"Oh, man. This is weird."
Barnaby looks a little spooked, and very intense, as he says this. He's sitting to my left on his moss-green couch.
"I'm having some deja vu..."
He trails off.
Here I thought we were in my dream; but now it looks like I'm a character in Barnaby's feedback loop. I'm in a reality I recognize, though. This is the couch that I've been sleeping on most nights. The couch upon which I've had a string of incredibly vivid dreams - some of which have traveled through the wormholes of multidimensional consciousness and entered my waking experiences.
Antlers.
A wild-eyed, scruffy kid called "Trip" prattling off mathematical observations, then gazing at chemical charts he manifests and scans with his eyes. A symmetrical pattern of tattooed green-and-blue diamonds and swirls emerges from under his white, logo-less ballcap. Traveling from his temples, over his eyebrows, and around his eyes, the symbols run down his cheeks like inkdrop-tears.
Behind him yellow leaves, green grass, blue sky. Diamonds travel around his eyes, distracting you from his hands - fingers wriggling like tentacles. Reaching into various energetic streams. Adjusting the flow, the direction. "Shut up, Trip. They call me Trip because my head and my feet are too big."
"And lately, I find that when I get deja vu..."
Barnaby pauses to allow my mind to follow my eyes back to the moment, back into the midst of his deja vu.
"...I find that I'm in a dream I've had."
I'm focused on Barnaby, now. He has blood-soaked Kleenex sticking out of his nostril. He's had several Coors Lights.
And I'm stoned. I've been smoking pot off and on since my couple of days spent hanging out at the Occupy Sacramento camp. Before this, it had been over 5 months since I'd smoked. So, my tolerance is low. This has allowed me to realize, during conversations with several strangers, that I have already met them in recent dreams.
Barnaby and I sit on a couch inside of a moment he's already experienced through dream. At this point I'm totally unconvinced of the reality of my perceptions. There are drops of blood on the carpet near the blinds. Barnaby's tone and demeanor seem ominous. Here comes the feeling that I usually forget exists when I'm not feeling it: The feeling that I am about to awaken from this dream; this lifetime. I'll awaken to a new existence that I have no recollection of.
"So you're not into watching 'Strike Witches?'" I ask.
"Naw, not really," says Barnaby. "I mean, it's cool that they wear no pants although I don't understand why."
I get up and walk behind the couch. Now I start flapping my arms; trying to get some lift. It's not the first time I've done this in the last few days.
Barnaby starts laughing uncontrollably. He manages to say "What the fuck are you doing?"
"You have to do this - even when you think you're probably awake -" I tell him "or else you won't try it in dreams.
Barnaby looks a little spooked, and very intense, as he says this. He's sitting to my left on his moss-green couch.
"I'm having some deja vu..."
He trails off.
Here I thought we were in my dream; but now it looks like I'm a character in Barnaby's feedback loop. I'm in a reality I recognize, though. This is the couch that I've been sleeping on most nights. The couch upon which I've had a string of incredibly vivid dreams - some of which have traveled through the wormholes of multidimensional consciousness and entered my waking experiences.
Antlers.
A wild-eyed, scruffy kid called "Trip" prattling off mathematical observations, then gazing at chemical charts he manifests and scans with his eyes. A symmetrical pattern of tattooed green-and-blue diamonds and swirls emerges from under his white, logo-less ballcap. Traveling from his temples, over his eyebrows, and around his eyes, the symbols run down his cheeks like inkdrop-tears.
Behind him yellow leaves, green grass, blue sky. Diamonds travel around his eyes, distracting you from his hands - fingers wriggling like tentacles. Reaching into various energetic streams. Adjusting the flow, the direction. "Shut up, Trip. They call me Trip because my head and my feet are too big."
"And lately, I find that when I get deja vu..."
Barnaby pauses to allow my mind to follow my eyes back to the moment, back into the midst of his deja vu.
"...I find that I'm in a dream I've had."
I'm focused on Barnaby, now. He has blood-soaked Kleenex sticking out of his nostril. He's had several Coors Lights.
And I'm stoned. I've been smoking pot off and on since my couple of days spent hanging out at the Occupy Sacramento camp. Before this, it had been over 5 months since I'd smoked. So, my tolerance is low. This has allowed me to realize, during conversations with several strangers, that I have already met them in recent dreams.
Barnaby and I sit on a couch inside of a moment he's already experienced through dream. At this point I'm totally unconvinced of the reality of my perceptions. There are drops of blood on the carpet near the blinds. Barnaby's tone and demeanor seem ominous. Here comes the feeling that I usually forget exists when I'm not feeling it: The feeling that I am about to awaken from this dream; this lifetime. I'll awaken to a new existence that I have no recollection of.
"So you're not into watching 'Strike Witches?'" I ask.
"Naw, not really," says Barnaby. "I mean, it's cool that they wear no pants although I don't understand why."
I get up and walk behind the couch. Now I start flapping my arms; trying to get some lift. It's not the first time I've done this in the last few days.
Barnaby starts laughing uncontrollably. He manages to say "What the fuck are you doing?"
"You have to do this - even when you think you're probably awake -" I tell him "or else you won't try it in dreams.
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Welcome, and thank you for your visit. Please choose an alias for yourself. If you knew me before I became Barefoot Beirdo, please humor me and refrain from using my given name here. I'd like to strongly encourage posting your own dreams in the comment field. Also, any constructive criticism of this blogs' layout and readability are greatly appreciated. This here's a work in progress.