The Resonator #6: Sojourn In The Red Room

Do not adjust your TV set. We control the vertical and horizontal. We are the masters of Roku. Exit the commercial in 5…4…3…2…

A funny thing that I have learned recently, is the following: if I write themed posts on current events or a certain philosophy or whatnot, they seem to double my hit ratio.

And yet sometimes, I still wish to be artsy-fartsy and sweep vaguely among the vast sandy wastes…

I had a really long and vivid dream yesterday night. The Aboriginals call it, a “Big Dream.” One of the ways you can tell it’s a Big Dream is if it takes more than one page to write it all out, long-hand. Another way is, you remember pretty much every detail with little-to-no effort (even if…you really wanted to forget it!).

My dream had two parts. The first was rather pleasant, and actually I don’t remember most of it other than that it was pleasant. I was taken in by this nice type of “family,” and lived in this nice house. And even though they were not outwardly related to me, it really did feel as if it was a “family.”

And then one night, I wake up and realize that they’ve been trying to get me “pregnant” in my sleep with some sort of in-vitro thing.

And next to the bed is like a mason-jar full of this “saline solution” with “fish eggs” in it (paging Dr. Freud). And I’m SO angry, I take the jar and confront these people. They deny everything. They tell me it’s just a mason jar filled with water. I start pouring the fluid into the soil of their potted plants, to their horror. I say that if it’s anything other than straight-up water (like the saline solution) it will kill the plants and then we’ll all know.

So you’d think that would be enough dream-drama for one night. But no. Here’s where things get really weird.

In the second dream, I get a job working with a team out of a hotel room, editing/finishing a book an old friend from college had made (yes…that Friend From College). I feel a little self-conscious about this, because I had a falling out with this friend decades ago and I’m not sure she would be happy with me finishing this book. We have very different styles and approaches, and I don’t even know if it will all fit. But she’s gone–and it has to be finished.

Anyway, it’s kind of fun working on this job…and the room is completely paid for…so I get comfortable. I noticed that the housekeepers didn’t do a really great job cleaning the place out before we moved in, and there’s dust and small trash and such everywhere. So I spontaneously start cleaning it, wiping things down and organizing. I hope my co-workers don’t find that strange.

I start “exploring.” It turns out that there is an adjacent room that is also rented by my employers…it houses an audio-visual “archive” of past events they were involved in. Many of these are outdated media—reel-to-reel tapes and old VHS—that aren’t conveniently playable anymore. Old, peeling labels, and dust everywhere. I realize at this point that this employer is part of a type of “political party,” like (but not literally) the Democrats, and that they’ve had these rooms perpetually rented in blocks, for decades, in order that the teams such as mine could work, cover certain political conventions, and so forth.

Back in my hotel room, we get a visitor, who is a dignitary from an “African” country. He is very small and delicate and extremely polite, and wears a traditional headdress/mask with big eye-holes that is a very large carved-wood green “head.” He removes the mask and comes up to me and politely shakes my hand. I can see some of my employers tense up a bit, as I guess I was the “rabble” and wasn’t supposed to talk to the dignitaries.

I continue being nosy and find under a “cap” in the sink drain all this stuff that had been shoved there. And these were personal belongings of a person who had disappeared and might have died. And I keep pulling up all these things from the drain, including a watch with a red band and a red smiley as the clock-face.

Now there is a formal investigation as to this disappeared person who had owned these things. At the same time, this man (20s or early 30s) with close-cropped hair and glasses comes into the room out of the rain, looking distraught. He said he killed this girl he “went out” with, or something like that. That he didn’t mean to do it, but he just snapped and lost his mind. He’s dripping wet in the middle of our hotel room, sitting with his head in his hands. As he talks, I think of the stuff I found in the drain.

Now the news media and investigators are all over the hotel, investigating. Apparently, in the whole neighborhood there are dead bodies being found, and also bodies that had been dug up from their graves and unceremoniously discarded in the trash. People call into the radio show, outraged at the disrespect afforded to the bodies. Some of the dead were apparently “soldiers,” of a type.

I’m in the hall of the hotel. On a bulletin board, there are these ancient labels and post-its indicating the archive of media in the other room, recording events, things like that. It’s a disgrace, I think, that these things have been left out here peeling and curling and falling apart, full of dust, letters fading. They’re of no use to anybody like this. I angrily start pulling them off the board; which isn’t hard to do, because they’re all about to fade away and fall anyway.

They’re now uncovering/unburying more and more stuff—bigger and bigger things—from these hotel rooms. I wonder if I still have my job, or did I fuck up somehow?

And that’s it.

Have a good Tuesday.

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