible cover. It is a G. K. Chesterton book I have never seen or heard about, titled something like “Lillillipor”. It is a rare lost work, over a hundred years old and illustrated. I seem to know it is about two friends who go on an adventure to a distant country (in Africa?) called Lillillipor to seek their fortunes. They both want the same girl; the difference is that one has motives that are pure (he wants to prove himself worthy) while the other goes because he secretly knows that the one who returns most wealthy will be the one the girl’s father will allow to press his suit. The adventure is woven of the tension of will the second one somehow betray or get over on his friend, who keeps helping him out of pure friendship. I am happy to have found this book. I keep looking on the shelves and find more and more good books (many with the same kind of covers and with authors I like) and become eager to grab them up. There are others, though, picking the shelves; there is even one lady looking specifically for the covers. Suddenly I realize I no longer have the Chesterton. Did I set it down? I start scrambling around for it.

 

As an update in real time, I have been keeping my New Year resolutions fairly well, as well as buying a new glucometer and a bathroom scale to help me keep track of things. 

Friday Fiction: Fiction of the Mind

 

1/24/25: Awake at 3:40 AM. I was having a dream: Colonel Potter had received a selection of little jars of different kinds of pickles; he didn’t care for them himself and was going to share them out. Winchester began bragging about how his mother was a judge at their local produce fair and how their family always had superior taste discrimination; he had used to help her. It all devolved into a pickle identifying contest between ‘me’ and him. Potter was judge (he knew what kind they were) and the best out of five won. There were some tense moments, but I was not good at it; Winchester beat me handily. On the last pickle I almost had it, it had a tang because (it turned out; Charles knew) it was made with apple vinegar, but I guessed “Polska Wyroby?” and bombed out. Winchester was quite smug about it.

For a while I was making it a habit of recording many of my dreams, but I have fallen out of the practice. This one seemed unusual enough for me to record in that it is almost like it could actually be one of the more light-hearted episodes of MASH. I haven't been watching the show any more than usual, but it's been running on MeTV in a four episode block daily. Also I had bought a little jar of 'hot' Whole Spiced Polish Style Dills that I had to have my nephew sample just to see how he'd react (he liked them). So there, perhaps, are the seeds of this dream. Who was 'I' in it? I seemed to be myself (it was certainly from my point of view) but if I were going to put it in a script 'I' would probably have been B. J. or Hawkeye.

From the Dream Journal, March 7, 2002

 

ME AND MY AVATARS

This dream seemed set in a science-fictional future. When I start remembering it, I am running against the current of people as school is letting out, going back in to get things left behind. There is a notebook, a backpack, and a visit to a locker. But as I leave, I realize I am also recognizing and gathering "avatar" friends who should accompany me. There are at least three inside who follow me and more are waiting outside.

Outside I get the feeling we shouldn't get on the bus (I'm not sure which to take, anyway) and decide we'll have to walk home. But in the parking lot we find an old-fashioned looking open-topped red car with a girl waving at us; there are several others with her, all avatars as it turns out. This car I recognize is mine and we all try to fit in, with me driving. Among the avatars: at least three guys, a girl, a robot, an animal, and a tall blue fellow. At the last minute Mike and John join us.

I start the car up and it begins to rise, hovering. We slowly and unsteadily gain altitude, to the amazement of those around us. When we hit a cruising height I look behind us and see a squad of flying police cars approaching and I know instinctively that they're after us. We all feel they are an annoyance rather than a danger. So we peel out to avoid them.  We head off to the city.

I consider first going home, but Mike says Mom and Pop are out on the moon, visiting. So we decide to look for somewhere we can rest and plan what to do. Mike asks testily if we are flying high enough to be out of danger, and I take a particular look at where we are. The city is very "futuristic," with tall buildings, lots of wires, and beam bridges to slow air traffic. I decide to take the car higher.

The next instant we are at what the car's computer voice announces is "Fearfully High. Oxygen masks are engaged." We are hanging upside down in an open-topped car at a height where you can see the curve of the earth. After a moment of disorientation we get settled again, and start heading down.

A small figure approaches us, and it turns out to be young Goku (also an avatar) on the Flying Nimbus. "Oh, there you are," he says. "Is he in on all this?" Mike asks.

We get to an apartment in the city where we can talk and rest in peace. The avatars are all walking around the room and for the first time I can really look at them and think about them. I realize they are all expressions or parts of my personality, and to have them externalized is very revealing and a little embarrassing, yet I feel close to them as family, and know I can rely on them.

Friday Fiction: She Was the Most Powerful Witch of Us All

 

16. She Was the Most Powerful Witch of Us All: (Dream 2017)

A boy and his teenage sister have gone to stay the week with one of their mother's old aunts who has agreed to watch them. One day the aunt has to go out. Suddenly the sister, who is bored, wants to have some friends over for a party, and her boyfriend is curious and disruptive about the property. The boy, who has been respectful and even a little awed by the aunt and her house, goes around trying to restore things, discovering as he does that he has certain powers and calling on other relatives to help. In effect he cleans up but, in the process, must rearrange things, which the aunt, in the process of years, has allowed to get shabby, disorganized, and hoarded. Another Aunt, who arrives to help the boy ("I couldn't help hearing about your troubles, people and THINGS kept talking about them") reveals that the group of aunts were all witches, and the one they were staying with was the most powerful witch of them all but dedicated her powers to making herself the "perfect" home. The boy's own mother didn't want him to be part of that nonsense and made the family swear never to mention magic, but now he has learned how to do it himself out of desperation. When the first aunt comes back, he apologizes for all the changes, telling her all the things he had to do, including "bringing back Caer Oom and the old time" for a bit. The aunt is delighted: he has brought together family that has been scattered for a long time, learned about his own powers, and actually reminded her of her own goals which she has lost sight of for many years.

This is one of my recorded dreams that I culled out onto a list as a possible short story or a Young Adult novel. It was set in a more contemporary time than the illustration I've used.

Two-For-One Deal

 I usually have two recurring dreams. In one I am cutting out pizza crusts back at my old job; in the other I have found a treasure pile of ornate old books and must try to acquire/save them. Well, last night I dreamed that they were forcing me to cut pizza crusts out of good old books, but I managed to save four particularly good ones before they were shut down for health violations. You shouldn't be making pizza without the proper ingredients.

Changes To The Script

 

Not Exactly How I Pictured The Deacon

I had promised myself, when this blog had expanded beyond my Autobiographical Inventory of Books, that I would never stoop to merely recounting my dreams, of which I have a lengthy personal log. I have dallied along the boundaries of that resolve before, recording a few story ideas and their origin.  Well, for some reason or other, I feel compelled to completely break my promise and record a dream I just had. Feel free to skip this post if such things annoy you.

Attentive readers of this blog may remember that I had a book published, in rather unimpressive numbers, called A Grave on Deacon’s Peak. Well, in this dream I had sold the rights to an animation studio (cheaply), and my brother and I had gone to see a rough cut of the film. This was my first involvement since the deal had been made, and I completely expected some ‘adaptations’ to occur. Frankly, my only hopes were that more copies of my book would get sold if the movie was a success.

We gathered in a small viewing room with about thirty seats. There were plenty of other people already there, animators and production team and so on. They already seemed a pretty tight team, familiar and comfortable with one another. They all appeared a trifle unsure about who we were, and why we were there. We took our aisle seats on the second row; being on the first row seemed too pushy.

The film started to roll, and I immediately began to see the ‘adaptations’ they had made. Instead of Bob and his family moving to a small mountain cabin out of grim necessity because the father was missing and the family being plagued with various strange phenomena, they had the father inheriting a family mansion in a southern swamp, disappearing under mysterious situations, and the little family having to brave a group of local relatives (many of them living in the mansion) who are trying to squeeze them out with bogus supernatural appearances. Only, one of them turns out to be real. It was more like an episode of Scooby Doo than anything I had written.

Still, I gritted my teeth and thought of the money. I determined that anything positive I could say at the end would be said. For some reason (well, it was a dream) I could see all the decisions and rough draft drawings that had gone into making the film. I was thinking, in effect, of the saying of the Queen in one of the Fractured Fairy Tales, “It’s a beautiful face, but it’s not my face.” The dream ended before the film did.

A little closer, but hair too long, he's not floating, and the nimbus is restricted (it should be whole-body). Not ghastly enough.

What Dreams May Come

 

I might not post the next session of ‘The Council of Elrond’ today, or if I do, it may be later than usual; I am not feeling well. In the meantime, here is a dream I had yesterday.

I have fallen into the habit in the past few years of recording some of my more memorable dreams. My brother Kenny says some of them are like “picking up signals from really great intergalactic tv”. Some of my dreams are ‘interpreted’ by the emotions I feel while having them; some I embellish and make inferences while not quite awake. But they are recorded as honestly as I can.

I have quite a collection of my dreams now. In fact my book, A Grave on Deacon’s Peak, was based on one. I only wish I were as good at plotting while I was awake. The embellishments and implications are put in brackets.

 The Fate of [Worldreaver] (2  PM, Jan. 24, 2023)

Our protagonist, a clean-cut galactic hero type, walks into the   captured house where Worldreaver, a super-powered alien, is holding his villainous court. This is his wont; he selects a place on the planet he is plundering where he observes its rape and destruction, making jokes and comments to his hangers-on. The Hero marches up to Worldreaver and demands he stop, and is summarily killed, disintegrated. The court laughs, even one rough old wreck who lets out a grim bark.

The hero wakes up with a start to find himself in an unfamiliar, somehow improvised lab. There is a team of guerillas there, who have transported him into the past, a day or even just a few hours ago. They are not from this planet, but a coalition from many desolated worlds. Their purpose: now because there are two of him in time, his presence is shielded from Worldreaver. They send him and members of their group on a mission to find or improvise a weapon and use it to destroy Worldreaver.

[Through all their adventures the hero is put through the wringer, both with personal damage and the loss of his comrades, who he comes to love and admire. At last, he is the only one left, but he has the quantum bomb (a quite small device). He limps into Worldreaver’s court before the alien arrives; he sets off no alarms or warnings. He sees Worldreaver come in and take up his place and chaffer with his court; he sees himself come in and challenge him. He watches himself die, an event he can’t prevent because it will cancel out the plan. He barks a single laugh.] He is the rough ‘old’ wreck.

With the disappearance of that other self, Worldreaver suddenly becomes aware of the hero and his purpose. The alien has one moment of shocked realization while the hero takes the bomb out of his cloak. Then the hero deliberately pushes the button, and all goes white …