Me & Mia Malkova/My Uncle's Antique Typewriter/Son of Tales from the Gimpy Hospital

I was sealed in an impenetrable safe room with Mia Malkova.

Usually I enjoy dreams where I get some, but I didn't enjoy this one. The safe room was dank, I got the sense she was only jumping my bones because my bones were the only bones available, and the dream had this undefined but pervading Lovecraftian atmosphere to it.

* * *

An uncle and aunt of mine moved into the bottom storey of the duplex I lived in briefly back in late 1998/early 1999. When me, my parents and sister visited the place, we found they had renovated it so thoroughly it only barely resembled the home we had known.

My uncle had in his possession an antique typewriter from 1908.

He allowed me to try it out. My mother was miffed at this 'cause my uncle had inherited the typewriter from their father, who had inherited it from his father, and she considered it a family heirloom too priceless to use for such everyday, mundane purposes.

* * *

In my original bedroom, an old CRT TV had been set up in the otherwise empty room. I believe I'd set it up so I could play Super Nintendo games on it, but there was no SNES console present and only snow playing on the screen. It was summer and quite hot in the room, so I'd opened the window to cool it down. I'd opened it only a crack, though, because there was no screen over the window and I was fearful of yellowjackets entering through the spaces in the gauzy white curtain.

For some reason or other, my parents wanted me to visit the hospital, so I took the bus there. At the hospital, I found a black, brown, and white tabby kitten wandering the corridors.

Taking the kitten with me, I went outside to the bus stop. Climbing aboard the bus, I asked if this was the bus for my hometown; D

who was present on the bus, told me this was indeed the right bus. I took a seat back away from her and the bus rolled off.

During the trip, I took up a conversation with the young woman seated beside me. She was a pleasant lady, so I offered the kitten to her as a gift; she accepted the kitten, but in a strange roundabout way. 

As the bus entered my hometown, I looked out my window; the landscape was recognizable, but the landmarks eerily different somehow, as if certain buildings had been demolished/relocated/replaced during my brief absence.

Curse of Tales from the Gimpy Hospital

This dream began as one of my irritating “back to high school” dreams,

but evolved into a dream where I was a patient in a hospital. The chief physician

(who looked exactly like Bob Gunton)

wanted me discharged from the hospital. IIRC, I was actually being paid to be there, and Dr. Gunton didn’t like that. Plus he was involved in illicit business dealings, and didn’t want me around to uncover them.

There was another doctor there, a nice guy who kinda looked like Brian McNamara. 

He wanted me to stick around and tried devising ways to prolong my stay. In the end, though, Dr. Gunton got what he wanted; I was discharged. I stuck around, though, and tried to keep out of Dr. Gunton’s sight as I searched the hospital for clues. IIRC, I eventually found out that he was in league with evil Lovecraftian entities.

At one point in the dream, while I was wandering about the corridors, Audrey Horne from Twin Peaks manifested out of thin air before me.

She had come from the past, 'cause she was still young. She bore fresh burn scars, so I reckon she came from some point in time shortly following the second season finale, after she was caught in that bank explosion. Just as suddenly as she appeared, she vanished.

Later, the present-day Audrey showed up.

I, Dr. McNamara, and she discussed the event; she had no recollection of ever having experienced such a time warp in her past.

(I think David Lynch would be proud of this dream.)

From the Dream Archives: D & the Wolf

I meant to post this on the 19th, the 2nd anniversary of this blog's existence, but time got away from me and I plumb forgot. 😞

Anyway, this'll be the final entry from the dream archives, as it's the last dream I recorded prior to my turning this blog into an on-line dream journal. It's a good one, too — a perfect subconscious rendering of my scarred psyche.

* * *

(ORIGINAL ENTRY DATE: 20 NOVEMBER 2016)

I don't remember how the dream started, but the earliest part I remember was taking a trip to D's university. For reasons unrevealed to me, a party was being hosted there in her honour, with lots of balloons and confetti and friends and family and acquaintances.

I arrived there looking particularly disconcerting, dressed only in a loincloth, my hair long and unkempt, rockin' the Kubrick Stare. I tried gaining access to the party, but D ordered me kept out. As they tried shutting the door on me, I wedged my shoulder in the door. I can't remember if I begged her to let me in or not, but as I was slowly pushed back out, she stared hard at me. Wearing a humourless grin, she told me I'd never ever be allowed to see her again or get to be a part of her extended family.

Locked out of the party, I then suffered a complete psychological breakdown. Losing all sense of reality, the entire world dissolved around me into amorphous shapes and swirling colours.

With there being a psychiatric ward at the university, I decided to commit myself. The doctor who saw me was a black man, kind of roly-poly; I think he was patterned off of Paul Winfield.

I was then somehow out of the ward and away from the university, where I encountered a pretty, petite brunette. She sported shoulder-length hair and was wearing form-fitting red-and-black clothes.

(She looked much like the girl at top, dressed in the outfit at bottom, with the aforementioned shoulder-length hair.)

She wanted me to do her right there and then against the wall. As we got going, I began my transformation into the Wolf. The personification of all the secret, base desires I keep bottled up inside, the Wolf didn't just want to screw this woman's brains out figuratively, but literally. It wanted to take all my misery and rage and hate against the world out on her, to tear her to spreads and bathe in her blood.

(Scarred psyche indeed.)

Fighting against my escalating impulses, holding desperately onto my humanity, I pulled out and away from her and quickly left before I lost myself to the animal within. Returning to the ward, I had the doctor lock me back up. Now in a secure cell, the Wolf retreated, allowing me to breathe a sigh of relief.

The dream ended there.

Return of Tales from the Gimpy Hospital

This rather unpleasant dream began with me spying a haggard man wandering around my backyard.

(He looked like the character Chick Hogan from Bates Motel.)

My family took this man to be a prowler, lurking about. However, once I saw him right out back — in plain sight — but my sister didn’t, it became clear I was hallucinating.

In short order, I was brought to a psychiatric hospital. Upon being diagnosed with schizophrenia, they assigned me a doctor and started treating me with drugs. The drugs did very little for me, however, and I soon began experiencing perpetual states of altered consciousness.

(It's what I imagine a bad acid trip to be like, only without the prospect of the trip ever ending.)

On top of the schizophrenia, I turned out to have dissociative identity disorder, too; I manifested a split personality — a female personality who was incredibly foul-mouthed and violent.

Due to these factors, they had me restrained to my bed, though I found ways to wriggle loose.

My attending doctor appeared to me in two different forms. First she appeared to me as Rosie O’Donnell.

(Ugh.)

Then she appeared as a young, long-haired Jamie Lee Curtis.

(Much better.)

Tales from the Gimpy Hospital

This strange set of dreams began with me in a hospital. I don't recall my reasons for being there.

(Though I do have a hypothesis or two.)

John Lithgow was also there.

My mind draws a blank when it comes to whether he was part of the staff or a fellow patient, nor can I recall him saying or actually doing anything. He was just there.

Then matters got truly odd. I suddenly found myself in a supermarket. Donning a Superman-esque costume with an inverted colour scheme

I began flying around the supermarket. Orderlies from the hospital were there trying to capture me, but I flew too fast for them to catch me. Then I was suddenly back in the hospital, where I got into a philosophical argument with the Smallville Superman.

(If you can even call this self-loathing, whiny pretty boy with questionable taste in women Superman.)

I criticized him for turning Clark Kent into a simpering disguise and lectured him on what it meant to be Clark Kent.

(Long story short, my Superman/Clark Kent is essentially a composite of the three above, not the Earth-One Superdick Bill waxes philosophic over.)

I then found myself back home. I was no longer wearing the costume, but I could still fly. I can often fly in my dreams; it's my dream power. I can't usually fly very high; it's often closer to levitation than true flight. But this time, I was flying higher than I had ever flown before. It was a mild, sunny day, and I could fly right up into the treetops. It was exhilarating.

(As free as the wind blows. As free as the grass grows.)

As I'd always wanted to know what the rooftop of my house looked like from above, I wanted to fly up there, but I still couldn't quite reach that far. Luckily for me, Laurie Metcalf was there to lend a hand. With her boosting me up, I was able to fly high enough to purchase a grip on the roof's edge. As luck would have it, the entire roof turned out to be rotten. Unable to support my weight, that entire side of the roof gave way; I fell to the ground along with pieces of rotten, waterlogged siding.

The dream then went creepy.

[CLICK HERE FOR CREEPY MUSIC]

I was suddenly in my old bedroom (Suffice to say, before moving into the basement this summer, I spent my worthless days festering in a crappy upstairs bedroom with a ceiling that leaked almost every time it rained/snowed.). As ominous ambient music played in the background, I watched as the ceiling slowly disintegrated, crumbling under the weight of the waterlogged insulation situated above.

(Oh, won't someone other than Tom Welling save me?)

Then I was transported to a video store.

(Saved by A-grade pablum and Z-grade schlock! I'll never criticize Hollywood ever again!)

There were two different BD sets of Jeffrey Combs horror movies available, on sale for literally a couple bucks each. Unfortunately, I didn't have even $2 on me, so I couldn't buy either one.

With no seamless transition, I found myself watching a Rod Stewart music video.

(If Stewart looked like Bowie and sounded like Jagger.)

Rod was with a blonde in a black convertible, driving around the outskirts of a suburb at night. As they drove about, night turned to day, the black convertible to a white minivan, and the blonde to a group of male bodyguards.

(I don't know about you, but I'd demand the blonde back.)

Suddenly I found myself transported into the video. The minivan pulled up beside me, the bodyguards hopped out, and one of them — a cop with mud caked on his face

— pushed me to the ground and arrested me.

I was taken to an insane asylum, and who should happen to be one of the attending psychologists but Patrick Bateman himself! Dr. Bateman was too busy treating other patients with chainsaws and blowtorches to see me right away.

"I'd refer you to Dr. Lector, but he's visiting relatives in Texas."

Luckily for all concerned, John Saxon was there to save the day.

"Hallelujah!"

Dressed in a pink tracksuit,

he confronted Bateman. Pulling two flare guns out from his waistband, 

Saxon's ultimatum to Bateman basically went like this:

"We can do this the easy way or we can do this the fun way. Whichever way this goes down, your ass has a date with the backseat of my cruiser at 8:00 sharp!"

Bateman's reaction:

In spite of all his narcissistic bravado and homicidal talent, Bateman turned out to be a pansy at heart. He surrendered almost immediately to Saxon without resistance.

(You can't repel machismo of this magnitude!)