zeborah: Zebra with stripes falling off (stress and confusion)
[personal profile] zeborah
I must be going through a patch of getting enough sleep, because OMG the awesome dreams that result.

I won't bore you with the Criminal Minds stuff that feels, for no obvious plotly, thematic, or setting reason, like it begins this dream sequence. Nor even the fairly standard sequence in which I was trying to escape people through a maze of a high-rise's corridors and capricious escalators which also feels somehow linked.

It really started on a road that wends along the Heathcote in suburban Christchurch. Specifically here (google street maps link).

The bridge was wider, but we'll come to that, and the sky wasn't so conspicuously grey. It may even have been sunny, because you could see in the north right to the police station in town, which was in my dream the tallest remaining building in the city.

Except that as I looked I realised it was getting shorter: floors were being teleported off. The [bylaws|algorithms?] ruling the city had decided it was too tall and the excess floors had to be relocated. One was already on a site somewhat southeast of me.

Such is Christchurch: buildings come down, buildings go up. I must have mentally shrugged and decided to go on home, a route that takes me over that bridge. As I mentioned, in the dream it wasn't a mere footbridge. It was, specifically, the size of a building site, and it had a number of strategically placed knee-high pillars ready to be foundations.

About half-way across I put two and two together and dropped to the ground to avoid being crushed by the floor(s) of police station that might materialise at any moment. I was worried my backpack extended above the safe crawlspace. Rather than wait to find out I crawled back to the road I came from.

Now, on the other side of this road were three or more booths, each about the size of that from which Lucy dispenses advice for 5c, except proportionate to an adult. At the leftmost, a customer (if a WINZ would-be beneficiary can be called that) was given a plate holding a scattering of cola-flavoured mini-jellybeans and told to use them to spell the word "food".

As I passed, the customer challenged me, "Can you spell 'food'?"

"F-O-O-D," I retorted at once; I don't know why so coldly.

Then the woman staffing the next booth over called me across for my own (medical) tests. I had no legal choice but to obey and go to her, but I did it reluctantly. I'm not sure if I knew that the idea of my body being a medical map to the city's health was scientifically suspect, or if I just recognised that the consequences of this pervasive politico-cultural belief were unjust and threatening to my life and limb, but either way I argued.

Particularly when I learned that taking blood wasn't going to be enough this time: they suspected one of the city's major organs was failing. The implications were unstated but clear, and being fond of all my major organs I argued.

In vain. The woman tried to reassure me, as hands held me from behind, "Actually your muscle mass is doing really well."

The hands were forcing my right forearm out for her scalpel. I pointed out, "It's not going to do my muscle mass much good if you cut out my veins."

But the city's roadways were fatally congested, you see: they needed my veins. So as I struggled desperately against the hands, she sliced into my wrist. It hurt. It was some small relief that she turned out not to be aiming for the larger blue veins but instead extracted a thinner purple one: a red thread in the air as she pulled it out. This did not, need I say, make the process any the less excruciating.

(When I woke, heart hammering, I could still feel the distinct memory of that pain, transferred to my pinkie finger. I had to rub at it for a couple of minutes to make it go away.)


zeborah: Map of New Zealand with a zebra salient (Default)

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