It could have been such a great nightmare
August 23rd, 2008 by Jenny Crimp; one comment
My family has just arrived at our new home, which is located somewhere near the ocean, probably on the Isle of Wight. We pull up in the gravel driveway and stretch our legs after the long journey, and bring the first of our luggage in the door. None of us have ever been to the house before, and as soon as we walk in, I have the urge to turn around and walk right back out. It is obviously been remodeled very nicely, has tall windows and high ceilings, but nobody else seems to notice that it was a church before. Or at least, our living room was the chapel, probably built for some rich lord who didn’t want to have to go all the way to the church and worship with the common folk. I get sort of flashbacks of the old chapel, before the other parts of the house were built, when the walls were either halfway built, or, I get the sense that it’s a glimpse of the future when the walls have collapsed from a fire. To put it simply, I’m getting some serious bad vibes in this place, either from Jesus because we’re sinners living in the house of the Lord, or from the evil spirit of the old priest.
I don’t have to stay in the living room because I’m sure that’s where all the horrific events will happen, so I go upstairs to the loft of the new part of the house where we’ll be sleeping. That’s when the walls start bending in. Apparently I’m also the only one who notices this, or my siblings, in their dream haze mind states are only slightly disturbed and brush it off.
I decide it’s time to go outside and check out the yard. I go into the back garden, which is quite beautiful and recently landscaped. I can’t help but notice how enclosed the yard is, completely surrounded by forests with no neighbors for miles. The groundsman is even old and creepy, just like in all those haunted house movies. Then it strikes me that our yard is probably the old graveyard.
This scenario just set itself up to be the best scary dream ever, but somehow I got sidetracked and ended up in Sylvester Middle School’s band room. I’ve gotten my class schedule for fall, and got placed back into Mr. Fosberg’s band. I haven’t played in three years, and Devin and I are the only trombones, so I feel especially terrible as I stumble my way through a march, but actually enjoy myself quite a bit.
It’s not until I go to the locker room to get changed for P.E. and get really frustrated trying to put clothes on (always impossible for me in dreams) that I realize I have way too much stuff going on in my life to go back to middle/high school, so I go to break the news to Mr. Fosberg. I run into him in the hallway making excited comments to Devin about the future of the band, and when I he turns to me I start out, “Look, I don’t know how to tell you this but…” I pause for some tactful words but nothing comes. “-I just don’t have time for this right now. I am waay overcommitted this fall, I’ve got a full class load-” The look on Mr. Fosberg’s face is so pitiful you’d think I’d just broken up with him, but I am merciless. “I just don’t have time, I’m sorry.” And I leave
for Nordstrom. I am on a mission to find a warm sweater, but as I browse through the winter coats I become aware that I have a stalker. It’s a girl, and when I notice her she immediately offers to sew a missing button onto my shorts. I look around and my mom nearby shrugs why not. However, I know she is dangerous, and I can’ let her do anymore favors for me or she’ll try to take possession of all my attention. I try to lose her in the shoe department, where they are holding a silent auction on sandals. Unfortunately, all of the shoes are really hideous, and I realize I’m not wearing pants, so I wander around decisively, so that none of the sales associates are tempted to talk to me because they can’t tell I’m not wearing pants until we speak.
it seemed like an alright thing to do at the time
August 22nd, 2008 by Kris Skotheim; no comments
My cousins and I kill a bunch of people in their house because it seemed sort of appropriate at the time, like they would go to a better place, or maybe just because we didn’t really know if we could and wanted to find out. We later realize that it was a really bad idea and that we’ll all be thrown in jail for life if we are caught.
We try to clean up the blood, but it takes a really long time. I am wiping off their porch with a rag soaked in alcohol, and keep coming across fingerprints of mine made in blood. I don’t remember getting my hands particularly bloody or making lots of fingerprints on their porch, but I am really worried that I’ll miss one in my attempt to hide all the evidence.
We realize that everything is covered in fingerprints, and the only thing we really could do is to just burn the whole house down to get rid of them. None of us really want to be arrested for arson, though, either. We decide to deal with the fingerprints on our own bodies by covering ourselves in a waxy, flammable substance and burning it, and any lingering fingerprints, off of our skin. Somebody I don’t know lies down in a cast of wax and lets us cement him in. We promise to put out the fire once all the fingerprints are gone. We light the fire, and he starts to scream. It is out of control, the wax is much more flammable than we had planned. He tries to get out, but he is stuck. I try to smother the flames, but they are too hot to get close to. There isn’t really anything we can do anymore, so we walk away. The man screams in agony for a little while longer.
Risky Field Trips
August 21st, 2008 by Jenny Crimp; no comments
Jaime, my ceramics prof from this quarter takes our class on a field trip to the best illegal Japanese-run pottery operation in the country. It is located on the upper level of a storefront building in the center of town, which is located in my parents’ neighborhood. I get to climb up the ladder of a large vat and watch a man dip pots into the liquid inside. I missed the reason why the operation was illegal, but it was probably for some dumb reason like they use illegal substances in the process of manufacturing the pots, but it results in the best pottery in the world. While we all stand around watching the men scurry about and not really listening to Jaime explain what is going on, a SWAT team pulls up outside and we are about to get arrested.
In an alternate scenario, my ceramics class is visiting some rock formation with tunnels running through it that are large enough for people to crawl through. I have X-ray vision, or rather, the power to see a cross-section of the rock and the people inside. One girl from my class remarks that the texture and design of the walls seems amazing, but she can’t actually tell because the is no light inside. Suddenly there is an explosion and the tunnels begin to collapse. The girl is killed instantly, which is horrible, but at least I know that for sure. The problem is that I can’t remember who else was inside the tunnel. Several of us huddle outside, staring at the dust clouds emerging from the tunnel opening. Julianne Miller, a girl from elementary school emerges, bleeding from the head. There is a count, many people are missing, Alex is one of them. A boy nearby weeps from anxiety. He gasps and points, Alex has just emerged, stumbling from the opening. I am crying now. There is a round of cheering and applause, which seems inappropriate when others are still missing.
this is excessively symbolic
August 20th, 2008 by Kris Skotheim; one comment
I am riding my bicycle down a forest trail and stop to adjust something. Two women, one younger and one older, approach me on the trail. “Want to fly with me?” the younger of the two asks. I attach a rope she hands me, which is presumably attached to her airplane, to my bicycle. I try riding down the trail one way while she tries flying the other way, which is not very productive.
“I think you need to get off your bike for this to work,” she suggests. I do so, and she holds me around the waist as she is suspended from her airplane, which seems to be some sort of powered hang-glider. We take off between the trees, but quickly ascend above the canopy. We fly around, up and down, in circles, loops, figure-8s, over trees, beaches, meadows, and ocean. I am blown away by how thrilling it is.
Later she, her mom, and I all go to the clinic to wait for her to be drug tested.
they will make us explode
August 20th, 2008 by Kris Skotheim; no comments
I’m living in a dormitory, of sorts. There’s a big party going on in the main room, and we get points for breaking things. I grab a pool cue and slide it along all the tables, knocking countless glasses full of prepared cocktails to the floor and scoring countless points. I notice a flashing sign near the ceiling that has an airplane and a person and a symbol which means fire. I don’t know what that means, but there doesn’t seem to be a fire in the building, so I just keep on breaking things. I break so many drinks that I get really drunk and stumble a lot as I try to go upstairs to my room.
Levi (my roommate from the UW dorms) is in the common room looking really freaked out by something. He tries to say something, but I leave to go back downstairs. I see through the window an airplane painted as a firetruck landing in the front yard. I realize that I am really drunk, and should go hide so that the firemen don’t arrest me for underage drinking. I run back up to where Levi is, and he stops me to ask, “Hey – do you remember that beam being there before?”, pointing to a new structural element in the room. This thought sobers me up instantly – it must mean that something is happening in the room above the new beam which required the room have additional support, and only something really, really devious could possibly require that much support! I run for the exit, completely freaked out, but am stopped by a fireman.
“Hey kid,” he calls to me, blocking the stairwell. “I’ve got a story to tell you. When I was a boy, I remember … ” this is frustrating, so I yell at him, “I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE GOING TO SAY!” and try to push past. He stops me, then makes a deliberate effort to form the words, “No! No, I’ve got a story to tell you, I said.” He is clearly very drunk. Some other people come into the stairwell to discuss our dormitory’s predicament. After a lot of effort, the fireman explained that when he was young, he noticed weird things happening in the dormitory he was living in. One day, it became apparent that if he didn’t pay an evil scientist $14 each day, the scientist would make him explode. The same thing was going to happen to us, but the price has increased to $17/day on account of inflation. In the doorway, I notice splatters of blood amidst the rubble.
Typical
August 18th, 2008 by Jenny Crimp; no comments
Kathryn and I are secret agents on a mission, but down on the docks Grace Jones catches us and pulls out a gun. Kathryn and I jump in the water and swim under the docks, but it soon becomes apparent that this will not provide enough protection. We must get out of the water and run, but in order to do so, we have to swim across an open stretch where we are sure to be killed. We take the risk, having no other options, and miraculously escape unscathed.
I arrive at the CMA to inspect the results of the last glaze firings, in which my entire final project was fired. At first I can’t find my pieces, but finally I find my precious porcelain teacups with intricate designs I spent hours slaving away over to be either smashed, exploded, stuck to other pieces, or turned black brown from excessive heat. Infuriated, I yell, “God FUCKING DAMN IT-” etc. The guilt from not overseeing the last firing sets in.
I sit at a table with Chris L. from ceramics and we prepare food. Possibly provisions for an expedition. I make a joke about putting marijuana from a plastic jar labeled “Marijuana” into the sandwich he is making. Then I accidentally make another joke about consuming pot that’s not at all funny and we fall into an awkward silence and I have to leave.
Everybody goes crazy because of the government’s new play
August 8th, 2008 by Adrian Sampson; no comments
Everyone has been acting strange and unreasonable. They’re all frustratingly dense, even the ones who were nice and easygoing before. I’m living in a different house with different, more frustrating people who shouldn’t be there to begin with. They do all the wrong things and annoy me all the time.
People are acting different because they’re obsessed with a play that’s been written and produced by the government. All anybody ever does anymore is go see this play. It happens every night.
Tommy Carcetti from The Wire acted in the play for one season, which lasted for one year, but actors are not permitted to stay in the cast past a single season. When I attend the play one night, I see that he has gone completely nuts. He is filled with rage at the actor who has taken his place and sits in the back row, mumbling his old lines as the new actor says them.
I come back a few nights later. Carcetti is up to the same. Halfway through the production, he pulls out a double-barreled shotgun and shoots his replacement in the head.