I have the most peculiar dreams when I nap in the daytime.
    It began, as far as I can remember, in the ocean. Now when I dream of vivid landscapes, my mind does not simply choose them at random. A forest is a certain kind of forest, a field is a certain kind of field, an ocean is a certain kind of ocean. A certain level of sunlight and a certain type of weather also accompany these particular landscapes.
    This ocean, like all other oceans about which I've dreamed, was like the bright blue Caribbean. I could see through the crystal blue waves to the bottom, which was of the finest white sand. A mermaid (who looked exactly like Disney's Ariel) and a bottle-nose dolphin. Both of them had taken quite a liking to me.
I reached the shore of an island, one with a long stretch of sandy beach and tall, rocky cliffs at its middle. There were others with whom I met, though I don't remember their faces at all. It was at this point that I realized I was a man (who I knew, although I could not see myself, looked like Disney's Tarzan).
    The mermaid and the dolphin were mingling in the waves that crashed on the beach. The dolphin, like some silly pet dog or cat that brings its master sticks and dead rats, carried up from the waters various shells and rocks and seagreens and driftwood and laid them on the sand for me. There was something about that dolphin I did not like, so I avoided it. However, I desired to see the mermaid, and to get to her I had to go around some steep and narrow cliffs. Being "Tarzan", I was crawling around on all fours. Though it would seem that quadrupedal skill might give me an advantage on this terrain, I actually had quite a hard time. Around a corner I rested. There was a trail of bananas hovering a little above the ground, floating and spinning in place... much like the ones in Donkey Kong Country. I tried collecting them all, but I couldn't seem to grab the ones that ended up falling in some of the rocky crevices. Suddenly, islands rose out of the ocean not too far off shore. One almost perfectly connected to the part of the island on which I was standing... and it looked like Green Hill Zone from Sonic the Hedgehog. The other one was a bit further off, and looked like the Treasure Trove Cove level from Banjo Kazooie... only it seemed to have a gigantic WarioWare theme-park on it.
    You see, getting back to my dream-landscape archetypes, many of these dream-islands have theme parks or gardens on them. They remind me a lot of the places in Super Mario Sunshine; bright and exotic, yet classical and Mediterranean.
    Then I was at a rave. There weren't many people there, and the dancefloor was small. I was with a group of people my age on some kind of trip overseas. The music was dark and industrial, and we all loved it. Then the segment was over, and the DJ put on some Euro-dance (the kind that has 95% queers in its demographic). A bunch of older women with glowsticks and raver gear started flooding in. They were fat, ugly, and obnoxious... so we left. As soon as I walked out of the room, the DJ put on a techno remix of Patti Smith's "Gloria". I did a barrel-roll and turned back around to run back inside to enjoy the beat. As I was about to walk through, an older -man, slender, sinewy, and with buzzed hair- was keeping watch of the entrance.
He said "Patti Smith, huh?"
"Yeah!" I replied "You a fan too?"
"Nah, but I've heard a bit before. Kinda weird for them to be playing mixes of old-school punk."
"Yeah I know..."
    I was then back at home. It was night, and the house was dark save the light from the computer monitor and the desk lamp. I was with a couple of the kids I was with on the trip. A boy (the only person I can remember) told me that he had brought his pet snake with him, but didn't have a place for him. He brought it out to show the lot of us. It was adorable! She was a slender black garter snake, very small and delicate, with glistening black eyes. The she-serpent took a liking to me, and was very intelligent. She made gestures and, although she could not speak, I heard her words... her thoughts.
    She told me that she wanted to kiss me.
    I extended my tongue from my lips, my eyes closed. She opened her little mouth as wide as she could, her jaw dislocating itself the way snake jaws do. She fit her gaping mouth over the end of my tongue, sucking and working her throat around my flesh.
    That was, perhaps, the best kiss I have ever had.
    The boy who owned the snake told me that I could have her for three dollars. I took his offer immediately. I failed to realize that I didn't have a place to keep her either. So, I put her inside a small zippered black bag that I kept in my backpack. When I got back home, I began unpacking my things. I tore through all of my luggage, but I could not find where I had put her. I accidentally stepped on a bag that I had somehow overlooked. I unzipped it to find a dead snake, with part of her tail-end torn and caught in the zipper. I felt utter sorrow.
    Then, I awoke.

The manor was very lonely, now that she was gone. In his quarters, the dark man paced, his gaunt figure shrouded beneath an elegantly woven black robe. The silky drapes billowed softly in the breeze that drifted through the window, shimmering violet. Out on the balcony, a view of the twilit forest could be seen past the rose bushes. He shivered from the chill and closed the glass-paned doors, paying no mind to the outside world which he had most pleasurably shut out. He slouched against an ivory bedpost, its surface etched with the shapes of lotus blossoms. His fingers desperately clutched to their shapes.

                He thought for a moment about the nearby estate, owned by the young Lord Covington. His elegant homestead, painted pearly white with gold trim, was the latest addition to the rolling hills of the countryside. It had become the absolute nexus of youthful intrigue, with every manner of affluent folk flocking to enjoy his gardens, his hired musical entertainers, and marvelous refreshments. On that particular night, a masquerade filled his golden halls with that familiar glow of antique glamour. He imagined everything perfectly. Perhaps it went exactly as he had pictured, as if reality were a dream and he were not a lord of some manor, but the Lord Morpheus instead.

                On the ballroom floor, tiles shined and waxed, every man was truly a gentleman, and every lady a virginal goddess. Tuxedos were blackest black, contrasting like blots of ink on pure fleece against the starched white collars with which each was paired. The women laughed amongst themselves, taking swift bashful glances at the men standing on the other side of the glossy gilded floor. They minded themselves just as much, gently touching the bundles and rolls of hair that towered atop their heads as to be sure their personal appearances were immaculate. With billowing bustles and trailing tresses, the finely refined ladies presented themselves to their counterparts with perfect grace. Hands were held, palms on shoulders and waists, and the orchestra began to play. The music floated up and up, above the Corinthian pillars, the ribbons, the chandeliers, and the angelic moldings that framed the glass dome skylight. The music, though much richer and bolder than the shadowy lord could ever hope to be, crept its way through the cracks and crevices and into the frosty moonlit world above. The winds took the warm and shimmering sounds up into the heavens and melted away their decadent coats of sunshine with the sky’s pale luminance. At last they drifted down, down to the earth. Down they fell to the forest, across the fields, over the garden hedge, past the rose bushes, through the cracks and crevices between chilly glass windowpanes, and into a mournful lord’s heart.

The sweet melody, made a wistful nocturne by the night’s misty caress, lifted him from his slouch against the slender column of lotuses. Was this the sound of his dreams, coming to kiss him good night? Oh how it all swam about him, the little cotton fluffs and puffs of melody. It lifted his cloak of brooding from his shoulders, casting it to the floor in a heap.

Was the dream only a phantom of his imagination? Perhaps it was he who was the young Lord Covington, who heard the divine notes of his own musicians drifting up the dusty spiral staircase. He was Lord Covington’s dream, as he wished to be apart from the endless nights and dreadful, lonely days. He was a man, he was a dream, he was both and yet neither. He was that loathsome cloak on the floor. He was the midnight breeze, singing.

His fingers groped again for the ivory post’s comforting texture.

I will be treating this blog as an outlet for all the indecent things that occur in my life. It is not directed at a specific audience, nor is it directed at the general audience. It is merely a blog, and you should receive it as such.

My current and most horrendous struggle is between the realms of work and school. It is not to say that I enjoy one more than I do the other, but that both have their redeeming and their condemning qualities. Each world has its fair share of friends and allies, as do they both have a remarkable quantity of douchebags.

Except that, at Hollywood Video, there is blood all over the bathroom sink on Friday nights. I ran in there three times with blood gushing out of my right nostril. Not at all fun; but it was, in fact, quite funny.

It's amazing how absurd a single notion can get. A hunch. A feeling, earnestly poking along through my head (and my heart). How it grows, like cancer, and begins to mutate all flesh-like thought that surrounds it. I lack control; prefrontal cortex intervention on behalf of keeping my arse (and other southerly regions) out of trouble.

You see, that's another thing that troubles me greatly: my inability to cognate action --> consequence properly. My mind is not one to immediately realize that something is "right", or if something is "wrong". I sink my teeth into the first impression, the first notion, or the first urge. Fortunately, I tend to chew on this piece of questionable eventfulness before taking the fateful gulp. You need work, Hannah. Sticking a crescent wrench into your gray matter isn't going to help one bit.

And so I sit here on a Sunday night, listening to Bjork all bored-like with the facial expression of your dead Auntie Mildred. I need to be doing my homework. What have I? Jew-class... some Creative Writing business to take care of... oh my. I do not care one bit. I want to rest and to be concerned for only my personal matters.

When are things going to start being about me? Mother tells me that her world revolves around me, and that she wants nothing more than for me to be successful. I am not a thankless creature, but I just do not receive that kind of attention too gladly. I like being given minimum, then working for (or daring to ask for) something special now and again. I hate taking and taking. I hate being given junk that I don't need. This is what mother does: granting wishes that I did not even make. Makes me feel guilty; like some kind of pampered brat. Anyhow, I just wish there was a way to expedite this process of becoming an independent woman. No responsibility to anyone but myself. My grades, my money, my problems, my life. I do not at all enjoy being under the jurisdiction of anyone but myself. I need control. I need the room to change and flex and move onward (and hopefully upward).

Trapped. Maybe I'm not claustrophobic, but I do know what it is like to choke on my own existence. Ever felt like that? Where you just lay down one night, and realize that you're nothing more than a great cluster of electrical signals trapped inside this disgusting flabby, fleshy mass of organic tissue? To realize that you're a weightless network of energy suspended within a giant, gurgling shit-container? That, my friends, is being trapped.
If I am trapped so close to home, how can there be freedom in the journeys of life? Claw at my neck as I might, there is no escape-hatch for the soul.
Altjira can't even grant me one night of lucid dreaming... I cannot astrally project.

Fuck, I forgot about my tea.

I'll cut it off right here.