The Dream Register of TVS
a journal of slumberous happenings
T. Van Santana
Copyright © 2017 by The Van Santana Limited Company
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
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Advance reading copy, 2017
For me, I guess.
This is a collection of my dreams, most shared first on Ello. While they are numbered for reference, they are not in any purposeful sequence. They are unedited, both in terms of content and typos.
I have a vague intention to craft a novel or novels from this material at some point, but right now, here they are as I first recalled them, as best I could tell them.
A dream wherein I am able to walk around as myself without fear. It has somehow been unlocked, and I tell this to Lila. We're house-sitting or staying with someone. A woman there, in her forties, asks me without prompting what pronouns I use. It takes me by surprise, and I ask to make sure I heard her correctly. She seems self-conscious and also like she's just waking up, so she dismisses it, but I go back to it, and she repeats it. We talk pronouns for a bit, then I go.
There's another segment where Lila has put Clara up for raffle. The couple who won her pays me blue book for her. I'm sad to be selling her, but glad she's going to be fixed up, since I've been having trouble maintaining her. The governor (of some fictional dream state) wants to install a gun rack. I ask what say he has in it, and apparently he's going to take her on an inaugural tour. I don't like that, but have no say anymore, since she's the couple's now. Angie and I talk transportation, and I consider getting a motorcycle or scooter.
She walked with a swish, old cyberdeck swingin'. I couldn't see how that would possibly be useful, but there it was. With the rip-off scandal over the Prince gamble heist, and the long coats in red ties after us, I'd blown up our last real allies, trapped in a terrarium.
The hotel was one endless list of malls and hospitals, floor after floor of shit be buyin' or dyin'. Easy enough to sneak past. Easy enough to go not mattered. Even in this ultra-materialist time.
I passed on the coke, but kept some in a napkin. Maybe I could trade it off later. Jaime is with me, but it's all time-distorted and meaningless, like a ghost but in the flesh, walking around, being there, but not connectin'.
My instincts are good. Keep me runnin'. Running scared from the side door. Running quick through the inner doors, blot over lock. Cheap shit, but'll hold. One last thing. It's always one last thing till it's over. Ain't ever over.