Most of my dreams last night were centered around cigarettes. I spent the whole time either look for cigarettes or smoking. I was even smoking a tobacco pipe at one point.
As I've said before, I have never smoked a cigarette in my waking life, but I dream about them all the time.
I have come up with a theory.
Whenever I have smoking dreams, I wake up the next morning with a headache. I often wake up gasping. I have never been officially diagnosed with apnea, but I know for sure that sometimes I hold my breath in my sleep.
I think my subconscious makes up the smoking scenario because I'm not breathing normally as I sleep. I need to take deep, real breaths, so my dreaming self is associating it with something you inhale.
I've had smoking dreams for years and years, and this only just occurred to me. I wonder if there's some truth in the idea.
Or maybe I was a chain smoker in a past life. :p
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Sleeptexting: Flower
I didn't even have this friend's number in my phone until two days ago. Already I am sleeptexting him!
It was at 2am, so he was asleep and didn't respond. This is what I said to him:
"Have you been experimenting with the flowers in the window box? They are almost as big as the windows!"
That would be rather suspicious.
It was at 2am, so he was asleep and didn't respond. This is what I said to him:
"Have you been experimenting with the flowers in the window box? They are almost as big as the windows!"
That would be rather suspicious.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Dream: Behind the Wooden Door.
I had a little nightmare last night that freaked me pretty badly in the middle of the night.
I dreamed that I lived in an old chateau. It was an extremely large estate and there were many rooms that I did not use.
I dreamed that one day I was looking for an antique mirror that I knew I had somewhere in one of the unused rooms. I was looking around when I noticed a staircase at the other end of the room that I couldn't remember having been there before. I walked over the the staircase and saw that it led downwards to somewhere I had never been. I walked slowly down the stairs, curious. The walls went from being white plaster, to being brown stone. I was in some sort of cavern.
I could hear a rattling sound coming from straight ahead of me. As I made my way down this cavernous hallway, the rattling got louder, and I thought I could make out a small voice humming.
The hallway widened, and I came upon a thick wooded door, with a bolt and a doorknocker on the outside. The door was shaking slightly, causing the doorknocker to make the rattling sound. There was a voice coming from behind the door. It was humming very softly. Beneath the sound of the humming was a very quiet growling sound.
I said, "Hello?" There was no response.
I went up to the door, and took the heavy doorknocker in both hands. The knock wasn't loud exactly, but the sound echoed for much longer than it should have around the cavern.
The humming stopped, but the growling did not. I heard a giggle from behind the door. Then the voice started to laugh. It wasn't a loud laugh, but there was something utterly disturbing about it, and it echoed around the cavern like the knock on the door had.
I became very frightened and ran away from the door. I ran back down the cavern hallway, up the steps, through the unused room, and all the way to the kitchen where I stayed with a cup of brandy coffee until I felt more like myself.
That night while I tried to sleep, I could hear the the quiet sound of the laughter that came behind the door. It echoed very quietly around my bedroom. I heard the soft humming all the next day. I could not escape it. In the late afternoon, I went back to the unused room, but the stairway was gone.
For one week I tried to live my normal life, while the sound of the humming followed me everywhere. I could hardly sleep. All I could think about was that heavy wooden door and what might be behind it.
Early on the next Sunday morning. I went again to the unused room. This time, the stairs were there across the room. I was frightened, but I felt extremely compelled to go back to look at the heavy wooden door. I descended the staircase. White plaster turned to brown stone. I followed the sound of quiet laughter down the cavernous hallway. I could hear the rattling of the doorknocker.
When I reached the door, and I stopped moving forward, all went suddenly silent. It was the sharp silence of anticipation. I knew I needed to open that door. I had never been more compelled to do anything in my entire life. I stared at it for a long time, trying to overcome my fear, trying fruitlessly to make myself turn around and leave.
I sprang at the door, opened the bolt, and pulled it heavily open. I stepped back a few steps and stared. Inside was an unnatural darkness. Pitch blackness was clinging to the inside of that room, and I could not see inside.
Another giggle. Out from the darkness stepped a very young boy, maybe four years old. He had unnaturally large, beautiful green eyes. He was carrying something in his arms covered by a large cloth.
He was the most intense looking person I had ever seen. Even though he walked slowly in a relaxed way, something about him reminded me of a predatory animal. The sound of laughter was still there, and I knew it came from him even though he didn't look like he was making a sound.
"Thank you." He said. "I have been in there a very long time."
"Who are you?" I asked.
"My name is Pocalypse. I'm very happy to meet you. And I am very happy to be out of the dark room."
I stood there, paralyzed with uncertainty and growing fear. Finally I asked "What are you holding?"
The laughter stopped.
He looked down at the cloth-covered bundle in his arms with a strange expression on his face.
"A long time ago," he said. "I was very angry about being in the dark room. I thought if I could not see, what use were my eyes?" He looked up at me with his enormous green eyes.
"So I gouged them out," he said.
"My sister, Hope, was in the dark room with me," he continued when I didn't respond. "And she had eyes that could still see in the blackness."
He dropped the bundle in his arms. The cloth fell off the body of a very young girl. Her face was terribly smashed in, and her eyes were missing.
I tried to turn around and I couldn't. I was frozen to where I stood. The laughter started again, and the little boy smiled.
"My name is Pocalypse. I am very happy to meet you. I will not be going back behind the wooden door."
I dreamed that I lived in an old chateau. It was an extremely large estate and there were many rooms that I did not use.
I dreamed that one day I was looking for an antique mirror that I knew I had somewhere in one of the unused rooms. I was looking around when I noticed a staircase at the other end of the room that I couldn't remember having been there before. I walked over the the staircase and saw that it led downwards to somewhere I had never been. I walked slowly down the stairs, curious. The walls went from being white plaster, to being brown stone. I was in some sort of cavern.
I could hear a rattling sound coming from straight ahead of me. As I made my way down this cavernous hallway, the rattling got louder, and I thought I could make out a small voice humming.
The hallway widened, and I came upon a thick wooded door, with a bolt and a doorknocker on the outside. The door was shaking slightly, causing the doorknocker to make the rattling sound. There was a voice coming from behind the door. It was humming very softly. Beneath the sound of the humming was a very quiet growling sound.
I said, "Hello?" There was no response.
I went up to the door, and took the heavy doorknocker in both hands. The knock wasn't loud exactly, but the sound echoed for much longer than it should have around the cavern.
The humming stopped, but the growling did not. I heard a giggle from behind the door. Then the voice started to laugh. It wasn't a loud laugh, but there was something utterly disturbing about it, and it echoed around the cavern like the knock on the door had.
I became very frightened and ran away from the door. I ran back down the cavern hallway, up the steps, through the unused room, and all the way to the kitchen where I stayed with a cup of brandy coffee until I felt more like myself.
That night while I tried to sleep, I could hear the the quiet sound of the laughter that came behind the door. It echoed very quietly around my bedroom. I heard the soft humming all the next day. I could not escape it. In the late afternoon, I went back to the unused room, but the stairway was gone.
For one week I tried to live my normal life, while the sound of the humming followed me everywhere. I could hardly sleep. All I could think about was that heavy wooden door and what might be behind it.
Early on the next Sunday morning. I went again to the unused room. This time, the stairs were there across the room. I was frightened, but I felt extremely compelled to go back to look at the heavy wooden door. I descended the staircase. White plaster turned to brown stone. I followed the sound of quiet laughter down the cavernous hallway. I could hear the rattling of the doorknocker.
When I reached the door, and I stopped moving forward, all went suddenly silent. It was the sharp silence of anticipation. I knew I needed to open that door. I had never been more compelled to do anything in my entire life. I stared at it for a long time, trying to overcome my fear, trying fruitlessly to make myself turn around and leave.
I sprang at the door, opened the bolt, and pulled it heavily open. I stepped back a few steps and stared. Inside was an unnatural darkness. Pitch blackness was clinging to the inside of that room, and I could not see inside.
Another giggle. Out from the darkness stepped a very young boy, maybe four years old. He had unnaturally large, beautiful green eyes. He was carrying something in his arms covered by a large cloth.
He was the most intense looking person I had ever seen. Even though he walked slowly in a relaxed way, something about him reminded me of a predatory animal. The sound of laughter was still there, and I knew it came from him even though he didn't look like he was making a sound.
"Thank you." He said. "I have been in there a very long time."
"Who are you?" I asked.
"My name is Pocalypse. I'm very happy to meet you. And I am very happy to be out of the dark room."
I stood there, paralyzed with uncertainty and growing fear. Finally I asked "What are you holding?"
The laughter stopped.
He looked down at the cloth-covered bundle in his arms with a strange expression on his face.
"A long time ago," he said. "I was very angry about being in the dark room. I thought if I could not see, what use were my eyes?" He looked up at me with his enormous green eyes.
"So I gouged them out," he said.
"My sister, Hope, was in the dark room with me," he continued when I didn't respond. "And she had eyes that could still see in the blackness."
He dropped the bundle in his arms. The cloth fell off the body of a very young girl. Her face was terribly smashed in, and her eyes were missing.
I tried to turn around and I couldn't. I was frozen to where I stood. The laughter started again, and the little boy smiled.
"My name is Pocalypse. I am very happy to meet you. I will not be going back behind the wooden door."
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Sleeptexting: Camel
It is amazing how my friends receive so many sleeptexts from me that they really just take it in stride these days. One of them receives a strange text from me in the middle of the night, and doesn't miss a beat. They are much less weirded out by these conversations than I am.
This happened at 2am last night. I don't remember this at all.
Me: A camel? Really?
Catheryne: Yes. A camel. Are you really so surprised?
Me: Well, when you said you were going to get me a pet, I was expecting a turtle or something.
Catheryne: But a camel is so much more practical than a turtle, don't you think? At least you can ride it.
Me: Under which circumstances, exactly, would I need to ride this camel? And where am I supposed to keep it? In the pantry?
Catheryne: Well, if you're ever in the desert, it would come in quite handy. Plus, having a camel as a pet is all the rage in Paris. You can always keep it in your bedroom. I hear they are quite cuddly.
Me: They are all the rage in Paris because they might come in handy...in the desert?
Catheryne: I don't try to understand the trends in Paris...it just seemed like a popular pet.
Catheryne: Don't you like it? I thought you would. But I guess I was wrong. I suppose I could always return it...
Me: I'm just not sure what you're trying to tell me, giving me cuddly bedroom camels.
Catheryne: I just figured it would make a good companion for you.
Me: I suppose he's alright. I suppose it could have been worse. You might have decided that I needed a pantry bear. Or a bathtime shark friend.
Catheryne: What are you going to name him?
Who knows what that was all about. It seemed to be set in a modern setting, unlike the usual old fashioned eras my subconscious seems to gravitate towards.
I wasn't as mean as I usually am to Catheryne this time, although I don't think my subconscious can help but be a bit snarky.
This happened at 2am last night. I don't remember this at all.
Me: A camel? Really?
Catheryne: Yes. A camel. Are you really so surprised?
Me: Well, when you said you were going to get me a pet, I was expecting a turtle or something.
Catheryne: But a camel is so much more practical than a turtle, don't you think? At least you can ride it.
Me: Under which circumstances, exactly, would I need to ride this camel? And where am I supposed to keep it? In the pantry?
Catheryne: Well, if you're ever in the desert, it would come in quite handy. Plus, having a camel as a pet is all the rage in Paris. You can always keep it in your bedroom. I hear they are quite cuddly.
Me: They are all the rage in Paris because they might come in handy...in the desert?
Catheryne: I don't try to understand the trends in Paris...it just seemed like a popular pet.
Catheryne: Don't you like it? I thought you would. But I guess I was wrong. I suppose I could always return it...
Me: I'm just not sure what you're trying to tell me, giving me cuddly bedroom camels.
Catheryne: I just figured it would make a good companion for you.
Me: I suppose he's alright. I suppose it could have been worse. You might have decided that I needed a pantry bear. Or a bathtime shark friend.
Catheryne: What are you going to name him?
Who knows what that was all about. It seemed to be set in a modern setting, unlike the usual old fashioned eras my subconscious seems to gravitate towards.
I wasn't as mean as I usually am to Catheryne this time, although I don't think my subconscious can help but be a bit snarky.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Sleepwalking: The Most Frightening Way to Wake Up, Ever.
I just thought of another story. This one deserves its own post.
This happened when I was an undergraduate in Davis, California, -about four years ago. I lived in an apartment with my friend Laura. This apartment was where my sleepwalking activity really started to pick up.
One night I woke up in pitch blackness. My bedroom is never that dark, so I was confused. I tried to sit up, and hit my head on something hard. I fell back down into a laying position and tried to bring my hand up to my head, but my hand came in contact with whatever I had hit my head on. I felt with both hands, and found a layer of solid wood about a foot and a half above my face. Feeling around with my hands, and trying to kick out, I found that the wood stretched the length of my whole body. I realized that i was also laying on a wooden surface. I felt to the sides, and found hard wooden surfaces on both sides.
I was in a coffin.
I was very close to a panic attack. I felt frantically on all sides, finding only solid wood. I broke out in a sweat. It was pitch black, and I was in a coffin. I closed my eyes, and forced myself to calm down. It took several minutes.
I tried to think rationally. It was highly unlikely that I was in an actual coffin. When I had my panic under control, I felt around more carefully. The ceiling and the floor were very solid, so was one wall. But when I pushed hard at one of the sides, it gave a bit. I felt it very carefully, and found a crack in the corner. I forced my hand in, and pushed it sideways.
In the hallway of that apartment, between the two bedrooms, there was a large closet with a sliding wooden door. The shelves inside were big, about 6 feet across, and two feet high, maybe 2 feet deep. I had somehow climbed into the bottom shelf, and closed the heavy, wooden sliding door while I was asleep.
It was still night when I climbed out of the shelves, but I couldn't go back to bed for a while. I think I took a shower and then watched a Disney movie or something.
I don't recommend this to anyone. It is not a pleasant way to wake up.
This happened when I was an undergraduate in Davis, California, -about four years ago. I lived in an apartment with my friend Laura. This apartment was where my sleepwalking activity really started to pick up.
One night I woke up in pitch blackness. My bedroom is never that dark, so I was confused. I tried to sit up, and hit my head on something hard. I fell back down into a laying position and tried to bring my hand up to my head, but my hand came in contact with whatever I had hit my head on. I felt with both hands, and found a layer of solid wood about a foot and a half above my face. Feeling around with my hands, and trying to kick out, I found that the wood stretched the length of my whole body. I realized that i was also laying on a wooden surface. I felt to the sides, and found hard wooden surfaces on both sides.
I was in a coffin.
I was very close to a panic attack. I felt frantically on all sides, finding only solid wood. I broke out in a sweat. It was pitch black, and I was in a coffin. I closed my eyes, and forced myself to calm down. It took several minutes.
I tried to think rationally. It was highly unlikely that I was in an actual coffin. When I had my panic under control, I felt around more carefully. The ceiling and the floor were very solid, so was one wall. But when I pushed hard at one of the sides, it gave a bit. I felt it very carefully, and found a crack in the corner. I forced my hand in, and pushed it sideways.
In the hallway of that apartment, between the two bedrooms, there was a large closet with a sliding wooden door. The shelves inside were big, about 6 feet across, and two feet high, maybe 2 feet deep. I had somehow climbed into the bottom shelf, and closed the heavy, wooden sliding door while I was asleep.
It was still night when I climbed out of the shelves, but I couldn't go back to bed for a while. I think I took a shower and then watched a Disney movie or something.
I don't recommend this to anyone. It is not a pleasant way to wake up.
How I broke my hand in my sleep, and other sleepwalking stories.
I just realized that I started this blog exactly one year ago today. Happy Anniversary! A lot of sleep activity has happened in one year. O_o I'm glad I have this blog, otherwise I wouldn't quite know how prevalent it is.
It occurred to me that there are a plethora of sleepwalking stories that occurred before I started this blog, and I haven't dipped into them much. Here are a few:
I broke my hand while I was sleeping in early 2010. I think I dreamed I was attacked. I sat up in bed suddenly and punched in front of me very hard. Oddly, I punched with my left hand, even though I'm right handed. My bed at that time was next to two windows, with a solid wooden frame between them. I punched the frame, and fractured my forth metacarpal. I remember clutching my hand in pain, and yelling. But then.. I somehow went back to sleep. I don't think I completely woke up when it happened.
When I woke up the next morning, my hand was swollen and bruised, and I was very confused. I went to the doctor, and had to explain what had happened, giving basically the same explanation I just gave, feeling stupid.
No one at school knew yet about my sleepwalking habits. This was how everyone found out. When I came in with my hand in a brace, I told them the truth when they asked.
Interestingly, my father broke his hand while he was sleeping as well. He dreamed he was in a fight, and punched his metal bedpost. He and I don't talk much, and I have never lived with him. It is strange for this to be what we have in common.
When I was little, I sleepwalked a lot, but not as often as I do now. (at least, as far as I know...)
One of my earliest memories of sleepwalking was when I was 6 or 7. My two sisters, my brother and I were staying at my father's house. I fell asleep on the couch while my siblings were outside playing just after nightfall.
They came inside and told me, "Time to go to bed, Lizzy."
Without waking up, I open my eyes and say, "ok."
I get up and walk in the opposite direction. They all stand there watching me as I walk over to the fishbowl, stick my hand in the water, and swirl it around.
"What are you doing?" they asked, staring at me. I didn't respond.
"Bed is this way, Lizzy." my sister said.
"Oh ok." I said calmly. I took my hand out of the fishbowl and walked with them down the hall. They were silient, looking at each other incredulously.
"What were you doing?" my brother asked me.
"What did it look like I was doing?" I asked, annoyed. "I was playing with the fish."
Then I closed the door and went to bed.
My family still tells this story a lot. Strangely, my sisters have not seen me sleepwalk a lot. So this story is still vivid as a good example of my sleepwalking to them, even though it was so long ago, and I've done much crazier things since.
It occurred to me that there are a plethora of sleepwalking stories that occurred before I started this blog, and I haven't dipped into them much. Here are a few:
I broke my hand while I was sleeping in early 2010. I think I dreamed I was attacked. I sat up in bed suddenly and punched in front of me very hard. Oddly, I punched with my left hand, even though I'm right handed. My bed at that time was next to two windows, with a solid wooden frame between them. I punched the frame, and fractured my forth metacarpal. I remember clutching my hand in pain, and yelling. But then.. I somehow went back to sleep. I don't think I completely woke up when it happened.
When I woke up the next morning, my hand was swollen and bruised, and I was very confused. I went to the doctor, and had to explain what had happened, giving basically the same explanation I just gave, feeling stupid.
No one at school knew yet about my sleepwalking habits. This was how everyone found out. When I came in with my hand in a brace, I told them the truth when they asked.
Interestingly, my father broke his hand while he was sleeping as well. He dreamed he was in a fight, and punched his metal bedpost. He and I don't talk much, and I have never lived with him. It is strange for this to be what we have in common.
When I was little, I sleepwalked a lot, but not as often as I do now. (at least, as far as I know...)
One of my earliest memories of sleepwalking was when I was 6 or 7. My two sisters, my brother and I were staying at my father's house. I fell asleep on the couch while my siblings were outside playing just after nightfall.
They came inside and told me, "Time to go to bed, Lizzy."
Without waking up, I open my eyes and say, "ok."
I get up and walk in the opposite direction. They all stand there watching me as I walk over to the fishbowl, stick my hand in the water, and swirl it around.
"What are you doing?" they asked, staring at me. I didn't respond.
"Bed is this way, Lizzy." my sister said.
"Oh ok." I said calmly. I took my hand out of the fishbowl and walked with them down the hall. They were silient, looking at each other incredulously.
"What were you doing?" my brother asked me.
"What did it look like I was doing?" I asked, annoyed. "I was playing with the fish."
Then I closed the door and went to bed.
My family still tells this story a lot. Strangely, my sisters have not seen me sleepwalk a lot. So this story is still vivid as a good example of my sleepwalking to them, even though it was so long ago, and I've done much crazier things since.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Sleeptexting: Deserters
So after the last time I texted my professor, I took his number out of my phone. But this semester, I'm filling out a lot of audition forms and applications, and I'm having to write his contact information as a reference on a daily basis. I was getting really tired of having to look it up each time.
So, I put him back in my phone, under the name "D" I was hoping my subconscious wouldn't think to text him if it wasn't under a real name.
I was wrong. My subconscious wins. It cannot be fooled by me.
Here's what I wrote to him last night:
"There is a sea of soldiers heading towards us. We can stay and fight for this madman, or we can take our chances and run. I need to know that I can count on you."
He assured me today that I can count on him.
I give up! I'm going to leave him in my phone. If he gets texts from me, so be it. Hopefully by giving up, my subconscious will stop caring. Also, hopefully I wont say anything worse than what I've said already.
So, I put him back in my phone, under the name "D" I was hoping my subconscious wouldn't think to text him if it wasn't under a real name.
I was wrong. My subconscious wins. It cannot be fooled by me.
Here's what I wrote to him last night:
"There is a sea of soldiers heading towards us. We can stay and fight for this madman, or we can take our chances and run. I need to know that I can count on you."
He assured me today that I can count on him.
I give up! I'm going to leave him in my phone. If he gets texts from me, so be it. Hopefully by giving up, my subconscious will stop caring. Also, hopefully I wont say anything worse than what I've said already.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Dream: The Slave Market
I dreamed last night that my name was Sarah Francis, and the year was 1855.
I was a very wealthy plantation owner in the south. I think I lived in South Carolina or Georgia. I was already from an old wealthy family, and marrying my husband and moving to his plantation made us one of the wealthiest families in the state. My husband died only four years after we got married, leaving me a 23 year old widow.
For several years I was courted by men of all kinds from all over the south. One young man even came from as far as New York to pay a call to my house. After a few years, however, it became clear that I had no intention of re-marrying. My disdainful treatment of these gentleman callers became notorious, and I was known as a mean spinster by the time I was 26.
I was a slave owner. My plantation was vast, and needed many many workers to maintain it. I had a small staff of hired white workers running the household, but I owned as many as 30 slaves at any given time.
I was somewhat of a hermit. I was known to collect books from all over the world -a strange thing for a woman to do. Other than the booksellers, and the slave traders, I rarely spoke to anyone. Rumors started to spread about me through the nearby towns. Rumors of disappearing slaves, of scandals that took place in my household, of bodies appearing in the nearby river. I became an urban legend, and people maintained their frightened distance.
In the nearby city, a slave market was held once per month. I never missed a market. It was well known that I went home with 5-10 slaves from every market. I was a favored customer of slave traders, but even they had heard the rumors.
I went through slaves. Even though I took 5-10 home with me, I generally did not have more than 30 at a time. Rumors grew more gruesome about what happened to my slaves. Some say I killed them for fun. Some spoke about frightening sexual scandals. Some said I was a witch who sacrificed humans to the devil, using their body parts in gruesome concoctions.
One sunday, I had made my way all the way to Charleston to attend the slave market. I hardly spoke to anyone, but everyone knew who I was, and they maintained a curious, superstitious distance. A new shipment of slaves had arrived in Charleston a few days before. One group of slaves huddled together. There were 9 of them total, an older man, a young couple, and six kids ranging in age from infant to 12 years old. They were going to be split up. I told the slave trader that I wanted to inspect them. I looked them over, even holding the infant myself after it was taken from its mother.
It bought them all. Word of my purchase spread through the market, with fascinated speculation about what I would do with the children.
They were brought to my plantation. I ordered to meet them in my private sitting room, with my three usual strong guards keeping them together.
I closed the door and turned to the terrified family.
"I am so sorry. I am so sorry for what your family has been through. I am going to help you." I said to them. They stared at me.
My maid stepped forward and spoke to them in their language, translating what I had said. The adults eyes widened in surprise. The young woman turned to me and said "My children and I speak English."
I was relieved. This would make things easier. I told them the truth.
I had spread the terrible rumors about myself. I was an abolitionist, doing what little I could for individuals and families. The slaves who worked on my plantation, I explained to them, were paid workers. I attend every slave market, choose as many as I can without arising suspicion, and help them to find their way to a better life. Most stayed on my plantation for a while, doing a little work for a generous wage, while planning where they can go to be free, and a way of getting there. I helped them as best as I could. I was in contact with the underground railroad. I took a yearly trip to new york, bringing as many as I could to "sell" them to potential buyers, while really setting them up with as much as I could give them.
Many have decided to stay with me permanently. It wasn't a bad life on my plantation, and better than the risk of trying to make a life up north.
I explained to the family that if anyone found out what I was really doing, I would be stopped. But having them think I was a brutal murderer kept them from stopping me. Such was our society.
I was a very wealthy plantation owner in the south. I think I lived in South Carolina or Georgia. I was already from an old wealthy family, and marrying my husband and moving to his plantation made us one of the wealthiest families in the state. My husband died only four years after we got married, leaving me a 23 year old widow.
For several years I was courted by men of all kinds from all over the south. One young man even came from as far as New York to pay a call to my house. After a few years, however, it became clear that I had no intention of re-marrying. My disdainful treatment of these gentleman callers became notorious, and I was known as a mean spinster by the time I was 26.
I was a slave owner. My plantation was vast, and needed many many workers to maintain it. I had a small staff of hired white workers running the household, but I owned as many as 30 slaves at any given time.
I was somewhat of a hermit. I was known to collect books from all over the world -a strange thing for a woman to do. Other than the booksellers, and the slave traders, I rarely spoke to anyone. Rumors started to spread about me through the nearby towns. Rumors of disappearing slaves, of scandals that took place in my household, of bodies appearing in the nearby river. I became an urban legend, and people maintained their frightened distance.
In the nearby city, a slave market was held once per month. I never missed a market. It was well known that I went home with 5-10 slaves from every market. I was a favored customer of slave traders, but even they had heard the rumors.
I went through slaves. Even though I took 5-10 home with me, I generally did not have more than 30 at a time. Rumors grew more gruesome about what happened to my slaves. Some say I killed them for fun. Some spoke about frightening sexual scandals. Some said I was a witch who sacrificed humans to the devil, using their body parts in gruesome concoctions.
One sunday, I had made my way all the way to Charleston to attend the slave market. I hardly spoke to anyone, but everyone knew who I was, and they maintained a curious, superstitious distance. A new shipment of slaves had arrived in Charleston a few days before. One group of slaves huddled together. There were 9 of them total, an older man, a young couple, and six kids ranging in age from infant to 12 years old. They were going to be split up. I told the slave trader that I wanted to inspect them. I looked them over, even holding the infant myself after it was taken from its mother.
It bought them all. Word of my purchase spread through the market, with fascinated speculation about what I would do with the children.
They were brought to my plantation. I ordered to meet them in my private sitting room, with my three usual strong guards keeping them together.
I closed the door and turned to the terrified family.
"I am so sorry. I am so sorry for what your family has been through. I am going to help you." I said to them. They stared at me.
My maid stepped forward and spoke to them in their language, translating what I had said. The adults eyes widened in surprise. The young woman turned to me and said "My children and I speak English."
I was relieved. This would make things easier. I told them the truth.
I had spread the terrible rumors about myself. I was an abolitionist, doing what little I could for individuals and families. The slaves who worked on my plantation, I explained to them, were paid workers. I attend every slave market, choose as many as I can without arising suspicion, and help them to find their way to a better life. Most stayed on my plantation for a while, doing a little work for a generous wage, while planning where they can go to be free, and a way of getting there. I helped them as best as I could. I was in contact with the underground railroad. I took a yearly trip to new york, bringing as many as I could to "sell" them to potential buyers, while really setting them up with as much as I could give them.
Many have decided to stay with me permanently. It wasn't a bad life on my plantation, and better than the risk of trying to make a life up north.
I explained to the family that if anyone found out what I was really doing, I would be stopped. But having them think I was a brutal murderer kept them from stopping me. Such was our society.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Sleeptexting: Sunken Ship
This was a weird one.
Me: I do not see how we can get in there. I can swim down that far but we would have to break a window to get inside.
Lexi:Then we have to break a window --we don't have another choice.
Me: Well, we can choose to walk away. But then we will never find out what's in there. And if an official finds out that this ship wrecked here, it will be salvaged and all that money wasted on the government.
Lexi: We can't walk away without trying. Think of how we might use that money!
Me:Besides, that's quicksand under there. It might be that no one else finds it before it sinks.
Lexi: Buy are you sure you can reach the window before it starts to sink?
Me: I can reach it fine. But the problem will be breaking it. I can use the old iron canon as a battering ram. But I don't know if it will have enough force underwater.
Lexi You should be able to move it easier underwater, but if it's stuck in that quicksand, we could really be in trouble. Are there any canon balls left? That might be too good to be true.
Me:Of course not. You know how old it is and you can't shoot a canon underwater anyway. It will be easier to move underwater but the force behind the impact will be greatly lessened. It will be like trying to break a window with a wet sponge.
Lexi: I meant to hit the window with... That damned trigger probably couldn't fire under the very best conditions. I can't believe there aren't any rocks around here. Do you see any?
I have no idea what that was all about. I think there's a bit of a miscommunication between us, because it only kind of makes sense.
I read a short story last week about a sunken ship. I haven't thought about it since, but obviously my subconscious was thinking about it. It may be the first time that a sleeptexting session has been a pretty direct reference to something in my life.
Me: I do not see how we can get in there. I can swim down that far but we would have to break a window to get inside.
Lexi:Then we have to break a window --we don't have another choice.
Me: Well, we can choose to walk away. But then we will never find out what's in there. And if an official finds out that this ship wrecked here, it will be salvaged and all that money wasted on the government.
Lexi: We can't walk away without trying. Think of how we might use that money!
Me:Besides, that's quicksand under there. It might be that no one else finds it before it sinks.
Lexi: Buy are you sure you can reach the window before it starts to sink?
Me: I can reach it fine. But the problem will be breaking it. I can use the old iron canon as a battering ram. But I don't know if it will have enough force underwater.
Lexi You should be able to move it easier underwater, but if it's stuck in that quicksand, we could really be in trouble. Are there any canon balls left? That might be too good to be true.
Me:Of course not. You know how old it is and you can't shoot a canon underwater anyway. It will be easier to move underwater but the force behind the impact will be greatly lessened. It will be like trying to break a window with a wet sponge.
Lexi: I meant to hit the window with... That damned trigger probably couldn't fire under the very best conditions. I can't believe there aren't any rocks around here. Do you see any?
I have no idea what that was all about. I think there's a bit of a miscommunication between us, because it only kind of makes sense.
I read a short story last week about a sunken ship. I haven't thought about it since, but obviously my subconscious was thinking about it. It may be the first time that a sleeptexting session has been a pretty direct reference to something in my life.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Sleep...falling.
Next to my bed is a small table. Sitting on it is my old desktop. The keyboard is separate, and huge, and gets in the way a lot. It was sticking out rather far towards my bed last night while I was sleeping.
At some point during the night, I fell out of bed dramatically. I hit my FACE on the keyboard, knocking it off the table and onto my head. I have a cut on my face where I hit it!
Ow!
At some point during the night, I fell out of bed dramatically. I hit my FACE on the keyboard, knocking it off the table and onto my head. I have a cut on my face where I hit it!
Ow!
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Sleepwalking: Force shield
In the middle of the night last night, I sat up and turned to the window next to my bed. As far as I can remember, I tried to put my hand through it. It probably woke me up partially, because I remember my hand vaguely hurting and saying "..some sort of force shield."
Then, as usual, I looked around in a confused manner for a while as I slowly rose towards consciousness.
When I woke up this morning my window was wide open. I must have opened it after the force shield incident.
Then, as usual, I looked around in a confused manner for a while as I slowly rose towards consciousness.
When I woke up this morning my window was wide open. I must have opened it after the force shield incident.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Dream: Weddings Gone Wrong
I don't think about weddings a lot. I don't often think about myself getting married. But for some reason, I had nothing but wedding dreams last night. I had maybe ten weddings. And they were all disasters.
I got stood up at the alter.
I found my finance kissing another woman in the dressing room right before the ceremony.
I was getting married to a girl, and only realized that I wasn't gay while I was walking down the isle.
Someone told me at the reception that my new husband was, unbeknownst to me, my cousin.
I got splashed by a car on the way to the chapel, a wave of mud and water going over me in my wedding dress.
There was one highlight. My sister was at one of these weddings, and she had given each of the guests a handful of purple rocks. The guests were to throw them in the air at the opportune moment, after nightfall. They threw them all at once. It created rainbows in the air, and started raining popcorn. It was kind of awesome.
One guest was confused and put the rocks in her mouth, thinking it was candy. I saw her do it, and immediately went over to her and smacked her across the face to get her to spit it out. She got most of the rocks out of her mouth, but she was still spitting rainbows for hours.
I got stood up at the alter.
I found my finance kissing another woman in the dressing room right before the ceremony.
I was getting married to a girl, and only realized that I wasn't gay while I was walking down the isle.
Someone told me at the reception that my new husband was, unbeknownst to me, my cousin.
I got splashed by a car on the way to the chapel, a wave of mud and water going over me in my wedding dress.
There was one highlight. My sister was at one of these weddings, and she had given each of the guests a handful of purple rocks. The guests were to throw them in the air at the opportune moment, after nightfall. They threw them all at once. It created rainbows in the air, and started raining popcorn. It was kind of awesome.
One guest was confused and put the rocks in her mouth, thinking it was candy. I saw her do it, and immediately went over to her and smacked her across the face to get her to spit it out. She got most of the rocks out of her mouth, but she was still spitting rainbows for hours.
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