I dream I'm a dream someone is dreaming. Not a character in someone else's dream, I'm the actual dream itself. Whose?

I wake and write this down. Suddenly get the vivid impression that when I wake I'm someone else's WAKING, too, just as I'm another's dream when I dream.

I polish the prose until my dream is like Zhuang-zi's famous dream of being a butterfly--or a butterfly dreaming he's a man. As poetic as I can get it. Then I post my dream and its aftereffect on the Net...

And a haggle of lawyers in suits appear! (I assume "haggle" is the collective noun for lawyers, like "a pack of dogs" or "a grin of sharks.") My father sneers at them, calls them "those suit monkeys." I think he means their pretentious clothes, but he says "No, no, LAWSUITS! You know that guy whose waking dream you are? He's suing us. So I'm suing him back!"

But I had a strong suspicion the guy whose dream I am is... God. We're countersuing God? I mean, my dad's argumentative, he likes lost causes, but...

Now I'm in a crowd trapped inside a warehousy museum, in a rough part of town. A bunch of street thugs lay siege to the building. I suspect God's lawyers paid them...

We hear a crash in the other room; my friend Lance goes to investigate. I feel scared, but I go to the doorway. A couple of others string out in a chain from our main crowd too, each of us twenty feet from the next, making a chain to report back our findings to the main group without leaving anyone alone. Lance says "It's a smashed window, they're trying to break in." Are they looting, or after us personally?

I hear sirens. Good! A red car pulls up. The fire marshall, not the cops! Uh oh. Are we on fire? I don't smell smoke...

The other side of the room we're in has big windows looking out on a sheltered garden--the museum's atrium. But I hear steps on the roof, and suddenly two guys drop down into the garden and run toward our window. Damn, a second front. One of them, a teen, points in at me and the guy behind him raises... an assault weapon! These aren't just looters! I don't have time to dive. He opens fire straight at me though the glass. Because we're stretched out in a chain, no one else is in his line of fire. I think "what rotten luck!"

And then, as I was hit, I knew it wasn't luck at all. The kid pointed me out. I said too much--posted too much on the Net. I told one of God's secrets, and they're killing me before I can say more.

And I die.

And I wake.

NOTES

I did post some dreams and art today on the web, including a piece on Sartre, that quotes an English philosopher who got so mad at Bishop Berkeley's claim that matter's an illusion and we're all just thoughts of God, the guy lost his temper, kicked a rock, stubbed his toe, and yelled "Thus I refute Berkeley!"

And tonight... I see myself as the dream of God! Not his conscious thought, but his UNconscious!

While the cat's asleep, the mice will leap...

So the headache I got afterward wasn't from overwork, but... God's punishment for posting a bunch of pagan blasphemy on the Net! Wow. For a third-generation non-Christian, I sure have a litigious old deity in my head...

Thank God I'm the only one who has that little problem.

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