On The Subject of Nightmares, Dwarves, and The Moon...
Last night I was a member of a lunar landing party that included my girlfriend (Laura), a latin american father and his young son, a rather attractive female african american photographer in her early twenties, an older fellow leading the expedition, an abnormaly tall, thin man, and then there were one or two others whom I can't quite solidify from my vague memory.
It would dawn on me later the racial diversity of this group, which will in a very vague way play into a dilemma later in the dream.
We landed on the moon during the night. We did the whole "skip around the surface, get used to the gravity, look at the Earth, draw in the sand" thing. It was ever so magical.
I remember the tall man dropping something and having to step off the moon to get it. That's when I noticed how outrageously tall he was. In dreams, nothing makes sense, and at this point I remembered "oh, yeah, Neil Armstrong was a giant." In real life, no, Brendan, no he wasn't.
So the tall man steps off the moon and lands in space. Space, as it turns out, is a wet sticky goo that makes you feel, well, bad. I determined this, based on his immediate reaction to standing knee-deep in space water. You knew there was something very wrong inside.
Next thing you know, it's daylight. Yes, daylight. It's daylight, and the moon is now a desert-moon of sorts, and SURPRISE, there are more people. Everyone is generally talking and having a blast as we wander about, exploring the moon. We're like a party of tourists (which is accurate, I suppose, since we're not from the moon). Photographer chick takes pics. Latin-dad talks with leader. Latin-dad's son climbs rock formations. Everyone's just having a very chill time. Eventually, though, as time goes on, the dreaded space dimentia begins to affect members of our party. They begin getting angry. They get aggitated easily. Everyone gets hungry and tired. It's time to eat and get off this rock.
We find ourselves inside of a kitchen found in the kind of facility you see in movies like Avatar and Aliens. Gray pegboard interior, fluorescent lighting, etc. There are windows, and that's good because I can see outside. Everyone's cleaning up, and I suddenly start to realize something that nobody else finds puzzling. If we're the first people on the moon (which, by the way, we are supposed to be), then where did thsi facility come from? Why is this kitchen fully stocked? Most importantly...the silverware. Why is there so much silverware? There's plenty of silverware. Plenty of silverware for plenty of people. I'm very fixated on the silverware's existence. Finally, reaching the verge of lunacy, I announce "Hey! Where'd did all this silverware come from?"
Everyone stops.
Things get quiet. Very quiet. Everyone is overwhelmed with a sudden realization and dread. Nothing should be here. There should be no facility. We're the first humans to step on the moon in years. We don't even seem to need spacesuits.
Now we hear a rumbling. I turn and look out the window. There is a dust cloud in the distance, and it's moving toward us very quickly. Not too quickly, but quickly enough to be unsettling. My long distance x-ray vision comes in handy for the first time in my life and I zoom in to see just who, or what, is coming this way.
The moon is inhabited. Inhabited by dwarves. Yes, I said "dwarves". Oh, but rest assured, these are not just any dwarves. These are bad dwarves. Oh, and these are not just any bad dwarves. Oh, no. These are evil dwarves. These dwarves...are an extention...of the Ku Klux Klan.
[Insert reminder of earlier statement regarding racial diversity of our group here.]
The racist cannibal dwarves (oh, and they're cannibals now, too) don white robes, and pointy hats. They resemble very closely the KKK, with one exception. They wear the pointy hats, but no hoods or face coverings. Instead, they have white face paint, and in fact (in case this dream isn't bad enough a trip yet), they all look like the lead kid from the movie "Children of The Corn".
It was time to go.
We rush out of the room. From here, the dream becomes hazy. I wish I could have typed it all out this morning when I woke up, but the call of job-security and hourly wages sometimes outweighs the awareness of the fading memory of a good nightmare. We run from the dwarves, and they remain right behind us in pursuit, but just out of sight. We come to realize that they are cannibals. Not good news. I remember the latin-dad and his son getting seperated. I remember the photographer getting hurt. I remember something about an infant appearing and needing to be protected. I remember being terrified, and I remember something about my girlfriend dissapearing for a while, then returning in a daze. Her eyes were glazed over, and some green liquid was staining her lower lip. It worried me. It worried me enough to call her when I woke up (she leaves the house about 2 hours before I do in the morning), and it also worried me because she had strayed from the group to do some noble selflessness. I know this, despite not remembering the act itself.
When I did wake up, I was shaken. I was so unnerved that I went about my morning routine looking over my shoulder, checking behind corners, and constantly calling my dogs for what simple reassurance their company could offer. This post-nightmare fear is a rarity for me. I have a lot of nightmares, and i've come to embrace them. They always prove interesting. On the rare occasion, though, they can be intense. As silly as the dream may seem in retrospect, the experience was less ammusing. And it WAS an experience. I lived this. I could see these people, I could smell the enviroment of the planet. I could hear the enemy approaching, but I think the worst part was and always is, that I could feel the terror in everyone. I could feel the rush and the adrenaline. I could feel the dread of an impending death, and the desperate need to get this group away from it. I woke up with these emotions intact. The scariest nightmares always have that affect, and I think that's what makes them the scary ones. A sub-par nightmare ends in a snap. It's like turning off the tv, or closing a curtain. The intense ones - they stay with you. They stay. They cross over a little bit into reality.
And if the emotions can do that, what else can cross over?
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