Talking Brains

Christabel is repressing something while Bracy is driven; the two are not necessarily mutually exclusive, I suppose. Repression can be prophetic and prophecy can be repressed. If Christabel is repressing something, and we discerning readers are able to detect it, then that tells us something about her character. Of course, we can get the whole thing wrong, misreading the piece like the mammering, base-court scuts we are--then poor Christabel is misunderstood.

I have often wondered how a psychologist would perceive some of the crap my brain comes up with. Though not necessarily equipped with the same literary arsenal as us, Psychologists still have to read the significance of symbols. Prior to embarking on my first jaunt on a plane, back in the dismal '06s (maybe...dementia is setting in), the anticipation spurred a variety of odd incarnations in my sleep. I suppose I should include a disclaimer about why I am not crazy, but that effort would be fruitless even prior to reading the following, and certainly hopeless after.

I wake up to that kind of sickly orange peel-dusk/dawn of Finley, which generally only occurs in my dreams, but I have seen it before in waking realms also. The National Communications Coordinator, Mr. Eric Trumble, comes roaring down my dirt and gravel driveway wearing a large cowboy hat whilst driving a red station wagon; my friend Ben's grey Chrystler LeBaron accompanies. He jumps out of the driver's seat and shouts, clapping his hands "Get your ass out of bed! We have a plane to catch!" I am already out of bed, and somehow my brother has procured my luggage. Mom is on the deck, staring at the red-thing on the lawn, while Dad vaults into a string of obscenity-laden tips for travel: it's all in good humor. I get in Ben's car.

I am riding in the LeBaron on roads that don't exist, speeding quickly up spiralling ramps on Columbia Center Boulevard. We follow Trumble up at high speeds. As we ascend the ramp, the road gradually begins to turn into a massive sand dune--massive may even be the wrong word--"collossal" is perhaps more representative. We near the apex of the Dune and Trumble disappears over the crest, along with the rest of the delegation. Rodney screams something, though not in fear. This is normal.

Ben's car cannot quite make it, and I tell him that I will have to run the rest of the way. He wishes me luck, but doesn't say anything. I find climbing the dune is much more difficult than I originally had imagined, but I make it to the top nonetheless. I see an infinite vista of desert, and two red orbs that must be suns blot out part of the horizon, though I can see much furhter than I should. It seems as if everything flows visually to an explosively bright point a fathomless distance away--golden rays are reflected on the tops of dunes, resulting in a kleidescopic effect of galactic proportion. I think to myself, "Holy crap."

After standing for only a moment on the brink, I notice that Trumble's red suburban-thing is scooting down the dune mountain at rapid speeds, raising a trail of dust in his wake. The dune slopes outward gradually, becomming level again at the base, and eventually the red-thing is on a dead-ahead course for a giant sandworm, maybe a mile away. Just in case you were wondering, my brain stole those sandworms from Dune. I wave my arms frantically, but the red-burban doesn't stop.

Thankfully, a giant robot lands in between the vehicle and the worm, and its enormous foot opens to reveal a parking garage. Dr. Loomis (Donald Pleasance) steps out, bedecked in his tan overcoat, and shouts "Come on, hurry!" The suburban and its delegation make it safely into the confines of the giant robot.

I scurry down the hill, trying to beat the oncoming sandworm. I spy movement on the horizon--it appears as if the desert is moving. Countless giant worms with spiky maws rocket toward me. My dream legs don't work so well in the sand, and I struggle to close the distance. Dr. Loomis turns and yells something inside--the robot's feet begin to emit fire. Obviously, it is getting ready to launch back into space. He turns to me and shouts "Hurry!"

Something happens--a frenzied blur of sand and wind--and I am in the giant toe. Lo! Captain Kirk, Scotty, Chekov, and Data are sitting at a full bar. Trumble, Ben, my brother, and the delegation are all there as well. Dr. Loomis bids me have a seat, and a drink. Everyone is drinking martinis; I ask for extra olives; Scotty obliges.

We then fly out into space. The process is not so stressful as I would have thought: though I feel a lifting sensation, my innards ne'er jump. This is a good thing, as Van Halen was not playing.

I take a look out one of the port holes in the giant Robot foot; debris from what apparently were other ships ominously floats about. I don't look too closely, there could be bodies. By now I understand that this is a dream, and take appropriate precautions: whenever I see bodies in dreams things take a decidedly unpleasant turn for the much, much worse. Scotty explains that we are at war. I think to myself, "Holy crap."

We are in the process of taking in a scuttled ship, and I see someone I recognize. I can't remember who it was now, but he had pizza, which is always a plus.

I can't remember anything more. At least the gloom was mitigated by pizza.

I feel compelled to add "***", centered in the middle of the page. So much time has passed since my brain authored that madness, I am disturbingly disconnected from that moment of waking. The dream itself is still vivid. Engaging it now is very different from being in that period between sleeping and waking. I actually have to work to remember. Dreams themselves are terribly slippery; maybe that is how Christabel (and everyone else for that matter) can overlook those anxieties manifested during sleep. While asleep, it is difficult to supress anything, as the mind operates subconsciously. That period between sleep and wakefulness also is telling: as the mind begins to slip, so does conscious control over the repressed. As dream Jacob would say, "Holy crap."