Late February 1995, Key West

..The difference between this and my other dreams was the intensity and clarity and documentary like detachment of the format in which the dream was presented. Startling, shockingly close visuals of genocidal carnage paired with live news coverage by all the major channels, along with blow-by-blow coverage and analysis. In one section of the dream, anyway. There were three distinct phases, and the first two combined within the second.

The first section dealt with a war, where the refugees, casualties, and children were mostly of Asian descent, but not all. The place was a complex of buildings made of concrete that looked to be official, or a place of trade, somewhere people assembled. The overall structure was gray and massive, and was cut in half by a concrete, tiered canal as large as the length of the two largest buildings. These two buildings architecturally mirrored the other in style and placement.

Refugees were arriving and attempting to leave simultaneously, a widespread panic in bloom. The attacking army faced no resistance and seemed to enjoy the slaughter slightly more than the announcer describing the atrocities. Dead bodies were everywhere, and the attackers were systematic in their twofold offensive: Immobilization through the destruction of the physical infrastructure, and a unilateral genocide of the opposition. Simple.

Helicopters and Jets scream around shooting. People are running aimlessly. Bridges are blowing up. And slowly, a sense that a herding to the center of the complex has begun.

The bridges that crossed the canal in many places are now destroyed, and the groups of people lining each side are getting bigger and more frenzied because there is no where to go and the attackers are moving in and the only option left is to jump into the canal and become an easier target and this happens as the cries rise up and the shots and explosions and anguish become one sound and the next thing I know, I’m someone else, it’s some other time, but it’s the same place. Wow… The geography is the same, but now it’s a resort. I’m a waiter there. I have this person’s memories and their motivation. I must have come on vacation to check out the scene and ran out of money.

Whatever this was now, it was a hot destination, tourists and palms lining the immaculately landscaped canal. The mood was heady, with money, liquor, and tips changing hands frequently. Waiting tables was easy, and my persona seemed to enjoy it, but I was also observing, from a distance. I watched ghosts of the fallen children tipping the drinks, tripping the persona, my waiter unaware of anything but clumsiness on my own behalf.

The dead carry such longing with them. Theirs is the remorse of memory from the violent end of their physical lives, melancholy from the meaninglessness of their deaths, and anger from the irony of locality. None of these wrongs will right themselves anytime soon. The living mock the dead by dancing on blood soaked concrete, oblivious to the events of the not too distant past. The low moans of discontent from the dead are drowned out by the music, and otherwise ignored by the living. Their thoughts are dominated by concerns of fun and revelry above all else. The dead take their comfort knowing, though,
that this too, shall pass.

There exists a segment unclear and therefore lost, so there is no context for what was present when I became lucid within the selfsame dream. The questions and conversation of the British couple in whose car I am the backseat passenger interrupt the ringing silence in my ears only occasionally. The man has commissioned me to conduct interviews with and write a book about his wife. They have picked me up from somewhere and I am thoroughly immersed in the quiet and assured negotiation of the hills and curves, and of the acoustic insulation of the car, which was luxury and had leather seats, which, when I moved, also broke the silence.