Somnolent Tourist Conspiracy; Dream

Owlright, get this. I had one of my first movie-length psychological thriller nightmares.

Green field with European music festival, a woman dancing on the stage in clips. She had gypsy moves, the camera panned and zoomed. I wanted to stay and watch, I considered joining her but the faceless escort led me further into the festival, white tents with the air of hustle in the distance.
I was part of a small tourist crowd being led through a low, outdoor hall, past somber persons adorned with skull-attached objects. A woman with red-lined eyes and deep, hidden pain at the gate I entered. A list of the rules. I was then in a building with rooms like hospital,

a bit reminiscent of the Northern place where children were held captive in The Golden Compass.

I feared sleeping; I didn't know what would happen with my eyes closed. I sat in an oldschool desk and a very Eastern European-looking no-neck man with a shaved head gently held the back of my head with one hand and fed me porridge-like substance, looking stern with a hint of empathy. He told me he must feed me to know I ate all of it, so I had a few seconds to chew and swallow, and so on.

A few weeks ago, I was speaking to a couple fellow potter women about coffee, of course, and I suggested honey + brown sugar instead of creamer and white sugar. Chris, a middle-aged lady with a Long Island accent, said she hates artificial sugar and told me a story about a cake made with it - she wrapped it in a napkin and threw it away because of the chemical taste, and honey's similarity to syrup put her off. I laughed to myself at the idea of someone hating maple syrup and said, "Well, surely you must have a -reason- to dislike maple syrup, because it couldn't be the taste; it's so delicious!"
She said, "Well, I was raised in an orphanage. You had to eat what they gave you or they would shove it down your throat with a wooden spoon, y'know, and they would drench the pancakes with tons of maple syrup, so whenever I even smell it now I feel sick. I just can't do it."
Amongst all the coats and bags on the studio's one couch, I was looking at her, shocked, and I said, "That's definitely a reason to dislike maple syrup."

The rules also stated that I must drink a large amount of potent alcohol to make me pass out at night. I wasn't allowed to see or hear anything during the dark hours. This frightened me. I thought I'd be attacked, or something of equal danger would be happening around me.
Time passed and I set out to escape. I was going to find a way to contact my parents and have them rescue me. I walked through the town, streets unknown, no way of telling which part of Norway I was in, so I photographed my surroundings to e-mail to my father who could decipher my location. A man walked by and casually pumped into me and within moments, slipped the memory card out of the bottom of my camera. I noticed the cover was semi-detached as he walked away and ran to tackle him. I held him down on the pavement and asked, "Why did you do that? What's going on?" I took the memory card back, he burst into tears. The city's conspiracy had everyone feeling guilty, as though they were also trapped and tortured.
I thought of solutions, who can I speak to? Where can I go to figure out my escape? What would I do if I were awake?
And I woke up.

Today

• Sledding with Lake at the mental hospital, I dove head first off a hill
• Japanese bath lit with semiretired candles
• Snowy afternoon in a warm library armchair, read all of Wicked Plants. The leaves, flowers, nectar, and pollen of Azalea and rhododendron have a very dangerous poison called grayanotoxin.
• Thrift store shopping: a black dress with indigo roses, red floral wool skirt, vest & plaid button-down for Web, wizard garden statue, wooden leaf dish
• Fall unrestrained into the snow countless times
• In the morning I let Watson out to hop through three feet of snow while I sat on the porch in my bathrobe and drank from my own pottery. The streets vanished and connected the properties: Max bounded across the snow and I knew he reached unseen Watson when I heard a little frightened chirp.
• Alexander McQueen committed suicide. He was one of my absolute favourite living artists.