naps are bad
Jul. 15th, 2004 09:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rmI should probably be a lot more upset by this than I am. Anyone who has any thoughts on what the fuck is up with this, feel free.
Everyone told her she should be a whore. Because that's what women did then if they needed to make money. She even went to two fortune tellers, and they both tolder her to be a whore to, of course, they were paid by the madam in question, to tell women exactly that, but fortune is just what's supposed to happen anyway.
The house was in a freestanding wood building with the crimson flag with gold lettering on it. She went inside.
One day a friend comes to visit, and she comex out to meet her. She is dressed in a just about the ankle length dress -- white, cotton or linen or some such, with a crimson pannel down the front from top to bottom, with a long gold humag seleton on it, done in the manner of early Celtic drag drawings. She stands with her feet wide, like a man.
"How have you been?" the friend asks.
She hikes her dress up. Her pussy lips are instead four fleshy portions of a baby's head, mishapen like a rotting apple, but clean and ordinary. Her friend says to cut them off.
"We don't do that here," she says.
Later, she comes to visit my house. It's a fine, harmless thing, but it is eons later as we are now in the modern world, and those portions are now shredded tendrils, like a dress that drags on the ground. She is dressed the same, and we know she is coming because she speaks to the cat in the window.
There were also other bits of the dream involving the Iraq war (in which Kat and I were fighting and dealing with guys on our team giving us doom and gloom grief because we had very little ammo because no one saw fit to give us any, and we were all "hey, we _hit_ the stuff we shoot, no worries."), a computer server room heaped up with matresses at odd angles, me pumping up the crowd before the John Stewart show, and a pigeon, flying in circles and dragging an open umbrella in its beak.
Everyone told her she should be a whore. Because that's what women did then if they needed to make money. She even went to two fortune tellers, and they both tolder her to be a whore to, of course, they were paid by the madam in question, to tell women exactly that, but fortune is just what's supposed to happen anyway.
The house was in a freestanding wood building with the crimson flag with gold lettering on it. She went inside.
One day a friend comes to visit, and she comex out to meet her. She is dressed in a just about the ankle length dress -- white, cotton or linen or some such, with a crimson pannel down the front from top to bottom, with a long gold humag seleton on it, done in the manner of early Celtic drag drawings. She stands with her feet wide, like a man.
"How have you been?" the friend asks.
She hikes her dress up. Her pussy lips are instead four fleshy portions of a baby's head, mishapen like a rotting apple, but clean and ordinary. Her friend says to cut them off.
"We don't do that here," she says.
Later, she comes to visit my house. It's a fine, harmless thing, but it is eons later as we are now in the modern world, and those portions are now shredded tendrils, like a dress that drags on the ground. She is dressed the same, and we know she is coming because she speaks to the cat in the window.
There were also other bits of the dream involving the Iraq war (in which Kat and I were fighting and dealing with guys on our team giving us doom and gloom grief because we had very little ammo because no one saw fit to give us any, and we were all "hey, we _hit_ the stuff we shoot, no worries."), a computer server room heaped up with matresses at odd angles, me pumping up the crowd before the John Stewart show, and a pigeon, flying in circles and dragging an open umbrella in its beak.
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no subject
Date: 2004-07-16 06:45 am (UTC)There is something here about offering innocence to the male world, dividing the brain in service of sexual ideals, and also about the necessity of displaying it all so that people (men) know exactly what's happening. See what you're doing to my innocence. Destruction is a necessity; constant wear results in tatters, but that does not destroy the woman. You probably already have thought of the red/white contrast in her dress. But that skeleton is what holds the whole thing together - skin is little without bones - and the fact that it is gold bodes well for survival.
Cats are typically sensuality/femininity, and it is a good sign that the woman is talking to the cat in the window. Especially since it's a woman who sold her out in the first place.
Mattresses - again, sexuality, comfort, rest among the right angles of the tech (stereotypically male) world.
You pumping up the John Stewart crowd is just plain excellent.
And a harbinger of illness and doom (as you qualify pigeons in another comment) isn't really going to get very far going in circles with a lot of wind resistance. Also, incidentally, it's going to starve to death if it doesn't stop dragging that thing around in its mouth.
That's my two bits.
no subject
Date: 2004-07-17 08:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-19 07:44 am (UTC)Any of the rest of it ring true? Analyzing others' dreams involves a lot of assumptions on my part.