I had a dream during this morning's fitful sleep.
We were on a beach discussing strategies for a game. "I know!" I said, "We have to get two of them to hook up!" "Them" referred to two of our mutual friends, and the idea of this strategy was to simultaneously improve the "relationship" score of two friends at once. The game we were playing was a mutant hybrid of HSX, Facebook, and Sims. Each person is a stock whose price is determined by his or her success in life, made up of scores such as "relationship," "career," and "health." Each player then maintains a portfolio of "friends" to invest it. The objective of the game: make money.
In my woozy, jarred-awake state, I briefly contemplated starting such a game. And then I realized, what was this but the game of life?
Showing posts with label Dreams. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dreams. Show all posts
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Monday, June 11, 2007
High School Revisited
Kate was wearing her red prom dress. "C'mon, let's go!" she yelled across the room, "It's for Acadec!"
Acadec? What the hell? Isn't it over? Isn't it summer? More importantly, aren't we graduated seniors? These thoughts raced through my head as she tugged on my hand, pulling me toward the door. "Well Crick wanted to give us a heads up on next year. Some practical experience -- ya know? We're going jet-skiing!"
Suddenly it all made sense to me. I couldn't really follow the logic, but I trusted the logic to flow smoothly. I believed I understood, and that was all that mattered. Kate opened the door to a motley group of AB students on deck, all of whom I recognized but none of whom I knew. Then a whiplash crack, and ahoy! We were off to sea.
The vessel we boarded was not especially seaworthy for the frigid North Sea we were jet skiing in. No matter, we had a trusty chaperon in tow who would surely look out for our safety. A few hours into the trip however, we realized that we had overestimate dthe chaperon. The North Sea was true to it's reputation in serving up a mighty hurricane comparable to Hollywood spectacles of The Perfect Storm. Through the torrential rain and gray skies, our chaperon was nowhere to be found. I took this task upon myself and ventured deep into the creaking ship. As I stumbled through the hallways, a door opened to a looming hall. A lavish feast sat on the long table that filled the hall. At the head of the table, in perfect imitation of Pan's Labyrinth's Pale Man, sat Andrew Crick, frozen and ramrod straight.
Before I could yell any accusatory expletives, the ship lurched and like old movie screens, everything faded to black. Next thing know, I was waking up from a fluffy white bed complete with a fluffy white canopy. My brother had somehow found his way into my bed in the last night/nights. But ah! Who's face is that leering at me? Scrabbling for my glasses, I finally regained my vision
*****
I never finished recounting this dream, and now it's but a hazy memory. I remember the scenes that startled my dreaming doppelganger: waking up to see Green's middle-aged Asian wife, being dumped at a sketchy strip mall, and the line I wanted to end this dream and this entry with: I woke up, and I realized how much I missed school.
Acadec? What the hell? Isn't it over? Isn't it summer? More importantly, aren't we graduated seniors? These thoughts raced through my head as she tugged on my hand, pulling me toward the door. "Well Crick wanted to give us a heads up on next year. Some practical experience -- ya know? We're going jet-skiing!"
Suddenly it all made sense to me. I couldn't really follow the logic, but I trusted the logic to flow smoothly. I believed I understood, and that was all that mattered. Kate opened the door to a motley group of AB students on deck, all of whom I recognized but none of whom I knew. Then a whiplash crack, and ahoy! We were off to sea.
The vessel we boarded was not especially seaworthy for the frigid North Sea we were jet skiing in. No matter, we had a trusty chaperon in tow who would surely look out for our safety. A few hours into the trip however, we realized that we had overestimate dthe chaperon. The North Sea was true to it's reputation in serving up a mighty hurricane comparable to Hollywood spectacles of The Perfect Storm. Through the torrential rain and gray skies, our chaperon was nowhere to be found. I took this task upon myself and ventured deep into the creaking ship. As I stumbled through the hallways, a door opened to a looming hall. A lavish feast sat on the long table that filled the hall. At the head of the table, in perfect imitation of Pan's Labyrinth's Pale Man, sat Andrew Crick, frozen and ramrod straight.
Before I could yell any accusatory expletives, the ship lurched and like old movie screens, everything faded to black. Next thing know, I was waking up from a fluffy white bed complete with a fluffy white canopy. My brother had somehow found his way into my bed in the last night/nights. But ah! Who's face is that leering at me? Scrabbling for my glasses, I finally regained my vision
*****
I never finished recounting this dream, and now it's but a hazy memory. I remember the scenes that startled my dreaming doppelganger: waking up to see Green's middle-aged Asian wife, being dumped at a sketchy strip mall, and the line I wanted to end this dream and this entry with: I woke up, and I realized how much I missed school.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
The Dreamlife of Devils
It is probably proof of my pessimistic nature that my tests in dreams never end well. "Not well" is actually a veritable litotes here; "horrible" and "big fat F" might do these grades more justice. So my strange and nerve-wracking dream about the Hamlet test ended...er...very badly:
It is 8th period, that time for English class again. Crick hands each of us a sheet of paper typed in that typewriter font he favors. As previously discussed, we then head off to the computer lab for some marathon typing. But as we sit down and prepare to log on, we realize there aren't enough computers. In fact, there's only 4 for the entire class of 20 or so. "No problem," exclaims Crick in his sadistically cheerful cadence, "We'll take it orally!"
He proceeds to explain that the we will make our presentations from a 10 ft high, 2 in wide window ledge, which had mysteriously and quite conveniently appeared in the computer lab overnight. So here combined my three greatest fears: extemp speaking, heights, and English analysis. (Ha! Perhaps there is a method to the madness.)
When it comes to my turn, I climb onto the ledge with great difficulty. How I managed to climb up a vertical flat wall is beyond my comprehension. But exhausted by this physical exercise, my brain is not ready to analyze the passage that followed and I stand mouth agape, holding onto that tiny ledge for dear life. Even when I do struggle to say something, my vocal cords are frozen in a constant tremor--no audible sound escapes.
Sneering with disdain at my befuddlement, Crick says, "Fine, you obviously don't know anything. But I'll give you another question. What is one person who influenced you the most?" I continue to stand frozen. He then started throwing me a torrent of college app questions: "Evaluate one book you have read outside of class. What would you bring to this college campus? Tell us something about yourself? What do you think of the New York Times--"
New York Times! Finally something I can answer. I'll just go on about my beloved Manohla "Man" Dargis and A.O. "Tony" Scott. But as I open my mouth to speak, I instead start falling. Down. down. d.o.w.n.
It is 8th period, that time for English class again. Crick hands each of us a sheet of paper typed in that typewriter font he favors. As previously discussed, we then head off to the computer lab for some marathon typing. But as we sit down and prepare to log on, we realize there aren't enough computers. In fact, there's only 4 for the entire class of 20 or so. "No problem," exclaims Crick in his sadistically cheerful cadence, "We'll take it orally!"
He proceeds to explain that the we will make our presentations from a 10 ft high, 2 in wide window ledge, which had mysteriously and quite conveniently appeared in the computer lab overnight. So here combined my three greatest fears: extemp speaking, heights, and English analysis. (Ha! Perhaps there is a method to the madness.)
When it comes to my turn, I climb onto the ledge with great difficulty. How I managed to climb up a vertical flat wall is beyond my comprehension. But exhausted by this physical exercise, my brain is not ready to analyze the passage that followed and I stand mouth agape, holding onto that tiny ledge for dear life. Even when I do struggle to say something, my vocal cords are frozen in a constant tremor--no audible sound escapes.
Sneering with disdain at my befuddlement, Crick says, "Fine, you obviously don't know anything. But I'll give you another question. What is one person who influenced you the most?" I continue to stand frozen. He then started throwing me a torrent of college app questions: "Evaluate one book you have read outside of class. What would you bring to this college campus? Tell us something about yourself? What do you think of the New York Times--"
New York Times! Finally something I can answer. I'll just go on about my beloved Manohla "Man" Dargis and A.O. "Tony" Scott. But as I open my mouth to speak, I instead start falling. Down. down. d.o.w.n.
The real test went quite all right, though my concept of "all right" seems to have deteriated with my gross overjudgment of my performance on the Medieval Euro test. I shall cross my fingers and hope the best.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Phantasmagoria of Pop Culture
In honor of my psych class, which is now studying dreams, I present the most bizarre dream I have yet to remember. There’s a theory in psychology that dreams are simply the result of random chemical and electrical firings of your brain. I find this a depressing explanation, but scientific, empirical me leans toward it. (You would too if the alternative was Freud’s psychosexual theory of dream interpretation where every possible object takes on sexual meaning. Methinks Freud was a dirty old man.)
My dreams have always been fragments of stories, stitched together by fade-out transitions and loose connections. This one is no different, and if it gets too weird, just chalk it up to random nerve firings.
I’m reading the newspaper in a brightly lit salon—the kind with open glass walls and an overabundance of sunlight. As I flip through my newspaper, a photo of two preppy young men catches my eye. The headline above the photo reads in big, bold, newsprint letters: “Prince of Monaco to Marry.” My immediate befuddlement at seeing a picture of two men accompanied by a wedding announcement was solved as I glance up to the TV, which is playing the exact same story. The black and white news reel explain that the Prince of Monaco and his fiancé both belong to an ancient Jewish sect, which allows the matrimonial union of two men. Another grainy black and white photo flashes on screen, depicting the Prince and his fiancé exchanging vows with white skullcaps on their heads.
At this moment, I catch a glimpse of the fiancé’s face and realize that he is Asian. In fact, the TV explains, he is actually a Taiwanese émigré who works at Dunkin Donuts. The screen begins to show a color video of the Taiwanese man filling cups of Coffee Coolata on a conveyer belt.
My brow furrows in disbelief that the Prince of Monaco would deign to marry a Dunkin Donuts worker, but the TV continues profiling the strange fiancé. It turns out that the man is actually a nuclear genius forced to drop out of MIT due to lack of funds. Aside from working at Dunkin Donuts, he had also managed to build a superior nuclear defense system—a miraculous accomplishment if consider that this man was living off of his Dunkin Donuts’ income the entire time. On TV, he is showing off his nuclear defense system aboard a speedboat, from which he launches a small rocket while shouting, “George Bush should come talk to me!” The rocket, in truth, was about one foot long and hardly seemed capable of defending against a snowball attack, let alone a nuclear one. The rocket’s amateurish designs and the man’s arrogant attitude convinced me the Prince’s fiancé was a hack playing for the money.
Just as the news program on the Prince’s impending wedding ends, Kate Beckinsdale saunters into the salon. Perhaps mistaking me as an acquaintance, she walks up to me and starts complaining about how this salon had messed up her hair. Despite thinking her hair is fine, I smile politely and wonder why she is in this salon again if they were that bad. Brrrrring brrring. Alarm clock beckons.
My dreams have always been fragments of stories, stitched together by fade-out transitions and loose connections. This one is no different, and if it gets too weird, just chalk it up to random nerve firings.
I’m reading the newspaper in a brightly lit salon—the kind with open glass walls and an overabundance of sunlight. As I flip through my newspaper, a photo of two preppy young men catches my eye. The headline above the photo reads in big, bold, newsprint letters: “Prince of Monaco to Marry.” My immediate befuddlement at seeing a picture of two men accompanied by a wedding announcement was solved as I glance up to the TV, which is playing the exact same story. The black and white news reel explain that the Prince of Monaco and his fiancé both belong to an ancient Jewish sect, which allows the matrimonial union of two men. Another grainy black and white photo flashes on screen, depicting the Prince and his fiancé exchanging vows with white skullcaps on their heads.
At this moment, I catch a glimpse of the fiancé’s face and realize that he is Asian. In fact, the TV explains, he is actually a Taiwanese émigré who works at Dunkin Donuts. The screen begins to show a color video of the Taiwanese man filling cups of Coffee Coolata on a conveyer belt.
My brow furrows in disbelief that the Prince of Monaco would deign to marry a Dunkin Donuts worker, but the TV continues profiling the strange fiancé. It turns out that the man is actually a nuclear genius forced to drop out of MIT due to lack of funds. Aside from working at Dunkin Donuts, he had also managed to build a superior nuclear defense system—a miraculous accomplishment if consider that this man was living off of his Dunkin Donuts’ income the entire time. On TV, he is showing off his nuclear defense system aboard a speedboat, from which he launches a small rocket while shouting, “George Bush should come talk to me!” The rocket, in truth, was about one foot long and hardly seemed capable of defending against a snowball attack, let alone a nuclear one. The rocket’s amateurish designs and the man’s arrogant attitude convinced me the Prince’s fiancé was a hack playing for the money.
Just as the news program on the Prince’s impending wedding ends, Kate Beckinsdale saunters into the salon. Perhaps mistaking me as an acquaintance, she walks up to me and starts complaining about how this salon had messed up her hair. Despite thinking her hair is fine, I smile politely and wonder why she is in this salon again if they were that bad. Brrrrring brrring. Alarm clock beckons.
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