My brother Kurt was abducted by aliens, and replaced with a poor duplicate. I remember seeing a gray plain, composed of dirty clay and dead trees, and a pit, which the duplicate Kurt rose from, corpse-like.
I’m with my mom in a small, featureless white room, with a very short hallway inset on one wall leading to a door. We stand facing that hallway, behind a podium and a horizontal, thin loop of wire suspended above the floor. As I lean on the podium, a small cart appears on the wire — a track — and motors over to me. It is carrying a small pamphlet, about three pages long.
A frail, nerdy-looking man walks out the front door of a quaint little house. He looks very worried. An attractive blonde girl follows behind, looking nervously up and down the street. She’s having an affair with him. The man is about to leave when he catches sight of her husband, now driving up the street in a hatchback. The husband is built like a linebacker, a huge mountain of a man, and now he knows what’s been going on behind his back. He screams out the window of his car as he pulls up into the driveway, and the cheaters are paralyzed with fear. The wife shrieks at the man to run for it. The husband will kill him. ↓ Read the rest of this entry…
I’m on campus at UCLA around dusk, because I have an appointment to see my counselor about a mistake that had been made on my record. There’s a long line in her office, and we all wonder why she’s seeing us all so late; usually they schedule appointments for the afternoon. After about a fifteen-minute wait, the secretary tells me I’m not going to be able to see her until tomorrow.
I walk out to the bus stop where the UCLA van service runs at evening, to take students back to the dorms and apartments nearby. My girlfriend is there waiting for a van. I ask her if they still run this late; she said the regular vans don’t, but there’s another sort of service running that we can take. I watch a pick-up truck approach the bus stop, but not slow down. As it drives past at about thirty miles an hour, several students leap into the truck bed and struggle to get in; one person doesn’t make it and falls onto the street, then dusts himself off and begins waiting for the next one.
In looking through my dream journal to share with you, I have a couple tenets, similar to the ones I observe in Broodhollow: no outright gore, no guts, nothing that can’t be pulled back from the brink of madness by some high spooky adventure. This dream doesn’t have any violence in it, but I debated going this unsettling with the feature, this early in its run. Still, it is an actual dream I had that resonated with me.
A meandering piano score; someone picking at the keys. A cluttered house. Objects stacked and draped on every surface. My mother sits in one corner doing something, focused on something. Knitting, perhaps; the camera never focuses on her to investigate. I know my mom is the age she is now, but my brother sits amongst the stacks of paper on the couch, and he is only five or six years old here.