#26: The Matrix is On Fire
DREAM JOURNAL
Happy fall, officially!
I hope you spent the equinox in a sweater, sipping cider, burning an apple cinnamon candle, and doing something pumpkin-y. We spent ours unloading a storage container, but leaves crunched underfoot. Don’t you worry.
We’re beyond happy to have our stuff back, especially the mattress. I’ve heard walking on air is lovely, but sleeping on it? Not so much. Wednesday was our last night on the air mattress, and my neck, my back, (you get it, pretty much all of me), is grateful for it. Our air mattress nights have been fruitful for one thing, though: weird dreams.
That’s right. The dream journals are back. Is this the most insufferable form of this newsletter? Perhaps. Am I delusional for thinking I am the exception to the no-one-wants-to-hear-about-your-dream rule? Probably. Am I going to tell you about them anyway? Heck to the yes.
I’ll spare you the less juicy ones (leading track practice in jean shorts, accidentally killing Adam’s imaginary cat, my mom texting me a video of my dad getting tossed around like a rag doll by a gorilla, etc) and skip straight to the main event.
The Matrix is On Fire
A bunch of my friends from high school and various members of my family, young and old, are packed in the Schinbeckler’s BMW. This is a clown car situation, but nobody seems to notice. In fact, it feels pretty roomy. We’re driving home from a night on the town celebrating, presumably for someone’s birthday. Grant is driving. Duh, it’s his dad’s car.
Spirits are high. Jams are blasting. The wind is in our hair. Then we hit traffic. A lot of it. But just as quickly as we come to a halt, Grant throws it in reverse. Something’s happened. He’s felt it, but the rest of us haven’t caught up yet.
The traffic is piling up behind us now too, and he’s swerving and dodging in this backward chase, but we don’t know what we’re running from.
“What’s going on?!” I cry out, whipping my head from the rear back to the front of the car. And then I see it. The grid in the sky, faintly pulsing in and out of view, an incandescent purple with cross-sections of neon green. It’s the matrix. I can see it. And it’s ablaze.
There’s something wild in Grant’s eyes. My dad’s too. They know we know.
The car lurches before wriggling to an unnatural stop, as if we’re suspended in jello. I look up and the grid is gone. No smoke. No fire. It’s only blue sky.
Then nothing.
I open my eyes in a hotel suite. Like the ones in those Vogue What I Wear in a Week videos. Way nicer than anything I’ve seen in person. We’ve been assigned hotel rooms based on families. I’m with mine. My friends are elsewhere in the building. Except Grant. We all know he’s gone.
The suite is gorgeous and boring. We’re not allowed to leave. Stuck in holding until They figure out what to do with us. If anything can be done with us. Outside every window is lush countryside. No roads. No city. Just this big grand hotel.
There isn’t much to do but speculate and play board games. So They send us companions. Mostly cats. My family is allergic, but we still accept a few. There is one that belongs to no one. She makes her rounds throughout the building, a community pet of sorts.
She’s gorgeous, with pristine fur, white like a canvas. A garden of rich greens and blooms of purples, pinks, oranges, and yellows dots her fur in an intricate, and completely natural, birthmark.
This masterpiece of a cat takes a liking to me. We sit together sunning in the window and sometimes take walks together down to the lobby. She has no collar, and as far as I can tell, no name. She is dear to us. To me.
One afternoon, we take a walk along the grounds. They’ve started letting us outside because there is nowhere for us to escape anyway. When we came back in, I decide to wait in the lobby to see who might come down. The beautiful cat takes the elevator up. It arrives for her as soon as she’s pawed over to the door, no need to call it.
An older lady I haven’t met watches the cat take her leave before walking over to sit at my side on a velvet bench.
“She’s taken a liking to you.” She means the cat.
“Yes, we’re very fond of her,” I reply.
“You know what They call her?” the woman asks.
I shake my head, eyes bright, excited for anything new.
“Lucifer.”
Fin.
Yes, I woke up gasping for air. Yes, I blame this on reading Mark Twain before bed every night for the last six months. Yes, I know I have a somewhat troubling subconscious.
I am a weenie. Even typing this scared me a bit. Having nightmares as an adult is not fun.
The internet says dreams about cats may be a sign that the Egyptian Goddess of Protection, Bastet is trying to get my attention. Someone please let her know, I’m here. I’m listening. And I’m ready to be protected.
Do you have weird dreams? Please give me a little taste of a recent one in the comments below. Or reply to this email to divulge all the dirty details. (Please don’t actually send me dirty details.)
Cross Promo Corner: Check out Escape From Clowntown Comics — humorous comics, podcasts, and mostly-true tales of comedy from cartoonist and satirist, E.R. Flynn.
That’s all, folks. Hope you have a dreamy and autumnal weekend. 🍂☕️🍁🥧
Your California Dreamer,
Ariana