Monday, September 13, 2010

On Dreams, Pt. VII - Return To Dream Lake

So I awoke this morning from a dream in which I was forced to take an precautionary drug course at some college. This is what I remember, narration included:

"Ridiculous," his mother had told him, back when he was still a little girl, "You're a freshman and every freshman has to take this class."

"I'm twenty-three."

"Nonsense. Now," she continued, "You are going to be offered drugs and dope so…." Holding her pre-written anti-drug propaganda pamphlet splayed open in her left hand, she trailed off as I mused at the poorly photoshopped image of a girl with three front teeth on the scantron they had given us with absurdly wide bubbles and a little section to review the the new form layout. I recalled what had led me here.

It wasn't weed or anything, it was crack. I'm not going to touch the fucking stuff, I just wanted to watch him make it. A college buddy of mine had asked me if I wanted to split a dub. I declined, walked away musing over the slang and various drug use philosophies until I realized I hadn't actually said anything and had just done the walking away part.

I followed my friend into a basement laundry room and apologized for my train of thought causing my to be socially discourteous. I told him I did not want to partake, but would be interested in watching the process.

*Now, I know that "a dub" is generally reserved for pot sales, but in my dream I must have recalled that it's technically $20 worth of anything, and since this was a dream I was aware that my friend intended to convey the substance was some kind of cocaine.*

My friend began cooking cocaine into crack right there on top of the washing machine, for some reason in a tiny sepulcher. I watched the white blacken and bubble up neon lime green as he mixed in baking soda (not the right color) and then flip the boiling, volatile concoction into a Coca Cola can. It was at this point that a tiny bit spilled out onto the dryer, so my friend contained what he could as the rest spontaneously combusted.

His solution to the fire and noxious fumes was to lay down a couple lines of coke on the far side of the spill and inhale them along with the precious drug fumes emanating from the fire. Catching a small contact high off this and not wanting to get instantly addicted to dream-crack, I left.

As I walked the long corridor out of the basement I saw danger ahead. I quickly turned back and asked everyone still near the drug room, loudly to catch an ear, "Have any of you guys seen my keys?"

Quietly, I added, "Yo, the mother from Everybody Loves Raymond is headed this way with laundry. Watch out," then turned again, plotting my escape. Above ground, I found myself in a college office center, thinking only "I already have a degree…" and suddenly I was in a classroom taking a shitty drug course.

The other night I just dreamed of zombies clawing at me and woke up to a cat attacking my foot. Some dreams are just easier to explain than others.

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