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Post-Modern Drunk: The Devil And Post-Modern Drunkard
Okay. Yeah. So, apparently, this has become one of my things. I do alcohol reviews, random lists, wander around a bit, and now, talk about my dreams. Yes, I complain about people talking about their dreams everytime I did it, but I swear, I had the weirdest dream last night, and it's kicked my ass all day. Yeah yeah yeah, I know, reading about other people's dreams is approximately as satisfying as reading about other people's orgasms--never as magical or entertaining to the listener as they are to the listenee. But I promise, I'll skip over the magical-but-boring details and get right into the neurotic whinging that y'all come back time and again to read.
Maybe it was the cough syrup I'd been guzzling, or the eight beers, or maybe it's just my fallen nature, but the Devil came to visit me last night in my dreams, walking up to me at the crossroads of a small town that was a cross between the village in Castlevania 2 and the Scottish town in "Withnail and I." The devil came to me in the form of a woman--short and kind of frumpy, not at all like the succubi you'd hope she'd come as. But her voice...god, her voice was horrid. It had a buzz to it: trying humming while you're whistling, and you've got the basic sound to it, just fashioned into words.
And the thing's she said. She mostly just talked about how we would meet one more time. I was reminded of the Cowboy in "Mulholland Drive," saying, "You will see me one more time if you do good. You'll see me two more times if you do bad," and mentioned it to the devil, but she just laughed (a hideous noise) and said, "No. One more time, good or bad." And then she handed me a card like they give you for a doctor's appointment with the time and date of our next meeting. Since it was a dream, though, I was unable to read the card, so I don't know when our appointment is supposed to be.
Also, she was being aided by Randall Flagg, the villain in a half-dozen Stephen King books. That seemed the most natural thing in the dream.
So.
I have an appointment with the devil, and I don't know when it is. I woke up scared out of my mind at 6:30am, not quite sure what was real or not. And ready for this hideous woman to show up in my room. Eventually, I slipped back asleep, and all my dreams were about my trying to run from the devil. In a cabin in the woods, I put together a group of people to help me out, which I called my "ka-tet," after Stephen King's "The Dark Tower," but they were picked off one by one. Soon after that, I fled to an island nation that's a regular location in my dreams. It's an amalgam of all the places I've visted in the world, with ancient ruins and crowded museums, a charming amusement park (that doubles for creepy in the wrong dreams) and a crummy hotel. But since I routinely visit this place in my dreams, the devil was able to track me there. I later wound up on a blasted heath that ends at my dream version of Three Gorges Dam, but had the same problem there as well.
And then I woke up. While showering, I became absolutely convinced that this woman was standing directly on the other side of the shower curtain, leering obscenely at me, just inches away from my face. Completely irrational, I know, but I believed it, even when I didn't. Now I know why Janet Leigh never showered with the shower curtain closed after "Psycho." It's a very disturbing feeling.
I wish it had been a sexy demonic visitation. Waking up attracted to the Devil would be a lot less disturbing than waiting for her to keep her appointment to swallow my soul and drag me screaming down to hell in some wretched remake of Faust.
So obviously, I've been a nervous wreck all day. Intellectually, I know I'm no more or less damned than I was the day before. And I haven't made any Faustian bargains to gain an amazing abilities or talents (all that comes naturallly). But I feel like a marked man.
On the plus side, this has been a great story to tell to people enclosed in an elevator with me. They get slightly uncomfortable, and glance nervously at the floor counter, as if we'll suddenly plunge down into the basement and it'll open up like the Ghost of Christmas Future scene in "Scrooged," and we'll be in Hell. The devil's never worried too much about collateral damage.
I have to take my consolation wherever I can.
On the plus side, with my soul already promised to the devil, I've found I don't need to be quite as moral as I used to feel was required of me.
