tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27647337010366937772024-02-21T08:02:58.548-08:00SaltTodd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.comBlogger113125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2764733701036693777.post-56802186373954051162022-01-28T10:53:00.003-08:002022-01-28T10:53:33.276-08:00Dream: We Saw It Clearly<p> <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">December 15, 2021</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">The dream scene was a party I was attending as a child, in an expansive plaza along the riverfront. People ate and drank and talked in a leisurely, carefree manner. Miles and miles across the water, whose volume moved swiftly like a river, but appeared wider like a bay or lake, was the bordering land. It was far too distant for any of us to be able to see with our naked eyes, but still it was visible; its great geographical landmarks and tiny cities jeweling everything. And even the people were visible, their bodies and faces and movements.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">We should not have been able to see everything so clearly.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">A storm started on that other shore. Horrific lightning and thunder, winds that tore land away, rains and snow that drowned valleys in white and mud sludge, breaking foundations and levees and bedrock, washing hundreds of thousands of people into the water, dissolving hills and mountains.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">We should not have been able to see everything so clearly.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Our party was great. The food was delicious, and as we learned more about one another, we watched our neighboring country’s sudden and rapid dissolution by weather.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Then a monster emerged from that faraway land, burst from the crumbling mountains and cities. We watched it devour devastated cities and its people in terrible gulps until we thought it was sated and peaceful.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">It was almost time for fireworks at our party. Hooray!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">The monster climbed the last mountain left to our neighboring country, a volcano with a crown split in half. It perched on the rim and dove high in an arc into the moving waters between us.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">And swam toward us.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">We should not have been able to see everything so clearly.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p><br /></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p>Dream Over</o:p></p>Todd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2764733701036693777.post-90620380034901445822021-08-10T07:39:00.000-07:002021-08-10T07:39:29.755-07:00Dream: Are How You?<p> <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">“Are How You?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Had a dream that we had a small family reunion. There was a kid there, about 8. I didn’t know who it was and kept asking people, “Is that your boy?” They all said no, until someone finally told me he didn’t have any parents. He was owned by a local news station and was featured in a weekly storytelling show obnoxiously called “Are How You?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I said hello to the kid, and he began to smile a grotesquely large smile. His eyes smooshed down into black lines and his head expanded as if filling with air. “Are how you?” he asked me in his saccharine, high-pitched TV voice. His head towered over me.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“Uhh, good job, kid,” I said, and his head deflated and face returned to normal. He laughed, sat on the floor, to play with blocks. People backed away from him.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“Why is he here” I asked a nephew.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“No one knows.”<o:p></o:p></p>Todd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2764733701036693777.post-82616954537654633122021-07-19T16:54:00.003-07:002022-01-28T11:03:31.401-08:00Dream July 19 -- Interstellar Convenience Store<p>Dream July 19 -- Interstellar Convenience Store</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Dream July 19, 2021<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I had a dream that a relative became the leader of an interstellar space exploration program. I had never seen him so sincerely excited about something like this before. He wanted volunteers from the family, but I was hesitant. His wife convinced me.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">The ships were small, not much larger than compact cars, but capable of light speed. I began my journey alone to a far off tendril of the universe. I arrived at my destination in what seemed moments, a planet with no atmosphere. Just an eternal night, a blackness that reached from the surface into the sky, poised forever at midnight with no close star as sun. But the heavens of this planet were not absent of light. As my spacecraft landed, it reversed and faced the sky, giving me a long glimpse of a galaxy of astonishing beauty, spirals of light and thousands of colors both known and unknown. It filled the whole of my vision and I wept as I tried to understand it and capture it to my memory.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">The ship touched down beside a small, bubbled dome, and opened its egress portal to an adjacent hole in the dome, allowing me to enter the enclosure without having to suit up. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">The material of the bubble somehow converted the light from the galaxy into a bright and cold fluorescent shine, revealing to me that the inside of the enclosure was an abandoned convenience store.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">At once the mystery of my destination was dispelled by the presence of shelves and shelves of candy, snacks, beverages, a profusion of beef jerky, and a clerk-less counter. The familiarity of it all depressed me. The fluorescent glare in the ceiling hid the strange galaxy from my eyes. I opened a drink cooler and took out a damn Dr. Pepper. Drinking a fucking Dr. Pepper on an alien planet! When I cracked it open, I caught sight of a door at the rear of the store. It was unlocked. I opened it and the bizarre dark light of the world splashed in. I held my breath for a second, expecting to suffocate or freeze or cave in or whatever, but the outside did not kill me. I walked out into a small grassy area suffused with the illumination of the galaxy above. At the corner of the area was a small, gray shed, and an oval garden filled the center of the space. With slow understanding I recognized this was a replica of the rear corner of the back yard of my childhood home. The garden was my Father’s, and here it was overgrown with alien flora that stirred in the breeze and reflected the light of the heavens. I cried again, seeing this, this time not feeling cheated by sameness, because while it was familiar, the garden and shed were now inhabiting and inhabited by the strange and distant.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I froze there, standing by the oval garden and had the sense that an enormous period of time was passing, a sense that I was both there and not, seeing my visits to this very space over eons and eons. I watched the flowers and plants in the garden evolve into fauna, alien creatures that ripped themselves out of the garden and ambled away into dark avenues to find their new way. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">The convenience store faded, while the galaxy lights in the sky grew and grew until my mind and thoughts and body were immolated by its star-clustered fingers.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Dream Over<o:p></o:p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p>Todd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2764733701036693777.post-41159175317474514152021-05-28T12:50:00.001-07:002021-05-28T12:50:26.247-07:00Dream: Something Is Wrong With My Nose<p> <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;">Dream May 27, 2021</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I was living in a cheap, crummy apartment. I had a bed, dresser, and mirror, which was shoved up in the corner next to the door. All the other furniture was cardboard boxes. My television was a large panel of cardboard, upon which was crudely painted a scene from a movie I hated.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">My neighbor across the hall was a woman with an enormous bob of blond hair. All day and night, she walked out into the hall in front of my door and stomped her boots on the floor. My door had a square cut out at head level, and was inset with metal bars. The neighbor banged her hair against the door and stuck her tongue through the bars, alternating between screaming and blowing raspberries.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“Ugh,” I said, and the cardboard chair beneath me crumpled. “Shut up! Trying to watch the scene!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“Come outside and say hello to me!” she yelled.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I got up from the floor and went to the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw what looked like a filament of linen float up from behind the headboard above my head. It undulated in the air, floating around the room and gaining both length and girth. It flew behind the mirror and emerged from the other side resembling a cottonmouth. The snake lunged at me, knocking me down on the bed. I caught its head, but it surged again and bit me on the neck. Immediately I felt the effects of the venom, causing extraordinary pain and also an immeasurable peacefulness.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I passed out.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I awoke in a stupor. The snake was gone. My neighbor was staring at me through the bars, expressionless. The apartment was filled with an incredible buzzing sound. A yellow jacket the size of a chihuahua rose up from beneath the bed, buzzing on drunkard wings. Its giant, shrimplike legs brushed against my face as it fell on my chest and then launched again. Its stinger lazily darted at my face and shoulders, looking more like an ovipositor. I successfully dodged all attempts to sting me, then slapped at it; it was liked pushing at a heavy punching bag. The enormous hornet buzzed louder, furious, and quickened from its lethargic hovering. The stinger jabbed at my nose, making contact, burning up my snozz with pain. It clacked its mandibles together and darted away through the mirror into oblivion.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I went to the mirror to check out my throbbing nose. It was violet and swollen, the size of a grapefruit. Lines appeared all over it, like boundaries on a political map. One of the skin countries fell off my nose, landing with a wet smack on the dresser. Then another. A pink mass was revealed as the skin fell off.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">My brother appeared beside me and saw my nose. “Oh, that is so gross!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">All the skin had fallen off now, uncovering a pulsing brain. The inside of my nose was a brain that writhed on my face as if trying for escape or some exercise.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“Quick,” I said to my brother. “Get some peroxide!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">He brought me some peroxide and a toothbrush.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“Why the toothbrush?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“It will help.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">He stood back as if afraid of infection and doused my nose brain in peroxide. A globe of foam ballooned around the flesh. My brother applied the toothbrush and brushed at the foam vigorously; the pain made me weep. After a minute of brushing, he stepped away. I blinked away tears, which rolled down over the flat surface of a large clock. My nose turned brain had now transformed into a digital radio alarm clock radio. The radio was on, but it was static. The red digits on the clock were at 2400 hours, military time. When I peered closer at my new, absurd nose, the time began to count down.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“What happens when the time runs out,” my brother asked.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“I don’t know,” I said.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">My neighbor stomped in the hall and blew a raspberry through the bars.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Dream Over<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Todd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2764733701036693777.post-89927053879021079102021-04-12T16:44:00.002-07:002021-04-12T16:48:02.485-07:00Dream: Flying at Larry David's show and more.<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> <span style="font-family: inherit;">Had a dream that I posted a picture of me on Twitter wearing a certain T-shirt. ??? got angry; he was sick of seeing the picture.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I closed my laptop and put it on the nightstand and went to sleep. In a doze, I said “Fuck you, Nick.” and I could hear him screaming at me from the closed computer. Subsequently, he started mocking all my Tweets so I had hundreds of mentions.</span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Then the dream shifted to me living in a mansion that was haunted by thousands of ghosts.</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Then I went to a theatre where Larry David was performing a play. It was at that time I decided to show everyone I could fly. I flew up above the stage and floated all over the theatre. People were awestruck and distracted from David’s show. On one of my landings he grabbed my shoulder and told me to fuck off with the flying. I ignored him and flew to the middle of the room. David sent out a flying tiger to attack me. In that moment, I knew it was a dream, so I imagined the tiger was wearing boxing gloves and then it was, and we proceeded to beat each other against the head floating dozens of feet above the audience.</span></p><p class="p3" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">That’s all.</span></p><p class="p3" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Over.</span></p>Todd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2764733701036693777.post-14879013761293300622021-01-02T11:35:00.003-08:002021-01-02T11:35:57.646-08:00Not my fucking fault.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDnvCWh2sGd61epfRWnN4uDNeQ2s43oNl1J8IW61oYc3CVX9J2jlk_ARBsa5qCVMmSwk-wOfgrKnv6BDKC4h1pd0M3dZTd_cOTwW6gW_YiKI-DqViuXefKmvNQNa3IjaS1_t4F2SjMFMWN/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="348" data-original-width="468" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDnvCWh2sGd61epfRWnN4uDNeQ2s43oNl1J8IW61oYc3CVX9J2jlk_ARBsa5qCVMmSwk-wOfgrKnv6BDKC4h1pd0M3dZTd_cOTwW6gW_YiKI-DqViuXefKmvNQNa3IjaS1_t4F2SjMFMWN/" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Todd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2764733701036693777.post-58228791925035717332020-10-12T14:45:00.002-07:002020-10-12T14:47:44.651-07:00Dream: They were like marshmallows, and blue.<p> <span face="Calibri, sans-serif">Dream 10-12-2020</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">A, Z, and I visited the “home” of some ultra-rich guru in the mountains. It was a bizarre place of high technology situated at the edge of a cliff. Along one side of the house was a three-dimensional square area of forcefields, magnetic and other. I walked in one end and started to float. Stepping into another end caused me to feel sick, as if my head was being squeezed by a vice. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">It became increasingly clear that this was some sort of resort or commune. The grounds were swarming with people, and, blue people. These were Rubenesque humanoids, naked but without genitalia, faceless and entirely blue. They ambled around, bumping into the people. I bumped into several, and they were weirdly soft, like marshmallows. The owner of the commune escorted us up some stairs and onto a large balcony with railings at the side to prevent anyone from falling into the canyon below. We lay on our bellies at one end of the balcony as the owner walked up on a dais to deliver a speech. A control panel was built into the stone directly in front of me, with buttons and digital numbers. I reached into the console and pushed a button. An alarm went off and Z grabbed my shoulder.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“What did you do?” he shouted.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">The stone beneath me rose in a circle from the floor. I was elevated higher and higher, above everyone else and then the platform I was on expanded as it moved toward the cliff and bottomless canyon. Handles appeared near my hands as the platform tilted at a dangerous angle and spun 360 degrees. I grabbed the handles but my hands were greasy and they kept slipping away as the platform tried to dump me in the canyon. Around and around I went, and I saw the owner was sitting in a truck on his dais. He said, “I might run over you with my truck!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">The platform tilted once more, and I dangled just for a second above the canyon before it flattened out again and shrunk, drifting again to the space above my original position, then lowering me to safety.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">A stood at the far right of the balcony. The floor had risen into a wave far above his head, and he was trying to pull it toward him with his right arm. The wave gave a little, looked like it was made of taffy. He was trying to pull it down to his feet. Then wave stiffened, and its curve suddenly buckled away from A. The violent movement ripped off his arm, flinging it behind me. He didn’t make a sound, but I screamed and the wave rose up and blocked him from view.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Z grabbed my arm and led me past some blue people into an entrance and up another flight of stairs into a small cafeteria. I grabbed Z’s shoulders. “Is A okay? Did he lose his arm?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">“Yes, he did,” Z said, then disappeared into the cafeteria crowd. I was upset that I didn’t know where A was and the general apathetic reaction to the amputation.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I sat down at a table in front of a window. The window looked into a small room. A was in there, and he was flexing a strong, prosthetic arm. He was smiling and didn’t appear to be in pain, which relieved me.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">But then I noticed the seam where the arm had been connected. It was blue, blue like the blue people. A saw me through the window and waved. As he waved, the seam bulged and grew, turning blue a few inches above and below the seam. I tried to yell at him but the cafeteria was too loud. He moved out of view, and in dread I realized he was turning into one of the blue people.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Dream Over.<o:p></o:p></p>Todd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2764733701036693777.post-14028755963735797852020-05-08T09:32:00.000-07:002020-05-08T17:35:43.831-07:00Two Short Dreams: Stranger Chainsaws and the Raining Garage1. <br />
<br />
In some version of our backyard in Paris. One of my sisters had invited a weirdo over, and he was obsessing about a tree that was growing crookedly in the neighbor's yard. He wanted to cut it down. Against my pleas, my sister gave this wartyish guy Dad’s chainsaw. He reached over the fence with the chainsaw, sawing at the tree and it crashed down against the neighbor's house. In a frenzy, the dude began to cut at the fence with the chainsaw, slobbering, whipping it around like it was plastic toy, until my sister knocked him in the head and it whipped out of his hands backward at me, falling just inches from my feet.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
2.<br />
<br />
I’m in a huge, empty garage. Everything inside has been packed up by my family and put in a van to move. They did this while I was sleeping, and nobody tried to wake me up to ask me to help, and I feel guilty. It’s raining in the garage, and there are puddles of gasoline scattered all around. I am alone except for a toddler boy wearing a raincoat, and a car with its headlights pointed in my direction. I’m supposed to be watching the kid. I think he’s my brother. His name is Aggie. A beautiful woman I love in the dream is behind the wheel and her mother-in-law is in the passenger seat. They are both watching me quietly. The toddler runs all around the wet garage, laughing and slipping on the concrete. It’s very dangerous. I dart towards him, carrying both a lighter and an enormous iPhone. The kid runs in front of me, so I grab for him, which throws the lighter and phone in an arc to land in a puddle of gasoline. I slip in the rain, falling, and the back of the poor toddler’s head smacks gruesomely against the concrete. He cries pitifully as I search the back of his head for blood, but I’m also distracted by searching for my phone and seeing that my lighter has ignited several puddles of gasoline. The woman in the car switches on her brights and starts the engine. The toddler starts to sob and shout, both cute and horrifying, “AGGIE DEAD! AGGIE DEAD!”<br />
The fire grows brighter.<br />
“AGGIE DEAD! AGGIE DEAD! AGGIE DEAD!”<br />
<br />
Todd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2764733701036693777.post-62398051043062887692020-04-13T15:11:00.001-07:002020-04-13T15:11:11.000-07:00Dream: Confectionary Papist Time MachinesDream April 13, 2020<br />
<br />
<br />
Had the weirdest dream recently that I worked in the same office block as a professor in a business college. Our offices were adjacent and open to each other. He had a floating briefcase, and he was also the gatekeeper to a time machine on the other wall of his office, which was a circle at the end of a ramp. People came to ask him questions before they used it. I’d watch the far wall morph into long ago and far future times and places and the people vanish through the circle. One day I got up my nerve. He wasn’t in his office that day, so to summon him, I carried his floating briefcase out into the hallway and back inside the office and he appeared at his desk.<br />
“I want to use the machine,” I asked.<br />
“Okay, where do you think is the most crowded place at any time?”<br />
“The beach.”<br />
“That’s boring. You need to go to Vatican City at any time before 1000 AD.”<br />
“Why?”<br />
“Because the Popes are working on time machines that are supremely more advanced than anything I have. I need you to go there through my special time cannon.” He stepped away from his desk and pointed to the front wall, and a shelf appeared, a perfect square of nine square shelves, each one holding a basketball. “You will stand in front of the time cannon, which will send you to a special time in Rome, probably 337 BC, where the Pope is creating a mind-boggling time machine ENTIRELY OUT OF SUGAR. Sugar!”<br />
“Okay.”<br />
I did what he asked and the far wall transformed into a view of the flowing Tiber and a cluster of buildings on the far side. The basketballs exploded and the gatekeeper screamed, “They are made out of sugar!”<br />
<br />
<br />
Todd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2764733701036693777.post-23679778534399544522020-03-04T17:49:00.002-08:002020-03-04T17:49:51.253-08:00Sang Today.I sang today for the first time in a long, long while, and it made me cry.<br />
<br />
I'm not very good, but I can carry a passable tune. More importantly, it's a part of me that I was always proud of, that I cared about, that I knew intimately. Any talent I have comes from my Mother, who sang beautifully in our home all the years my brothers and sisters were growing up.<br />
<br />
And when I sang today, I thought: why have you forgotten this room in your heart? Why did you abandon a place you loved?Todd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2764733701036693777.post-80675232655911619722020-02-12T13:32:00.002-08:002020-02-12T13:32:27.569-08:00banal whaterperk dreamDream Monday December 2, 2019<br />
<br />
I had a dream that I was supposed to meet you and Dad at a waterpark somewhere in Ohio. I went there, looking for you two, and finally found you, but you kept leaving and I lost you. The park was a horror; people were getting in fights and killing each other. Also, the water people were getting stuck in water park machines and were getting crushed and dismembered. Corpses floated all over the place, and the employees used the bodies to scare people and tried to terrorize me with one. I kept trying to call Dad, but it never connected and I learned that you had left. I walked to a C-store at the edge of the park and bought a huge case of water. Instead of shopping carts, they had donkeys. And the donkey simultaneously tried to cuddle and to kick me in the face. It was getting dark and I was lost and I started to panic, then made a decision to get a hotel room and leave the next day in full light. <br />
Todd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2764733701036693777.post-19172011679394976522019-12-17T15:47:00.002-08:002019-12-17T17:57:59.561-08:00I promise I wasn't eating from there.One day some time ago, my toilet became clogged for mysterious reasons. It wouldn’t flush properly but didn’t overflow. Nothing was going down there anymore. Luckily, I have a backup toilet, but this toilet is my favorite, so I had to get it fixed. I called the maintenance man and when he arrived, explained the problem and went to run some errands.<br />
<br />
When I returned the maintenance man was gone and my favorite toilet was fixed. He had left the work order on the counter, which was pinned down by a gigantic spoon. On the order he had written, in huge handwriting that had obviously been mutated with amazement, terror, and disgust:<br />
<br />
THERE WAS A SPOON IN THE TOILET!!!!!!<br />
<br />
Oh no.<br />
<br />
As soon as I saw the spoon, I remembered. A few days before, I had dumped a large storage container of objectionable pumpkin seeds, thinking stupidly, this is a good idea, they will decompose faster. I had forgotten there was a big ‘ol soup spoon I was using for a scoop buried in the seeds. The toilet swallowed seeds and spoon, and choked on the spoon.<br />
<br />
Oh no.<br />
<br />
So now I imagined this poor maintenance man’s surprise and horror, finding a spoon in my toilet. This man thinking, why did this thing happen? Why does he need a spoon in there, so close to a toilet, and then, IN THE TOILET? Is he eating . . . IS HE EATING IN THERE, FROM THERE? What is he eating from there? Oh my God. THERE WAS A SPOON IN THE TOILET!!!!<br />
<br />
Oh no, I promise, I promise!, I was not eating from there.<br />
<br />
I hope he didn’t tell anyone, like I just did.<br />
Todd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2764733701036693777.post-56975387235892266332019-02-10T17:15:00.000-08:002019-02-10T17:15:13.741-08:00Quick Napdream: Furnace Dog and My Unstarted Final Project took a nap today and had a dream that I was taking a creative writing class and the semester was close to over and my final project was due. I hadn’t done shit. I went to a bar where my teacher was bartender to talk to him about it, but he was inaccessible. There was a dog in the bar which was playing with a stick. I accidentally tripped over the stick and the dog subsequently stalked and attacked me. While I was trying to talk to my teacher, it stood straight against the bar and barked and snarled, biting me. When it snarled, its torso became hot like a furnace and burned my leg. Its teeth ripped and shredded my hands and arms, and I asked bartender teacher, (who had turned into Hugh Jackman as Wolverine), for a knife. I had to cut the dog into pieces until only its head remained on the floor. It continued to snarl, and each time my entire body burned as if I had fallen into a deep fryer. This dream was like a village on a world map of dreams, so many things going on. Fun!Todd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2764733701036693777.post-44226381380144961052018-11-20T13:06:00.003-08:002018-11-20T13:06:13.343-08:00Not My Long DreamNot My Long Dream <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
He really had to poop, and it was hard sloshwalking through the two feet of water that had pooled in the cruise ship’s foredeck ballroom. So far, all his tries to relieve himself in the men’s toilets had gone like this:<br />
<br />
He pushes open the door, feeling like his butt is going to explode, and the restroom is crammed with high school kids dressed for prom. They are standing along the walls, and multiple pairs of dress shoes are shuffling within the stalls. The bathroom reeks of cologne. There is no toilet available to him. At regular intervals, a senior emerges from one of the stalls, holding up a tuxedo while smiling lasciviously at his reflection in the mirror. He says to his fellow students: “I’m going to get so much pussy tonight!”<br />
<br />
The women’s toilets were locked.<br />
As he splashed his way toward the atrium, hoping for relief, he wondered why he was alone on this cruise. He vaguely remembered boarding the ship with friends and family, but they were nowhere in sight.<br />
The flooded deck was crowded with lovers, who floated in the shallow water, locked in embrace as they made out. One large woman drifting on her back against the stairs held a small man on her belly like a bear cub. She winked at him over her lover’s head, but he didn’t feel sexy right now and kept walking to an elevator.<br />
The elevator opened automatically and it was dry. The lift attendant smiled at him politely.<br />
“On which floor is the closest toilet?” he asked the attendant, stepping inside.<br />
The man jumped out of the elevator into the water, turning around and reaching to push a button on a panel. “This will take you to the Public Restroom on shore.”<br />
The doors shut and the walls and floor became transparent. A rotor blade popped out of the elevator’s roof and unfolded, spinning the car away from the ship. A helicopter tail grew from the rear and the craft flew towards a low, concrete building on the shore of the bay in which the ship was anchored. A DING! sounded from the operations panel and a tray with an empanada slid out of a hole. It looked good, and he was hungry, but he ate a meat pie from the buffet earlier, which he suspected someone touched after using the toilet and not washing their hands. Thus, his dilemma. He did a poopy dance as he watched the ship retreat, finally fully remembering his companions on the cruise. They were in the cigar bar, waiting for him. His sense of urgency increased.<br />
The trip in the helivator was fast, and it landed on an oil-stained square of concrete at the top of a filthy stairwell that led down to the restrooms. The helivator doors opened and a gust of air pushed at his back, shoving him out. He tripped on a lump of gravel and fell down the stairs to the bottom, smashing face first into an olive tree, which sliced open his cheek.<br />
“Dude, what the fuck are you even doing? That’s not how you take the stairs. You better hurry up, cause this is the last shuttle back to the ship before it leaves harbor.”<br />
Grabbing the tree trunk, he pulled himself to his feet, worried that he’d shat himself.<br />
A man in his late twenties sat in the bow of a small rowboat, grinning at him. The boat was hitched to a tiny dock situated across the way from the restrooms. A few teenagers sat in the boat facing him, laughing.<br />
“Seriously,” the young man said. He pointed to the cruise ship which loomed in the distance beyond a cluster of trees that appeared a cross between mangroves and royal palms. “We gotta go.”<br />
“Okay! Please, I just have to use the bathroom.” He ran into the restroom and ran out, feeling relieved but disappointed that he didn’t remember what happened there.<br />
The rowboat in the small inlet had lost its oars and now had a tiny outboard motor, which was chugging along pushing the boat away from the dock.<br />
“Wait!” he yelled, jumping into the water to grasp a steel bar welded behind the rearmost bench in the boat. The man and the teenagers looked at him silently. He pulled himself to the left, kicking his legs away from the propeller. He tried to haul himself onboard, but wasn’t strong. The blade of the propeller bit into his shin and he screamed.<br />
“Please help me.”<br />
One of the teenagers said, “You should be stronger. Try pulling harder.” All three passengers turned away from him to look ahead to the ship.<br />
He grunted and was finally able to pull himself onto the stern. He rested for a moment with his face mashed down on the boat’s floor, then slid his legs inside. His right shin was cut deeply, but instead of blood, a thick white substance like caulk filled the wound. He settled on the back bench; the other passengers ignored him.<br />
The boat shuddered and lifted from the water to fly into the massive canopy of strange trees. It drifted at an angle higher and closer to the cruise ship through branches the size of redwood trunks and flat leaves as large as basketball courts. The branches and leaves extended all the way to the ship, arching over and casting shadows on its vast foredeck.<br />
The small craft landed on an enormous leaf several hundred yards away from the ship. Hanging from branches above the leaf were what looked like acrobat swings, a line of them stringing from branches in a succession down and down to the cruise liner.<br />
The laughing captain of the rowboat-turned-aircraft and his teenage passengers got out quickly and immediately leapt to the hand bars, swinging themselves with great accuracy and power lower and lower towards the ship.<br />
Swing. Release. Drop. Grip. Swing. Release.<br />
He stepped out of the boat onto the spongy leaf and approached one of the hanging swings. A great roaring horn blasted from the cruise liner, signaling its imminent departure. He watched as the now tiny figures of the man and teenagers dropped from the last swings onto the deck of the ship. A large crowd surrounded them, but they were too far away and small to see if any of those faces were of his friends and family.<br />
He glanced up at the hand swing.<br />
“All this for a shit,” he said. “A shit I don’t remember.”<br />
He jumped and grabbed the bar, swinging his legs back and forth to gather momentum. Terrified, he focused on the next swing below, throwing himself forward as hard as possible, letting go.<br />
Falling, his chin clanged against the lower bar and he bit through his tongue. Blood filled his mouth as his head slipped off the swing and he fell, hands clutching at nothing, sinking, sinking, sinking through the branches and leaves.<br />
He landed on concrete instead of water. But the concrete was soft, merciful, hugging his side and wounded leg like the gentlest foam. He rested there for several moments, wanting to sleep.<br />
The horn roared again, and he stood, looking around. No water. No ship. He was in the middle of a parking lot that seemed to stretch miles in every direction, empty except for himself and a bus. He was behind the bus, shrouded in its exhaust. Coughing, he walked around and went up the steps.<br />
The bus driver kept his eyes forward. A few extremely elderly women sat at the front of the bus, bundled in coats designed for the Arctic Circle. Their eyes looked him up and down, then ignored him.<br />
The back of the bus was scattered with what looked like corpses, but they were mannequins.<br />
Mannequins of people almost ready to die.<br />
He sat in one of the back seats, next to the plastic re-creation of a young man on the verge of suffocating. Its eyes were a calm blue amid a face distorted by a desperation to breathe.<br />
“Where is this bus going?” he asked the driver.<br />
“One way to Evansville, Indiana. No stops.”<br />
“Okay,” he said.<br />
<br />
Dream Over<br />
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Todd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2764733701036693777.post-23315284716206405792018-09-03T17:27:00.000-07:002018-09-03T18:56:34.895-07:00Dream -- Apocalypse BoardwalkDream – Apocalypse Boardwalk<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The surf crashed beyond the boardwalk. Several members of my family and I sat at a picnic table situated on the wooden walk amidst streams of people on vacation, on some foreign, metropolitan coast. A man we knew and didn’t know occupied the tabletop, his arms were stretched to the sky and legs sprawled on the bench. Passersby began to notice him, and he started to tremble. Tourist children scrambled away from their parents to gawk at the man, and their parents screamed and yanked them away. <br />
His skin wrinkled and suppurated; it split down his arms and legs symmetrically, puddling down on the table. A skeleton of rust-colored chitin was revealed, and it vibrated so, it seemed to be the overlapping bug bones of a nested thousand, which shredded and splashed the remaining skin into the crowd into our faces.<br />
I was horrified, disgusted, and somehow grieving for this mysterious creature, and urged my family to run. A great and echoing BOOM sounded from miles away within the ocean and the land shook, throwing people to the ground. A towering wall of water began to close in on the boardwalk, and my point of view doubled into what I saw with my own eyes and a perspective from high in the sky. People scrambled around me and from above looked like mad specks hopelessly running from inevitable doom.<br />
We ran inland toward a stone building that was open on the street side. Huge train tracks ended at the wall facing the ocean, upon which rested two abandoned railcars so enormous, they seemed designed for giants.<br />
Again my perspective changed, except this time I became two people. One of me was still running with my family for the safety of the building, whose POV blanked out. The other me was wedged in the giant linking pins between the two railcars, stuck in the chain holding the two together, my leg caught somehow. The chain was loose, but I knew if the car behind me was pushed, I’d be crushed in half by the joining metal.<br />
I looked back over my shoulder, making a squealing sound. The wave was growing closer, yet moving absurdly slow. Debris and people saturated the water, legs and arms writhing about like thousands of cilia. <br />
I tried to yank my leg out, but it wouldn’t budge. I screamed out to a boy fleeing the wave, about to enter the building. “Help! Please help me!”<br />
The kid stopped for a second with his hand on stone. “That sucks!” he said and entered the protection of the building.<br />
I screamed as sprays of water soaked my back just before the foothills of the powerful wave pushed the railcar behind me and the compressed chains sheared me in half.<br />
“Oh no,” I said, as my bottom half fell into gravel. I passed out.<br />
And woke within the other me.<br />
I had just followed my family into the building and turned to watch as the wave and its successors crashed inland. Despite one wall being open, the water passed like the angel of death over blood painted lintels. But the thunder of water was creating a gruesome painting on the edge of the wall facing the ocean as hundreds of bodies were smashed against it, a many-layered charnel, and while we were spared the water, the inside of the building was continually spattered with gore.<br />
We retreated deeper inside to the farthest corner from the open side, where we found another picnic table. We sat down, and members of my family began talking, but their voices were mute to me. I tried to interject, but they only stopped for a few moments, then their lips moved again.<br />
Frustrated, I stood up and saw an adult-sized tricycle in the shadows. I got on and started cycling. It moved forward a bit, then lifted into the air. It rose up on an invisible track as I pedaled, to the ceiling, then in large circles and down back again, repeat.<br />
I rode the tricycle in its loop over and over as the ocean purged its endless depths into the city, depositing a wall of death along the open side of the building. I rode the tricycle as my family talked in silence. No words could I hear.<br />
<br />
Dream Over<br />
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Todd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2764733701036693777.post-18086179055325263932018-07-26T20:33:00.002-07:002018-07-26T21:30:51.895-07:00TrumpAirDream 2018<br />
TrumpAir<br />
<br />
<br />
I walked alone somewhere strange and cold on what seemed an infinite pier stretching over a gray ocean. I knew I was on a trip away from home, but didn’t know where. Although I was alone, it didn’t bother me. I was comfortable.<br />
<br />
Comfortable.<br />
<br />
From behind me came a gaggle of voices, laughing and singing, in an Irish accent. They moved ahead of me, a small group of men and one woman. From the similarities of their features, I could see they were siblings. <br />
<br />
The sister turned her head to stare at me, grinned. She was tall and strikingly beautiful. Her focused energy made me uncomfortable.<br />
<br />
“Which way are you going?” she asked. “Why are you walking by yourself?”<br />
<br />
I pointed down the pier. “I don’t know, but there’s only one direction, anyway.”<br />
<br />
She fixed her chilling eyes on my face and swung her head left. The wooden path before us split in two, doubled with the movement of her head. The pier now forked in two directions, the original knifing away into the dismal distance, and a new way paved in concrete which descended in hundreds of steps. The level of the ocean dropped uncannily with the steps. Once my eyes froze on this new path, I was afraid to look again at the first pier, afraid I’d be crushed by water.<br />
<br />
“Why don’t you walk with us?” the woman asked. I started to say something, but she grabbed the sleeve of my jacket and pulled me close to her. It was a cold day, and she radiated a warmth which was calming. So I followed her down the steps, with her brothers behind us. They spoke Irish now; I had no idea what they were saying, but each sentence was like a burning wick into a bomb of laughter.<br />
<br />
At the bottom of the steps, the path broadened into a vast plaza, at the center of which was an airplane surrounded by a small group of people. Emerald Gaelic characters covered the side of the aircraft. The woman’s brothers began to cheer and run, as did their sister.<br />
<br />
“Where are we going?”<br />
<br />
They ignored me and raced to the aircraft, and I followed. As we got closer to the people there, the woman stopped abruptly and cursed. A tall man in a rumpled suit stood by the staircase. He smiled at her like a ghoul. It was Donald Trump.<br />
<br />
Trump reached for her and the green lettering fell from the plane to the tarmac, revealing gold letters: TRUMPAIR. He grasped her elbow while she screamed.<br />
<br />
“I am the pilot of this plane,” Trump said. “The best pilot. We’re all going on an amazing trip!”<br />
<br />
The woman’s own brothers surrounded her and dragged her up the stairs, while she fought and bit them.<br />
<br />
Like a coward, I turned to run, but Trump’s men grabbed me, herding me onto the plane. I struggled to get free, facing Trump as he ascended the stairs, the hollow white skin around his eyes like the prophecy of skeleton death as he smiled and smiled and smiled.<br />
<br />
The interior of the plane was much smaller than the exterior suggested, one row of seats behind the cockpit, and one seat high in the rear, accessed by a small stairway. The men shoved me up the stairs to the lone, high seat and strapped me in. The harness was tight and pressed me down, and as I fought against it, a window opened in the aisle floor between the seats below me, revealing the tarmac.<br />
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The Irish brothers piled into the seats on the left of the plane and were quiet, staring serenely at the cockpit. Their sister was squished into the window seat at the right by Trump’s men. Her face was pushed against the glass with a man’s elbow jammed into the back of her head. She made keening sounds that scared the fuck out of me.<br />
<br />
In the cockpit, Trump settled into the pilot’s chair and an advisor, whose face scrolled through so many different features to make me dizzy, sat in the copilot’s chair.<br />
<br />
Trump pursed his lips and squinted at the controls. He reached for a dial.<br />
<br />
“You don’t know how to fly, Sir,” said his advisor.<br />
<br />
“I am the world’s greatest pilot,” Trump exclaimed and his hand got closer to the dial. <br />
<br />
The advisor grabbed Trump’s hands and pushed them to manipulate all the controls in a blur, then the plane rose from the tarmac like a helicopter. Once we were airborne, with the runway not far below, Trump laughed and grabbed his advisor’s head in one hand, then shoved him down onto the floor of the cockpit. He then grasped the yoke with both hands and yanked it back and forth like he was captain of a Tonka Truck.<br />
<br />
The Irish woman freed her face from the window and shrieked at him.<br />
<br />
Trump’s face got red and the plane dipped fast toward the runway. I could see a man down on the tarmac through the floor window. He was a black man in a work outfit. The plane fell and fell, and I turned my face away in horror as the bottom of the plane hit the tarmac and crushed the man; his remains gored the glass.<br />
<br />
Captain Trump’s advisor climbed back into his chair as the plane scraped against the ground. He guided Trump’s hands again on the controls until the plane again ascended and Trump again pushed him away and took charge and the craft plummeted. This cycle occurred over and over, smashing and squishing countless people into the ground under the aisle floor window.<br />
<br />
I imagined the trail of crushed people behind us and got sick. We never, ever took off. Just a series of leaps and falls that slaughtered the unwary.<br />
<br />
It finally ended when I looked up from the viscera-crusted floor window to see the brothers were standing in the cockpit around Trump, and their sister had her fingers tight in his hair. He was squealing in pain, and his squeals seemed to lower the plane gracefully to the runway to a soft landing. She let go of his hair and the exit door opened and stairs lowered to the ground. My harness vanished.<br />
<br />
Trump and his men washed out of the plane like vermin on a tide of lye. The woman and her brothers exited the plane, and I followed. <br />
<br />
Trump was surrounded on both sides by his entourage. He looked pleased, proud, vindicated.<br />
<br />
I peered over my shoulder and saw that endless trail of death on the runway and shuddered.<br />
<br />
One of his men pointed at me, pointed at the Irish woman and her brothers.<br />
<br />
While Trump looked at nowhere, a satisfied smile on his face, the man said, “It isn’t his fault. He never claimed to KNOW how to fly. That’s preposterous! Surely it’s your responsibility, and he has nothing to do with it.”<br />
<br />
They surrounded Trump in a lighted coil that SQUEEZED and soon pressed out all illumination, and drifted away.<br />
<br />
Dream Over<br />
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Todd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2764733701036693777.post-64600021221150292832018-07-11T13:18:00.000-07:002018-07-11T13:18:28.774-07:00The Wheel of Time Fashion Show.The Wheel of Fashion Show with No Regard to Time: Robert Jordan and H. sit on opposite sides of the catwalk, which is lit by rows of engraved STAND LAMPS. The engravings are myriad and Jordan describes each. H. has a censor button that she can use on Jordan, but she smiles at him because he is so beautiful and doesn’t push the button. Numerous people from Randland walk up and down the catwalk beneath tapestries so varied and described by Jordan without H. pushing the button. The people are dressed in intricate fashion: sleeves, necks, belts, jewelry, etc., which Jordan describes in a deep, rich, slow voice, and Harriet never pushes the button. Nynaeve is pulled into the chamber by her braid, which is yanked by an unseen force. While the models drift on the catwalk, liveried servants scurry around them carrying towels. They knuckle their foreheads and kneel and appear startled, before running away. Nynaeve steps up behind H. and pulls her hair, but H. still won’t push the button.<br />
<br />
This goes on forever and is reborn.Todd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2764733701036693777.post-47952315966114415722018-05-21T16:35:00.002-07:002018-05-21T16:35:29.675-07:00Santa ClausSanta Claus can bench press 950 pounds without a spotter.<br />
Other things Santa Claus can do:<br />
<br />
A. When inspired, he can take off his cap and his scalp becomes a tremendous spotlight able to penetrate the abyss of space. He uses this to show individual naughty children the planet where they will be exiled after too many sins, and even more specific, the mountain cave where they will wait to be eaten by unnamed beings.<br />
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B. He has a water organ made entirely of frozen peppermint candy and powered by fortified wine instead of water. When he plays his favorite tune, which is a secret, Easter eggs in America turn into miniature Eyes of Sauron.<br />
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C. He can knit deceptive sweaters that look warm and fuzzy, which they are, but they steal the warmth of everyone that person would have cared about in the future. Of course, that person doesn't know, and Santa wants to keep it that way.<br />
<br />
As you can see, Santa Claus is amazing and terrible.Todd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2764733701036693777.post-46738878565925521922018-05-04T11:35:00.001-07:002018-05-04T14:49:02.760-07:00Dream: Follow the KittenDream May 3, 2018<br />
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<br />
I had a dream that Morp Konky bought out a creative firm on an isolated island somewhere on the Tyrrhenian Sea off the coast of Italy. I was hired there by an old friend. I went there by ferry, and at one point my car fell into the ocean and everyone laughed at me as I singlehandedly pulled it out of the water. When I got to the firm, my friend showed me around. I was still wet. Keenla Sloey worked there and gave me a bright smile. Gary worked there, but he pretended he didn’t know me. A big weight-lifting guy worked in the same office as Gary and said to me, “You look sleepy.” I said, “Your neck is huge.” And he pulled his head into his sweater like a turtle. I asked my friend if I would be copy-editing. “You’ll see,” she said. We walked into a hallway that was bordered by chain-link fence. Morp Konky was standing there at a counter holding a baby that looked just like him. The baby had curly hair and was sucking a pacifier. “Shake his hand,” he said to me, pointing to the baby. I did, and the baby’s grip was ferocious, hurt my hand. “I’ve been training it,” Morp said. So we kept walking down the hallway and my friend pointed to a kitten on the ground by the fence. “One of your main duties will be to keep the kitten from getting out.” Immediately the kitten crept out through one of the fence holes, but my friend didn’t say anything. The tour went on and on, and I had no idea what my job would be, and I didn’t like the idea of working for Morp, so I left my friend and found the back exit. Zig Ziglar stood by the back door. He saw I wanted to get out and said, “If you leave, I will turn into a demon.” I saw the kitten out there and shrugged and walked out. Over my shoulder, Ziglar was growing into something monstrous.<br />
<br />
And that was that.<br />
<br />
Dream Over<br />
Todd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2764733701036693777.post-19941597103819727382017-06-21T15:18:00.002-07:002017-06-21T15:18:53.786-07:00Dream - Cliffside Writing Cabin?<br />
Cliffside Writing Cabin?<br />
<br />
<br />
A disjointed dream. I was attending a sort of writer’s workshop and general getaway at a cabin situated at the edge of a cliff hanging high over the lapping waters of a cave ocean. The cliff on which the cabin was situated was the topmost of several cliffs, each one stretched out farther than the one above.<br />
<br />
A prominent fantasist was the guest writer to lead the workshop, and in the dream – he was surly and quick to anger. While the cabin was inhabited by writers, it was also crammed with squatters. There were multiple bedrooms, but not many bathrooms. One jerk had taken up the back bedroom with his small family, and that room had a bathroom to itself. If anyone wanted to use that bathroom, he sneered at them and called them sick and gruesome names.<br />
<br />
At one point in the dream, I stood in the dark street in front of the cabin with others. The guest writer was engaged in an argument with another man. It escalated, and the two men proceeded to beat the fucking shit out of each other. While they punched and kicked, they started crying. I was so embarrassed, so I crept away toward the only entrance to the cabin, which was in the rear, just a few yards from the cliff. The stone steps to the door were piled awkwardly on a buckled hillock of land. I saw it and immediately knew that because of my dipshit leg and balance, I might fall. So I watched several people enter the cabin, looking at me like the what the fuck are you waiting for dude?<br />
<br />
Finally I tried to ascend the steps, and the world TILTED. I pinwheeled my arms and fell to the ground, sliding down loose gravel toward the edge. Before I pitched over the edge, someone grabbed my feet, and began hauling me up. It was my brother, saving me again. He pulled me upright and said, “You almost fell.”<br />
<br />
We stood there silent for a few minutes, staring down at the black water. Enormous ripples disturbed the surface, as if something colossal moved below.<br />
<br />
I looked around in panic. I was suddenly worried about my sister. “Where the hell is she? I haven’t seen her for hours.” He didn’t know, either, so we began a search for her. We found an access path down the cliffs that led to the water, and we descended calling out her name. At the bottom near the breakwater, we saw no trace of her, both of us horrified that she may have fallen. Someone called from above, “Your sister is at Wal-Mart! She’ll be here soon.”<br />
<br />
We exhaled in relief. <br />
Far out in the cave ocean, something positively gigantic broke through the surface. Four ebony sperm whales rose up, each one ten times as large as a normal specimen. The whales were attached to each other, head to head and tail to tail. When they cleared the water, they transformed into elephants, the color of coal and each the size of Tolkien’s oliphaunts. They broke apart and charged away into the inky recesses of the cave, the water supporting them as if it was shimmering, black glass.<br />
<br />
Dreamshift.<br />
<br />
We were back in the cabin. It was crowded with writers, strangers, friends, and family. A creature walked in, smoking a cigarette, a three-foot-tall Ganesha. His packoderm skin was heavily pebbled and black like the oliphaunts we had seen on the cave water. He blended into the nearest conversation with ease.<br />
The crowd in the cabin seemed to multiply, knotting up. A man I didn’t know pushed through from the back, his eyes focused on mini-Ganesha.<br />
“What the fuck is that thing?” He pointed at Ganesha, his finger going from head to toe and back again. “You must have some sort of BIRTH DEFECT! How do you even let yourself be alive?”<br />
Ganesha smiled, didn’t say anything. He took a long drag on his cigarette and stretched his trunk out to the man’s face, and blew the smoke out, enveloping the asshole’s head. When the smoke had dissipated, so had the man’s head and neck. His body was still, with a blank space above his shoulders.<br />
<br />
With one of his many arms, Ganesha gestured to a shadow in the cabin, and a woman I had once cared for emerged from a doorway. She looked at me for a moment. I could see my image reflected in the wetness of her pupil, and it swiftly deteriorated, and her recognition of me was gone. She leapt into the air and started to dance around the crowd, dancing alone, weaving through the people maze. I squinted my eyes and didn’t know who she was.<br />
I wanted to watch the cave water again, so I went out the door.<br />
Someone had fixed the steps.<br />
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Dream Over<br />
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Todd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2764733701036693777.post-77592078777545961432017-05-30T13:59:00.001-07:002017-05-30T13:59:05.418-07:00TransitionTransition<br />
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Our robotic coal mine canary runs on a solar charged battery. Cheese Kurls have been rising out of the foyer carpet for five days now, and Shibbety the Maid avoids that room. His army-issue canteen is a holy chalice that shines like a green angel in the catacombs. It’s tough when you have three shoulders and a jelly arm. We drink waters out of the radiator when our stomachs wants to boils the boll weevil. A lazy river has no place in Becky’s kindergarten cafeteria, Uncle Ragout! Your dairy barn dress design will win first place for sure, maybe last place if the buttons fall off, and I hope they don’t because everyone here under the stage wants YOU to win. She dropped some collagen in his Cheerio bowl when he reached for the butter hat.<br />
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Transition<br />
Todd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2764733701036693777.post-8258517335619977152017-02-03T00:36:00.000-08:002017-02-03T00:36:05.765-08:00Why is Donald Trump scary as President of the United States of America?I was asked this question.<br />
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My response.<br />
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He's scary because he's not bright enough to be President of the United States; he's scary because every interaction he's had with the public since January 20 has been that of an impoverished mind obsessed with himself and how he still harps on media coverage of his winning even though he won; he's scary because his henchwoman Conway told the public there are "alternative facts"; he's scary because he talks of war like it's a child's game, a cartoon in which massive death is not real; he's scary because the energy behind every action we've seen him do comes from Bannon, a smart, educated Nazi bent on division and the dissolution of democracy; he's scary because he convinced a great deal of the American public that he cares about them, when he only gives a fuck about himself. As for the cultivated opinion of celebrities? Some of those people are obviously idiots, reality show stars, much like Trump himself, a celebrity who starred in The Apprentice. But if you love any books or music or movies or whatever, "entertainers" give to the public, and many have imaginations and their minds are cultivated to think critically about issues. They are not automatons programmed with entertainment. It takes thought and a lot of fucking work.Todd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2764733701036693777.post-50181933195394894962017-01-27T16:43:00.003-08:002017-01-27T16:43:46.231-08:00Don't Break Your Back on Alternative FactsOne of my early memories of thinking about thinking occurred in elementary school when we were taught about the distinction between fact and opinion. It was a lesson that burned itself into my mind. A fact is a solid construct that exists outside and independent of our minds. While a fact may be a product of the mind and body, like a desk that’s made with wood instead of plastic, once it’s produced, more than one person can look at the desk, touch it, inspect it, demolish and examine its components and understand and agree that yes, that desk is made of wood instead of plastic.<br />
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An opinion is the manifestation of an individual’s mind, an individual’s perspective, a butterfly floating within that space with wings composed of the world filtered through the sieve of that person’s every sense and thought. One person may have an opinion about the desk that contests the opinion of another.<br />
<br />
For example:<br />
<br />
BLOBBY says: That desk is ugly as pluck.<br />
GORPO says: That desk has been sanded so finely. It is an object of beautiful utility. I want to sit down and write a story on the desk about how <br />
BLOBBY is a festering moron.<br />
BLOBBY says: GORPO has the aesthetic sensibilities of the Salty Slug Club.<br />
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But if either BLOBBY or GORPO try to contest that the desk is made of plastic instead of wood, such a statement is neither fact nor opinion.<br />
<br />
Saying the desk is made of plastic instead of wood is FICTION.<br />
<br />
One can say that it is his opinion that the desk is made of plastic, but every other person who has seen and touched it and recognizes it is made of wood is obligated by FACT to conclude that poor bastard is either LYING or CRAZY.<br />
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Alternate facts are FICTION or INSANITY. <br />
<br />
Facts allow humans to live in a sane world in which we can communicate and agree upon a foundation that is beyond argument. Facts are the reality that prevent us from slipping into solipsistic MADNESS.<br />
Todd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2764733701036693777.post-29015735258153902202016-07-30T10:33:00.003-07:002016-11-23T15:10:28.292-08:00Quickdream: VisitorsI had a dream this morning that a friend visited my apartment with his little girl. He ended up playing video games and ignoring his daughter, so I had to keep her out of trouble. She was a cute, chubby toddler. Unbeknownst to me until they visited, I had a kid, too. He was her age, but his face was a dark, empty space, and I couldn’t look directly look at him. He kept hurting her in little ways, like tangling a band in her hair so her hair was pulled and she was crying. Her face in pain was very clear, and once I untangled the knot, her face immediately alit in a smile and she ran off to play. And my kid followed her.Todd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2764733701036693777.post-2505924501026369852016-06-15T18:16:00.000-07:002016-06-15T18:16:20.807-07:00Missus Gaia Always Clutches At MeMissus Gaia always clutches at me. Even when I leap with great vigor in the sunshine, the space between my feet and her skin is less than the gasp of a frightened infant. I fall back down. With persistence, she lulls me into a stoop, and I watch the constellations and imagine I am Orion, removed and too haughty for her base embrace. She sings to me more, and I am oblivious to the feel of Time sliding over me. Why are my bones so heavy? I lie down, and even this pitted rock is an easing caress, warm despite that all is ice. I look up, trying to find Orion, but he has spun away. I am too impatient for his return; my mind is perforated cloth. She offers another lullaby, verses swaying over a secret never even revealed in her womb, and I sink into her, my eventual dissolution a million seeds for minute futures invisible to me.Todd Austin Hunthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13799612593453904561noreply@blogger.com0