waking life

January 20, 2005

stairwell accompaniment:ingram hill- chicago

And I’ve also received some opposition/ridicule/grief over the often obscure nature of my blog postings. (Abstruse for a reason, Christine. Always for a reason.:)) But if you pore over the humble beginnings of what has ripened into the onethestairs we have all come to adore, you will find countless random stories of the happenings of my days and humorous stories that are mine. (see 13Jan04 and 26Mar04 2nd post) I’ve got not dignity to protect.

So today I’ll forego all the poetic words and (definitely) heart-felt emotions. I’ll entertain you all in the way that only onthestairs can entertain:

I don’t dream vividly or memorably. Ask any roommate of mine who has had the distict pleasure of slumbering under a common roof. When I sleep, I sleep. And that’s all. This morning was an exception. Between a 7am phone call and my 10am alarm blast, my mind diverged. It looked somewhat like this:

In my dream I woke up as if it were this morning. I was wearing the same tan underwear and yellow tanktop I had slept in and my dog was laying by my bed as she always is. I opened my bedroom door and instantly knew by the excitement in the air that something big was going on and I was walking into it in my underwear. Somehow I didn’t mind. I looked out my window and my street looked like this: there were several black SUV’s and one exceptionally long SUV limo lining the street. All windows were tinted. I could see secret service agents peering out occasionally. (I, of course, knew they were secret service agents because of their ear pieces and extreme lack of expression.) I thought this all strange and walked out of my bedroom and across the hall to my roommate Amanda’s room. She was in her room with Oprah. Amanda, calm and collected, explained to me that Oprah was taping a show at the neighbor’s house all about the heart of ghetto neighborhoods and really wanted to “meet the people where they were.” Oprah smiled, thinking she was clever I’m sure. Our house had been turned into the green room, apparently. Amanda then opened her door a little wider and said that Oprah’s guest was here, too. Enter George W. Bush. Standing at the foot of Amanda’s bed and smiling. I am still in my tank top, underwear and morning hair. He didn’t say anything, he just smiled. I smiled back. Amanda and Oprah rushed out of the room, leaving me alone with the president and on her way down the steps, Amanda said “keep and eye on Bush.” Excellent I thought and walked to the bathroom to brush my teeth, still very unconcerned with my lack of wardrobe. Well, I thought as I brushed away my morning breath with my favorite cinnamon toothpaste, at least that explains all the security out front. Just as I was rinsing my mouth I heard someone walking up the steps, slowly. And then he passed the open bathroom door. A young teenage African American boy. Holding a gun. Gun held out in front of him, he calmly walks into Amanda’s room and, quivering, aims at George W. He begins to scream things like “I don’t want to have to do this! Someone’s got to do something! I’ve got to get people to open their eyes!” He’s waving the gun. Bush is frozen in terror. I hesitate. For a moment. Then I grab the boy from behind and a vicious struggle for the gun ensues. (We all know I’m training to be a cage fighter.)I assail him into the wall. He recovers his breath and elbow’s me in the face. Throbbing pain. Bush just watches, silent. We continue the struggle into the hallway. I’m wearing underwear and a tanktop. The gun is the object of our altercation and I manage to keep the end of the barrel from my body, or Bush’s for that matter. Finally the gun is pointed to the floor and it discharges. The boy is badly bleeding from his leg, laying on the floor and the backlash of the discharge hit my mouth. Hard. And I could taste it. Blood. Gushing from my mouth, on my tongue, down my throat, and out… all over the floor. I have possession of the weapon and I run down the steps, out the door and on the front porch fall to my knees spewing mouthfulls of blood onto our welcome mat. I feel the eyes of black-clad agents on me, bewildered. I let out the most spine-tingling scream (reminiscent of Naomi Watts’s scream in The Ring) and just as I catch my breath in a huge sob, I wake up. My dog is laying by my bed and I’m wearing tan underwear and a yellow tanktop.

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4 Responses to “waking life”

  1. Kristi said

    Hmmm….okay. Very odd and humorous at the same time. Amber, as a roomate, I can attest to the fact that you do SLEEP when you sleep. Hard. What a strange dream!
    So, you were running around in your underwear in front of Opra AND Pres Bush…and you didn’t even care. Priceless. So, have you been watching the news about Bush being sworn in today, or something? How strange our minds are. In your dream, I must have already been off to work, the early riser that I am. That, or I was still sleepig in my room with my ear plugs in- as is recently the case….

  2. AmyLea said

    hmmm, very interesting, Amber. Don’t you just love dreams that are so vivid that you can remember all sights, tastes, smells, etc.? And interesting enough that you were wearing your tan underwear and yellow tank top. I love dreams that make me wake up and say “Did that just happen for REAL?? Love you, girl.

  3. Jon said

    Yay for straightforward, terrifying blog entries!

  4. Schmanda said

    ok, so it was almost as funny to read as it was to hear about, although you just can’t quite get the total inflection (especially the blood-curtling scream part) when you read it. but come on now, amber…let’s get back to reality…i’d never let oprah in my room. i can’t stand oprah.

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