sonĝo pri maŝinoj

Last night I woke because the back of my balls were itching something fierce. Applied medicated powder, nothing happened, so I took a shower and went to sleep on the couch atop my bathrobe.

When I finally slept, there were dreams but I became fully conscious of my dreams when I “awoke” in front of a large, Victorian-style building which was more window than structure. I walked in through the back, since there appeared to be a party happening there, and saw all eyes upon me following my every step. A maître d approached me, gently pointing out the exit since I clearly didn’t belong there. Looking around, I noticed everyone had stiff faces and large eyes while moving stiffly at their tables. Women dressed up as Egyptian goddesses holding ankhs, rushes of papyrus, and whatnot were performing a dance along one side of the room. “Uh, I’m here to see my friend Steve” was my response as I pointed off to the side. The maître d nodded and stepped back obseqiously. I had no idea if I even knew a Steve in this crowd of seemingly sentient automata.

An automata dressed as a flapper flagged me down, gave me the business in a very kind way about how her automata friends were very cliquish but she welcomed having a human join her and her friend. Her friend’s appearance is lost to my memory.

I pulled out my smartphone, keyed in, and was greeted with a pop-up to enter the member code for this particular club. I tried several times. Fortunately there was no lock-out and many mistakes could be made. I looked up, saw a brown-stained carving of an ornate fish next to the numbers 5429. The numbers would swap around every time I blinked making me think these were the pin but I didn’t know their order. Still, I had a patron and wouldn’t have to worry about being “accepted”.

The Egyptian goddess dancers began walking around the club with their papyri, asking for donations like it was church. I declined as did my hosts. The lights dimmed, a waiter came over to deliver a bar of silver and some other strange food to the table. I picked up the hunk of silver, felt it was very soft and a little slick, giving the impression this was a colored piece of chocolate. Biting in, it was chocolate but flavorless much to my dismay.

Around that time I began to panic over my backpack, there were things inside of it that I was going to need and I didn’t know where the backpack had gone off to. I stood up, wandered around, found the backpack, brought it back to the now-empty table, rummaged through every pocket unable to find my necessities, but the second or third passes through the backpack pockets showed they were in there all the while.

And I waited for the return of my new automata friends.

And waited.

And waited.

Now, in the words of Zayas, the automata became “nudge-y”. My welcome was worn out, but they were trying as politely as possible to remove me from the premises. I don’t recall the rest, but I woke up.

While I wrote down the dream, the analysis percolating in my head was lost. Possibly caught in the current of my writing and washed out into the sea of wakefulness. Inshallah, I may remember later on today.

Just still struck by the sight of all the automata blinking in unison. Every. Single. Time.

Chris S.
Anomalist, esperantist, cyclist, typist, dodecaphile, ailurophile, and oneiromancer. Chris lives near the shore with his wife, cats, and the Jersey Devil in his backyard.

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