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Stomach Dream
Sep. 16th, 2008 10:37 amI remember that one of the more worthwhile things contained in my school's library was a large book in the Psychology section on dream interpretations. It must be said that I didn't really believe all the wild interpretations for quite mundane things that it came up with, suggesting that dreaming of wine is a sign that you want to eat your mother or (if it's in a bottle) feel guilty about cheating at Snakes and Ladders when you were five. But I think I'm in dire need of it now, because at some point during university my brain decided that from that point onwards it would only allow me to remember nightmarish twisted visions like some sort of eyeliner-wearing adolescent from a bad horror film. These appear with some regularity, though fortunately I only remember enough of them to write about very occasionally, and there are some that I've chosen not to share on grounds of taste. This is just on the edge.
In this one, we were on a plane, or at least some sort of aircraft - not a commercial airliner, but something far more comfortable and spacious. It was a round room with some sort of device in the centre that presumably had something to do with controlling it, carpeted and walled in deep red. I remember large glass cubes - about a metre on each side - strewn around the room, though I can't remember what purpose they might have served. The only people I remember the faces of in the dream apart from me were Whitney and my father-in-law, though others were there flying with us as well.
For some reason, after I remember pulling a few of the cubes uselessly around, a decision was made to cut my stomach out and replace it with a better one that I had seen in a catalogue of spare organs. There were three stomach models to choose from, but I can't remember the difference between them - all I know is that I went for something fairly sturdy-looking. Quite willingly, I got up and lay flat on a metal table, and my father-in-law began cutting into me with some sort of sharp implement just below my ribcage, while simultaneously getting me to swallow progressively greater amounts of anaesthetic contained in flat vials. I never gave in fully to the anaesthetic, though it made me feel groggy, and though I can't remember seeing it happen, I was still aware of the moment when my stomach was separated from me and I stood up, quite calmly, with a gaping dark hole where it should have been.
By this time, having crossed the sea we were flying over, we were on the ground and in a house (my parents' living room, I think), but my father-in-law had disappeared, having gone skydiving out of the plane along with five other people by hanging on to an inflated dinghy. I knew it would be unwise to eat anything in the condition he'd left me, but somehow I could still drink things (I've no idea where they went) - and I wasn't more than mildly annoyed with him for taking off inexplicably rather than finishing off the job, the same feeling I had towards the builder who had taken so long to finish off our bathroom ceiling last week. I remember considering going to a hospital to have the procedure finished professionally (though more expensively) rather than relying on the DIY method, but I woke up before I had the chance.
Anyway, enjoy your lunch.
In this one, we were on a plane, or at least some sort of aircraft - not a commercial airliner, but something far more comfortable and spacious. It was a round room with some sort of device in the centre that presumably had something to do with controlling it, carpeted and walled in deep red. I remember large glass cubes - about a metre on each side - strewn around the room, though I can't remember what purpose they might have served. The only people I remember the faces of in the dream apart from me were Whitney and my father-in-law, though others were there flying with us as well.
For some reason, after I remember pulling a few of the cubes uselessly around, a decision was made to cut my stomach out and replace it with a better one that I had seen in a catalogue of spare organs. There were three stomach models to choose from, but I can't remember the difference between them - all I know is that I went for something fairly sturdy-looking. Quite willingly, I got up and lay flat on a metal table, and my father-in-law began cutting into me with some sort of sharp implement just below my ribcage, while simultaneously getting me to swallow progressively greater amounts of anaesthetic contained in flat vials. I never gave in fully to the anaesthetic, though it made me feel groggy, and though I can't remember seeing it happen, I was still aware of the moment when my stomach was separated from me and I stood up, quite calmly, with a gaping dark hole where it should have been.
By this time, having crossed the sea we were flying over, we were on the ground and in a house (my parents' living room, I think), but my father-in-law had disappeared, having gone skydiving out of the plane along with five other people by hanging on to an inflated dinghy. I knew it would be unwise to eat anything in the condition he'd left me, but somehow I could still drink things (I've no idea where they went) - and I wasn't more than mildly annoyed with him for taking off inexplicably rather than finishing off the job, the same feeling I had towards the builder who had taken so long to finish off our bathroom ceiling last week. I remember considering going to a hospital to have the procedure finished professionally (though more expensively) rather than relying on the DIY method, but I woke up before I had the chance.
Anyway, enjoy your lunch.
