Chuck’s manuscript

I had a weird dream last night. Or, since I was awakened by Toop at 3am and this dream came after I fell back to sleep, I guess it was this morning.

Actually I had two, but I don’t remember much about the first. Something about dreameling, as a matter of fact. He’d moved into the top floor of my childhood home back in Fremantle, and converted it into some sort of studio apartment. It was quite neat actually (well, it’s dreameling so of course it was neat … but what I mean was, it was cool to see). Not sure what that was about. Separation anxiety about my boy Aaronthepatriot turning to him for conversation while I’m out of the loop, probably.

Anyway, in the second dream there was a big crowd of people, divided into several sections. One section was really just a big mass of folks, another was a big mass of spectatory-type standing-around people, and these were separated by a guarded fence. I entered this second crowd by way of an admittance gate, and then found that there was a third crowd, a sort of disorganised line leading through the fence and into the first crowd. So, never one to ask “why the line”, I lined up.

Turned out the line was actually a bunch of prisoners of war or internment camp victims of some kind, and they were being returned to their people after some peace treaty or other. The first crowd were representative of said people. Russians, unless I’m much mistaken. They were cheering and crying as we came stumbling through the barrier and paraded through them, headed.somewhere.

Yes, for some unfathomable reason I’d decided to stay with the line (probably because I’d waited in it for like twenty minutes already, damnit), and pretend to be a Russian expatriate headed home after a long exile. Nobody could hear anyone talking, and all the exiles were wearing mismatched charity clothes so I didn’t exactly stand out.

Plus, the returning exiles were getting gifts. They were pretty crappy, wooden puzzle-things for the most part, but a prezzie’s a prezzie. And when our little parade reached its goal (some embassy or other), there was more: the old belongings of the exiles, held onto by families and ready to hand back when the time came. It had obviously been some twenty years, so kids were now returning as adults – it had a bit of a ‘stolen generation’ vibe – and family members left behind weren’t necessarily around anymore, but the embassy had held onto the junk.

And it was mostly junk. I know, because I went through it. I’m just a bad person.

Eventually, though, I found a weird heirloom: it was a handwritten manuscript, by a little Russian boy whose nickname had apparently been “Chuck”, which was odd enough for a Russian – and a freaky-enough coincidence – that I felt obliged to claim that this long-lost kid was me. “Chuck”, it seemed, had been quite the writer.

The manuscript – and from here I fell into a second dream, about the story (although I woke up shortly thereafter and didn’t get the whole tale in any detail, and it was scrawled by a nine-year-old in any case) – was about a vampire apocalypse in some non-Earth quasi-futuristic steampunk high fantasy realm, which was a cool enough idea that I may have to use it for reals.

Sorry about that, Chuck. Hope you get home one day.

About Hatboy

I’m not often driven to introspection or reflection, but the question does come up sometimes. The big question. So big, there’s just no containing it within the puny boundaries of a single set of punctuationary bookends. Who are these mysterious and unsung heroes of obscurity and shadow? What is their origin story? Do they have a prequel trilogy? What are their secret identities? What are their public identities, for that matter? What are their powers? Their abilities? Their haunted pasts and troubled futures? Their modus operandi? Where do they live anyway, and when? What do they do for a living? Do they really have these fantastical adventures, or is it a dazzlingly intellectual and overwrought metaphor? Or is it perhaps a smug and post-modern sort of metaphor? Is it a plain stupid metaphor, hedged around with thick wads of plausible deniability, a soap bubble of illusory plot dependent upon readers who don’t dare question it for fear of looking foolish? A flight of fancy, having dozed off in front of the television during an episode of something suitably spaceship-oriented? Do they have a quest, a handler, a mission statement, a department-level development objective in five stages? I am Hatboy.
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2 Responses to Chuck’s manuscript

  1. dreameling says:

    Dream 2: Weird, but extremely cool. Especially the inceptiony dream-within-a-dream bit. Do you often get cool ideas from dreams that actually end up in one story or another?

    Russians returning home. I wonder where that came from.

    Btw., you misspelled “enouwgh” there at the end.

    Dream 1: We are actually looking for a bigger apartment, albeit domestically. But I have been half-seriously thinking about where to ship off my wife and daughter if we get annexed by Russia. Australia is on the list. (I personally know a grand total of two Australians, both author types as it happens, so I’m sure they can totally pull some strings.) How big was the top floor apartment?

    By now Aaron must have realized what a shitty slow email correspondent I am, so the man must be meeting his conversation quota elsewhere.

    • stchucky says:

      Thanks for the typo-fix, I did this all on my old phone so it was raw text with tags, and I often miss spaces (I noticed the same sentence had a “word ,comma” space error so I fixed that too) and stuff. Then going back and fixing them is a scrollpain.

      I have a few ideas like this, but just sketched out roughly. It’s usually the more conscious daydreamy stuff that ends up being written out fully. I actually had a dream diary for a while but then gave it up. Blogging the occasional dream is more worthwhile. Oh, and I have a few notes from my old phone actually, that I need to copy off. Some dreams I wrote down in the hospital, when I was on massive amounts of morphine. I actually remember them being pretty terrifying, so I’m not entirely sure I want to read what the notes say anymore.

      I think I mentioned this in Arsebook a time or two. Not sure.

      The top floor of our old house was pretty big, actually. Certainly bigger than your average Helsinki apartment, although I think you guys might be used to something more spacious. Tammisto’s got nice development, none of those pokey rivitalot. Taloja? Whatever. Spacious.

      Stay tuned for ranting about the process of trying to get dual Australian-Finnish citizenship over the next year or two.

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