KRIEGER

DREAM DIARY (2/7/6): Late morning on a bright and cold February day. I was in my bed sleeping wonderously and warm when I heard the annoying sound of insect wings buzzing faintly in some far, dim corner of my room. I dread that sound, but never so much as when, in opiate-like haze of blissful sleeping-peace I dream. And since it was exactly that reveared state of loving calm in which I laid, my hatred for that loathsome buzz awoke. But fast to sleep again I tried, in hopes that my alliegance to the Gods of slumber would elicit their numbing mercy and allow me the ability to ignore the conscious world and continue my worship at their evanescent altar. So, in return for all of the hecatombs of slavish devotion which I joyously gave to the shadowy lords of somnambulism, and for all of the lulling years of sleep with which I lovingly prayed to them, I begged for one more ephemeral second of their priceless grace. Only one. "Oh, forgive me Gods of sleep for my ingratitude and for my insatiable thirst for your wine of dreams. I would wish nothing more than to drown myself in an infinite oceanic tide of it and glut my bed forever." And as quickly as the grating thunder of those tiny wings pleasantly faded, I was certain my Gods were pleased. But only one drop of their blackened juice did I get. For it was only one second of their peace for which I had plead. Only one. The buzzing became a tickle of wind and a flurry of tiny, scratchy feathers beating agaist my brow. A bee it seemed, or two, or three--a hive's share?!; taking turns assailing, what must have been to them, a monstrous trampoline of flesh. Bouncing off and back into it, they played--not angrily or hatefully, but obviously for fun, or perhaps it was their fierce intent to pound their way through it to taste the overripe necter of my cooling dream. Though it was difficult to wake my heavy arm, and even more so to free it from its cacoon of covers, I managed to raise it and to blindly take a groggy swat at one of the blurry bothers. Not to kill or maim, but mearly to scold--and in full expectation of being stung in retaliation. The thud of impact quieted the frenzy for a moment until I felt the creature stirring under the blankets of my bed, fanning my naked torso with breath from its noisome wings! My arm had opened a cavernous well in the covers and the stinging beauty had been taken into it! The others followed in and began a fever-pitch of ticklish buzzing and scratchy beating. But to my surprise--no stinging--yet. For fear of that specific occurence, I began to delicately summon my other limbs, disagreeable as they were, into the service of my rescue. Slowly my limbs obeyed and the mouth of the humming cavern widened. It was then that I noticed the presence of another person in my shaded room. In a chair quietly watching my epic crisis sat my old dear friend, Anja Clark. She was staring blankly in an annoyingly, matter-of-fact detatchment. "Why did you bring these bees." I barked at her. "They must have come in with you." I added. Quietly, she gazed at me ignorantly, and she directed my attention to a large area of shiny black wetness on the floor around us. I was standing next to her gazing into it. "You spilled something sweet" I scolded. "Thats why. We have to clean this up so the bees will leave." AND THEN, I AWOKE. Contact Tables