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storytelling and space ships

February 3, 2011

Not a lot of intro today, my dreams were so vivid that I wanted to just get them down right away.

We begin in a classroom. My two cousins (the daughters of George Condo) are sitting in the classroom. Uncle George is the professor. The classroom is pretty sparse. The desks are arranged in such a way that about twelve of them are on one side of the room, and there is a single desk on the other side, facing the rest. The dream starts with someone else in the “presenting” chair, reading aloud. I’m excited, because I love reading aloud to people, and I’ve brought a new David Sedaris book with me, which I know will be a huge hit. When it is my turn to read, I open it up to the page but keep fumbling with the dust cover. The corners flaps keep slipping into the book, right onto the words I’m about to read. Then, when I finally get going, the words are difficult to pronounce–too heavy on dialect for me to read them aloud with certainty. “Kinelepsis” is one that trips me up particularly badly (I don’t even remember what the word is supposed to mean). I have to keep going over the same words again and again,  obviously not an effective storyteller. I speak very slowly, and I have to sound out almost every word.

I finally make may way to the end of the story, and look up to see that everyone in the classroom is either asleep or snickering, and my uncle, who has been walking around the whole time, nodding and laughing occasionally, heaves a sigh of relief. It becomes obvious to me then that he only let me read because we’re related; I didn’t earn the chance of my own merit, and it turns out, I’m pretty bad at what I thought I was gifted at.


At a beach with my family. Mom, dad, sister, and brother are all swimming in very high ocean water when a giant wave comes. We’re out so deep, though, that the wave merely passes over us and pushes us out a little further. We’re heading toward some reeds, that are, according to my dad, very dangerous. The water is much to deep there, and the current much too strong. We swim and swim adjacent to the coast toward a giant space ship that is about to take off. That’s why we’re all there in Florida: to see the space ship blast off.

We finally swim enough to get to a dock, and there’s a path leading straight under and into the ship. My brother runs ahead, going up an elevator into the ship’s “waiting deck.” My sister follows him. Naturally, my mother and I must also follow, to save them from inevitably being blasted into space without the proper training or attire. My brother and sister are relaxing on some futuristic sofas, eating futuristic food, in a gray, futuristic room. My mom and I can see the room through a crawl-hole in the wall, and we keep yelling for them to get out, as the countdown had begun. My brother comes out immediately, but it takes my sister a few minutes to really decide to leave. I keep screaming at her to get out, crying because I’m so scared that she’ll get burned up as they release the room in the middle of space. Finally she comes out, at the very last second. There’s still a hitch, though: it turns out we are still in a “launching room,” which will also be disposed of when the ship launches. The ship takes off, and I ask, “Oh no, this is going to fall into the ocean, isn’t it?” My mother nods, smiling at the prospect of taking such an exciting fall, and I clutch the side of the small room. Our tiny pod shoots high into the sky, and then the feeling of falling soon follows, fear gripping me tightly, and…I’m awake, heart a-poundin’, breath a-pantin’.

Well, I guess your breath  can’t be a-panting. But I needed parallelism.

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