Tuesday, February 7, 2017

The case of the missing wife. (dream)

Picture of daddy long legs by bella_domanie on Morguefile.com


I'm working for someone who's inspecting the disappearance of a newly-wedded bride. Her husband seems extremely distraught and without hope for our retrieving her, but we aren't discounting the possibility that she's alive. We're also not discounting the possibility that the husband knows more than he's telling. Personally, I have a strong hunch that he's sincere, but I don't trust my hunches.

"Take this to this address," my boss says to me, handing me a small green bottle and a piece of paper.

I don't know my boss yet and I don't trust him. He doesn't seem to have the sort of personality that would be into mine without a lot of effort on his part. I think he views me as disposable. Just before he handed me this vial, he was privately looking over something sent to him, personally. It had moved him, both viscerally and negatively.

I have a really bad feeling about this, but I'm new and curious, and curiosity is the only real reason I took this job. But now, I just don't feel the way I did when I signed up. I don't feel like myself. I feel sort of flaky and out of it. I go just because I can't think of anything else to say or do. The confrontation doesn't seem worth the effort.

I walk up to a cross-street. There's someone who used to work with me! He comes up to me and I persuade the guy to drop off the vial for me in exchange for some money and a few favors.

I go off to get started on the favors and the camera leaves me and follows him up to 221B Baker Street. A Victorian, lace-collared Mrs. Hudson answers the door and receives the vial. She seems to know exactly where to deliver it. She goes up the stairs and sees a horrifying sight: the corpse of a woman in a bridal dress, face picked open, hanging in a web over a four-poster bed. Over her is a khaki-colored alien that looks like a spider crab with 20-foot-long leg segments.

The spider-alien sees Mrs. Hudson. She screams. The spider quickly steps over to her. It punctures the tube she was delivering, sucks up the fluid inside and injects her with it. I don't know what will happen to her, but the spider scrambles away immediately, the way nearly any venomous animal would unless it was rear-fanged or had to chew in order to get venom into a prey item's bloodstream.


I'm helping to plan a wedding and I'm suddenly extremely interested in how to bake and decorate cakes and design floral arrangements, etc., so I can see hints of why I had this dream. It's a fairly personal thing though, so I debated for a long time about whether or not to post about it. For a long time, I've been of a mind that there's no reason to hold back information. Any attempts to use information against someone willing to be vulnerable enough to share it is... well, a breech of some kind of unspoken social contract to me. It's part of the risk inherent in vulnerability and what makes it valuable, and I know what side I'm on with regard to openness versus being too judgmental or closed-off. But the closer I get to this idea of total disclosure, the more I see how it definitely wouldn't suit how I feel or how I want to plan things a lot of the time.

But on the other hand, and less generally, I don't like the idea of completely forgetting so many events of my life. It's good to have some of it on "paper," because I always wonder where the information I've absorbed goes. Too often, it feels as though it was never really there for me to have. Yet it doesn't belong to anyone else. It just passes straight through me... there and gone. And it seems most likely that it never will have mattered much anyway in the long run, except to me... and I won't even be able to remember so much of it while I'm alive, never mind after I'm dead, so it's probably pointless except to my very temporary survival.

I recognized the bottle in the dream. It was my eyelash glue remover. I don't use fake eyelashes myself, but I have been trying to learn how to use it on other women. I think of it as potentially adding a little bit of  femininity. Lately, I've been reading a lot of diatribe from certain misogynistic groups that have begun to develop online. Mrs. Hudson and the doomed bride were certainly women, and both were killed by a venomous creature that had grown much larger than one would expect. The time of the mystery was also thrown back to the 19th century, before women could even vote. The injection of venom traditionally implies hurtful or harmful verbal injections.

I'm fascinated by these little hate groups, but I wish I weren't. I don't know why it's so easy for me and many others to be so strongly attracted to drama like this. Not even the happy moments of my life, the ones that probably will have made my life worth while, suck me in easily or play back for me at regular intervals the way negative moments tend to. I guess that's just the pragmatism of basic survival. Back in the suburbs, just after graduating from high school, I got so sucked into abnormal psychology and the DSM because it offered that thing that I never understood about people who love to watch horror movies- a quick look at mortality and human frailty. I think about some of my friends who were attracted to horror and gore and how I was (am) so sensitive to it and I laugh. I think I found that same excitement I didn't understand in horror movies in abnormal psychology. There isn't so much difference in terms of an adrenaline output without risk. At least not until you really think about the narratives.

After looking at this website about dream symbols, http://www.dreambible.com/search.php?q=Bride, I also think I must have been feeling anxious about the permanent changes in my life that I feel might be taking place.

I really enjoyed spending as much time as possible flitting about from one activity and one career or subject of interest for a long, long time. But I'm starting to feel that I can't be the way I was with regard to a lack of commitment of interest. That's probably why I keep associating brides with teachers I bump into in my new major. The days only seem to get shorter and the laundry list of things I want to learn and do only lengthens and I know I'll never get to it all, because that would be physically impossible. I suppose it's time to think about "marriage," not so much literally, but figuratively. But perhaps I do also need to start considering if I want a family or not, because time is flying... but it's also flying so fast that I won't notice or care if I never make my own new family. And if I'm dead, I probably won't remember anything about my life or have any  awareness of anything at all anyway. If people have souls, then why can a person's core, automatic responses to stimuli, or even all of their conscious beliefs change so dramatically as a result of physical injuries and drugs? Yep. My current vote is: there's no point to anything.