My Dreams Are Like Little Golden Books on Acid

I tend to have very vivid dreams, and I remember every detail of them. I remember the color of everything in the background, the number of stairs there were, everyone’s name even if I didn’t interact with them in the dream, etc. I used to write my dreams down until it got exhausting. My dreams are so bizarre that my friends sometimes ask me to send them a dream synopsis for entertainment. I will be happy to do the same for you, if requested.  Sometimes I miss writing my dreams down because I miss going back and reading the intense illustrations of my vigilant subconscious. So today I decided to record the dream I had last night, just for you. I am open to interpretations or feedback. Can you handle it?

Last night I dreamed that I was a member of a volunteer organization that went around and repaired houses. I knew some of the people in the organization but it was hard for me to make friends there as everyone seemed to go out of their way not to talk to me. We drove to our latest project which was a long way away. One of the guys in my group had an amputated arm, and kept calling meetings, warning us that if anyone makes fun of an amputee he was going to punch them. I agreed that that was reasonable.

We neared our destination, which looked a lot like my grandmother’s farm house (which in real life does not exist anymore). There was a wooded area to the right of the house, and hovering above the wooded area were three Michael Bay quality helicopters and obscure hovercraft.  Three people from our group volunteered to get out of the van and check it out, which I thought was really stupid. The helicopters looked federal grade, which probably meant there was a dangerous criminal they were chasing or something.

They returned safely, though, and said it was a publicity stunt for a haunted house starring Gizmo, a giant lizard (I don’t know). The three scouts from our group said that the haunted house was awesome and Gizmo gave an amazing performance. I thought the publicity stunt was an interesting idea, but that it would attract a lot of morons who willingly walk towards crime scenes, and that never ends well.

The three scouts were alive, though, and we pulled into a long driveway in front of our destination. I realized that it was my grandma’s farm house, and I started crying for joy because if we were fixing the house, she wouldn’t have to sell so they could build condos on the land!

We drove closer and I realized that it was actually not my grandma’s house, but my childhood church. This was not a safe place for me, so my tears became tears of dread. I knew as soon as I saw the church that they had cheated on their entry forms for our organization. We only repaired houses, and there were no houses at this church. My childhood youth group leader happened to also be in our group, and he had the same look of dread on his face. We both thought we managed to move on from this place. I went over to him to confer and give/receive support, and he turned his back to me.

“Can you believe we’re going back here?” I said to him.

He ignored me, throwing a newspaper on the floor and pretending to be too busy with that to talk to me. I stayed next to him, let down and not really knowing what to do. In real life, this is how I felt when I was a teen and needed support from him. He always found a way to get out of helping me or even acknowledging me. So some things never change.

We unloaded our equipment and went into the part of the church we were supposed to be working on. No one else seemed to realize that we were providing fraudulent services. I was also trying to tell people that I spent a lot of time here as a teen, and it used to be so much fun, but it was never safe. No one was interested and they thought it was funny that I kept talking about it like what I said mattered.

The room we were working on was the youth group room which, in real life, had the ugliest orange and brown industrial carpet that you can imagine. I was glad that at least we were probably going to rip that up and replace it with something that resembled vomit a little less. But no. Our assignment was to clean the carpets because the church was too cheap to hire carpet cleaners or too lazy to do it themselves. Church members kept coming in and out of where we were working saying, too loudly, “Look at THE HOUSE! THE HOUSE is looking so good!” Like if we heard that enough we might be dumb enough to believe that we were actually working on a house instead of a church.

Our task was mopping the carpets with a very bristly mop apparatus that forced tiny splinters into my skin wherever I touched it. No one else seemed to have this problem, and I spent more time removing splinters than I did actually mopping. And I spent more time wondering why the hell we were mopping carpet than I did removing splinters from my hands. I felt angry and used and baffled, and I still felt that way when I woke up.

Does anyone have the gift of dream interpretation and want to give this one a go? Does anyone have the urge to mop their carpet? Or maybe seek out hovercraft and walk directly toward whatever they are hovering over? I kinda do…


About Allison Anarchy

I write because I have to
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