The Pseudo-Chronicles of Mark Huntley

Never Mope Before Bed - 9/11/04

Saturday, September 11, 2004

Did I mention that I called Gwendolyn on Thursday? No, looks like I didn’t—I was too busy cataloguing the woes of the world. Gawd, what’s wrong with me? I don’t think I used to be like this.

Anyway! Gwendolyn. We’ve got plans to meet up for dinner tonight in Friendship Heights, since she lives in that area and I don't mind ranging along the red line. If you’re not familiar with the neighborhood, let me disappoint you by saying that it’s not as magical as the name implies. Nor is “Friendship Heights” a metaphor for the fact that, as far as I know, we’re not planning on having sex with each other. It’s just a place with a few good restaurants near the metro stop. Chains, mostly, but I'm no snob about that. I never found New England to be a great mecca of independent dining when I was growing up. 

Ahh, it's been a while since I've been back. I wonder how Rence is doing today.

Just glanced out the window at my little piece of Washington. It's looking pretty grey out there. Hopefully we won't get rained on this evening. I'm looking forward not just to catching up with Gwen some more, but asking her how much of our conversation at Prabha's and post-Cafe Citron I’ve got right in my memories. 

I hope that she won't look quite so grave this time. If there is something bothering my long-lost buddy, I'd like to help her if I can. In fact, I’d welcome the opportunity to feel a tid bit more than useless.

Speaking of being bothered... well, I guess that's not the right term. Maybe as an effect of all my moping yesterday, I had a dream last night. Typical for dreams, I can't recall most of it. The part that happened right before I woke up in a wild-eyed sweat at 3 am was something like this: 

I was in a very dark area, I think outside because there was soft, moist ground under my feet. All of these little, light objects kept striking my face and body, like they were dead leaves blown by a strong wind. Yet the sense I got was more of a place in springtime than in fall. I saw the small figure of a boy, glowing with a weird, silvery light, wandering in the space before my eyes, looking lost. I tried to call out to him, but no sound came out of my mouth. 

Then he faded away. A number of strange symbols appeared in the sky, suspended and turning in place, all of them glowing with that same silver that the glowing boy had. If they were a language, I didn’t know it, though obviously I’m not the Rosetta Stone.

One of them tore loose and slowly floated down to the ground. It was changing, from a squiggly character to a shape I was familiar with: a large knife. Like, a dagger. Then this groaning, deep voice came from God knew where, like it was all around me, and light filled up my eyes… light that was that shining silver, but as I watched, became tainted at the edges with a deep violet that was really an anti-color rather than a color, that seemed to suck at the silver, leach it, making a new color that was like what color death would be if death had a color.

Like that makes any freaking sense whatsoever.

That was when I woke up and puked Miller into the toilet. There’s the classic Mark Moment you’ve been waiting for.

I keep thinking about those interesting images in the dream. Usually my dreams are about being late for class and unable to read the textbooks, or an awkward sexual encounter with somebody from “Friends.” This dream seemed a lot more useful, if unsettling. I actually found a mostly unused drawing pad in my closet and sketched out a few of the floaty symbols as best as I could remember them. Art it is not, but sketching them felt like something I needed to do.

Guess I’d better get ready for dinner.

posted by Mark Huntley @ 4:49 PM

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