Dream - 1-22-11

I regret to announce that my experiment failed. I do not think I was in control of any dreaming. I was just sleeping and interrupted. But, in any case, here is the dream I had last night:

I find myself in a courtyard made of tannish stone. Four walls on each side, slanting down into a pit of water like an upside-down, hollowed out pyramid. Four bridges from the four walls sprouted out to a center platform as big as life. It had four circular platforms budding out from a ring of stone. Plants and vines and waterfalls aligned everything. A ring of stone for every platform acted as somewhat of a roof. Large pillars held them up. I was with a crowd of people whom I did not know. They followed me as I examined large circular points of light like those found under a magnified glass. They burned large black spots upon the stone, yet its hellish heat did not hinder my flesh. Above me was a large ring of stone in-between the platform I stood upon and the vine-covered roof. A mechanical arm like those of a propping manikin used ages ago seized it. Before my friends was a lever too heavy to pull alone. As I stood upon the dot of light, they pulled this lever and the large ring of stone slammed around me like a fly swatter—yet I was not hurt, for I went through the whole which defined its center.

We went to the next platform and did the same thing, and the next, until we came upon the final platform. It was much unlike the rest. The others did not have a giant tiger statue, snarling, and preparing to pounce! One of the male followers came up to the statue as if he recognized it. A sudden voice like a god vibrated across the hollows!

“Return the sight you have stolen from me!” it cried, horrifically.

The man’s left eye gave way, and popped out of his head. A tangent of blood came out of his eye as he screamed for mercy. We had thought that death was to be here soon and claim his pray. Albeit, his bleeding stopped—his eye remained missing, sadly. They patched it with a piece of cloth; and now that each platform had been completed, a final stairway that led into the waters below came up to us. The water sunk into the recesses—and as did the water go did the sunlight, for everything went black.

We lit torches, and followed down the stair into the dark tunnel bellow. A door stood in our way, but it was unlocked and light. As we opened it, we came out into a large neighborhood. The houses we close together, but the one that drew our attention was none other than the giant black one beyond. It was the center of our sight, and the first thing we mostly saw. As we got closer, it got bigger—as we got closer, the other houses got smaller, until they disappeared completely. We entered there in; we all knew what was inside, for it was this that our goal was. We were meet by various people in fashionable dress of the Victorian style. What beautiful hats and dresses and voices, galore—except for the color . . . Everything was either gray, or black, and everyone wore masks. Everything was unfamiliar, but we had been there before and met the people.

HD is now Available =D

Wal-Mart Raid # 3 1-15-11

Wal-Mart Raid # 2 12-27-10

I Want A

I want a hat with fire on the side
A tangerine flutist and a breath-mint of pride.
I want a yodel that reached for the stars,
A masterful snail that raced, much like cars.

I want a mirror that reflects itself,
A magical, mystery, amazing bookshelf.
I want a horn as quite as a mouse,
A house as a car and a car as a house.

I want a crystal that emanates pie,
A short little man that can brush with the sky.
I want a camera that takes memories,
I want a glass that’s full as the seas.

I want a high-five I could not give away,
A golden trophy too big to display.
I want a broken down escalator with cars driving down it,
A guitar that is good enough to be called a bonnet.

I want a book I can read with my nose,
I want a daisy that smells like a rose.

That Morning

I felt my stomach twist into knots as the van rushed its way toward its destination. My eyes were red as tomatoes from staying up late the night prior; my head was a dizzy hurricane; and above all, I was unprepared for what was about to happen that morning. As we pulled into the parking lot, my fingers began to sweat. My legs went numb like they did not want to leave the car. I wish it was the day before so I could have a second chance, but as much as I wished there was nothing I could possibly do.

Some would say mathematics is the hardest subject, and some would say science, maybe even spelling—all of these, perhaps, but Spanish was mine. Over that school-year, I had developed some strange dyslexia for Spanish. I couldn’t conjugate verbs to save my grandmother, nor could I memorize any vocabulary. I was a hopeless mess. The words and the spelling, the accents and the grammar—all of it was jumbled disarray in my head. I do blame a lot of my unpreparedness to my lack of Spanish savvy; however, at the end of that year, I had developed into a diehard procrastinator. I had also lost a lot of interest in the Spanish language, and on many occasions said it was the stupidest language on earth.

It was cold in that classroom, or perhaps my fear was influencing me otherwise. It smelled like fresh coffee (my teacher obviously could never get enough). The resonance of pencils scratching on pallid paper surrounded me. No one else was shivering, and that is something I probably never understood. How was every other student managing this class better than I? And I could not help but wonder if anyone else was unprepared; yet, as much as it puzzled me, it was irrelevant.

The first thing I needed was a pencil. To my avail, I had none. I borrowed someone else’s, but snapped its tip at the first touch to paper. Hurriedly, I sharpened it in the corner of the room and returned accordingly to my desk. Reading through the text, I noticed questions one through five were effortless to answer—it was everything subsequent that made me hopeless. Over and over, I guessed through the whole test, but an obscure entity locked far into the deepest recesses of my mind was telling me I was doing well. Of course, I did not believe this. My face and ears were hot with anger and embarrassment; after all, none of these questions made sense to me as much did my haphazard confidence.

Before I knew it, the class had finished the exam. I, on the other hand, sat miserably on the third-to-last question. As much as the test was hard, none of it was compared to the essay. It required me to write, in Spanish, about my favorite Spanish word. I chose the word loco which means crazy pertaining to how crazy the test was. Something about the essay, regardless of its intimidation, struck me with refined buoyancy. Perhaps I did not do poorly after all.

The next two days were gruesome. I experienced one of the most nerve-wracking weekends of my life. I could not for the life of me stop thinking what my parents were going to think of my final grade. Though, as much as I was sure I failed, I was sincerely surprised to find out that I had made an 87 percent grade. I could not believe the report card I was reading. I felt that surely I made at the least a 20, but an 87? True, it made me feel good about myself, but I was still reminded of how legitimately unprepared I was that morning. Never do I want to experience anything similar to it, and that is what good came out of this experience—it showed me how painful it can be to be unprepared.

Riding in the Car!