Two Kinds of Death

I learn that human beings can have two kinds of deaths, spiritual and physical, and both must happen before they truly die. This has to do with the two forces of the world, black (male, benign) and red (female, troublesome). Some other girls and I are reading and looking at some drawings that we found, and a Shinigami appears and tells us that we are all going to die spiritually soon, just not physically. The shinigami is a short man with a small dagger.

"Don't worry, you won't feel a thing when it happens," he says, waving his dagger.

I want to put on some new nail polish before I die because I figure the way I look when I die will remain my appearance when I am a ghost. I walk up and down Tung Hwa Street, looking for lilac colored nail polish. I pause at an intersection and suddenly feel the wind knocked out of me. I fall to the ground. As I get up I feel normal enough, and I guess that the Shinigami already stabbed me with his short knife.

I am worried that I am now an invisible ghost so I walk into a convenient store and talk to people. They can still feel and touch me--the Shinigami wasn't lying about how one will not really die until the body dies also. I'll have to be extra careful crossing the street.

I'm reading a book of dreams attributed to Charles Perrault and taking notes. M, the teacher, asks a few questions, such as "Do you believe all these dreams are by one person?" and "Would you like to know who wrote each of the dreams?" I say that I'd rather not know the authors because otherwise I'll just look up their lives and explain away the dreams based on what the authors experienced in real life.

A woman, a colleague of M's, walks into the room and M introduces me as his fiancee. I wonder if he noticed that I already have a wedding ring on, and feel happy, sad and ashamed all at once, not knowing what will happen next.

Social Critic Toddler Dream

I'm something between a baby and a toddler, and running around in a complex system of caves and stairs. I go down to a lower level cave and see a bunch of toddlers who have genetic mutations, such as extra eyes, only one eye, or even a hand coming out of one's face. I hurriedly run upstairs before they find me and assimilate me.

I run from cave to cave, finding terrifying babies and toddlers ranging from ones that are green to a whole room of them wearing glasses who will one day become scientists and doctors. Finally I find a group of children that seem normal enough. There is nothing unusual about them except they are all wearing black hoodies. They are the Social Critic babies. I decide to join them. I can criticize society, I think to myself, and immediately a black hoodie appears on me.

Desert Island Publisher Dream

It took me a long time to wade through the waters to a safe island. The place was mostly sand and palm trees, at once a desert and a beach. I am sunbathing by a wooden hut and notice a woman come downstairs; she is putting up a poster about the publishing house she works at on a palm tree.

I decide to seduce her. Anything to be published by the Desert Island Publishing House, I say to myself. We hug but she says she has to go back, and she does, turning back to glance at me every few steps. I don't know if she is an intern, assistant, or editor, but I figure it's a good way to get one foot in.

Mud-Grilled Sad Fish Dream

There is a psychokiller somewhere behind a fish tank. I see him holding a syringe, and I'm not sure who it is for. I'm afraid of him seeing me and attacking me so I turn into a bird and fly far away.

I land in a village where everyone is walking around barefoot. It's gross because there are huge piles of black dog shit everywhere and I have to avoid stepping in them. A little boy comes and tells me to go to his family's tent to play. His mother, father and older brother are all home, grilling fish. The little boy takes a long, black, eel-like fish and begins coating it with mud.

The fish on the grill are gigantic with their mud casings. I notice the three fish stacked together on the grill are all still alive. They are struggling against one another and crying, trying to get away. I feel awful.

"They'll cook to a delicious crisp," the mother explains to me over the fish cries. She even shows me a serving of fully cooked, dry fish. I can't stop them and I am crying just like the fish now.

"I'm never eating fish again," I say as I walk out of the tent and out of the barefoot village.