Bonus Content: Dream Journal - January 1, 2019 Part 1

(Beep. Music fades in)

I fell asleep in the early morning hours of New Year’s Day long after the excitement because that’s how one greets the new year: with a vigil that delays the usual rest. You are to eagerly welcome this new, albeit temporary friend in your life. I guess it’s in the hope that it will bring you good fortune. But it seems wrong to ever assume a gift will come with a new arrival. It’s a great way to be disappointed, at the very least.

But I will go through the motions as much as anyone else will or would. Solidarity is still a virtue even in this more childish setting. To add to that, my girlfriend loves fireworks. She’s nowhere near as cynical as I am.

You can see the fireworks from where we live. Just not in our unit. You can only see the building next door from our window. We couldn’t afford a view of any kind. We are just barely holding it together sometimes. But we’re together. And, more importantly, there were unoccupied units on the upper floors in a building where management never pays attention. It didn’t even feel like we were sneaking up there, picking a lock and entering a space that we were not welcome in. It was much too easy for that. 

So we sat in front of the large window, huddled together as--I guess--the years shifted beneath us. She smiled as the fireworks went off. I smiled as her face lit up in different colors. There wasn’t a color she didn’t look amazing in.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

And that was the image I had playing in my mind when I fell asleep that night. It carried over into my dreams. But as I crossed over a threshold, they were muted. That’s how it always works in these dreams. At the sensation, my chest clenched, but I fell through all the same.

It's not like falling. It's just moving. And then the movement stops, and my soul came to rest. I opened my eyes. And before me was a familiar head of hair. The one with the hair that fluctuated from blonde to brunette in an artistic, almost artificial way. But she once said, or many times had to say, that this is how her hair naturally was. But no one believed her. Her repeated contestation was seldom met with anything but disbelief, and in response to that, she began dying it. 

I hoped she stopped doing that. She was beautiful when she wasn’t recoiling from frequent prodding. But that's not something she can control, and I can’t blame her for her reactions. More like, I hate that this has happened to her. Unfair, injustice, and all those words.

In the dream, she stood with her back to me, facing the window. The changing lights outside seeped into the room, masking a dark blue undertone in the immediate space around her. But it was everywhere else. The whole place looked somber but in a stifled, muffled sort of way. 

I kept back, taking it all in. That’s how to do it, I’ve realized. Practice doesn't always make perfect, but it did teach me to take it slow. That there was more to the message than what lies in front of me. It’s not the still image I see when I open my eyes but the whole world that I need to consider. 

I take control of my body. I couldn’t always do that. But now, I pry my body away from whatever holds it and breath.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

I felt a sense of melancholy set in my gut. It hurt but not in an overly constricting way. She’s not happy, but her misery is not so profound as to hurt greatly or set into motion any sort of reaction. 

An important thing to note to be sure, but that wasn’t enough for me. We can get used to pain, but it doesn’t justify it. I called out a name. Technically it was her name, but it felt wrong. It felt like it didn’t fit in this room or on her. She certainly didn’t react to it. She didn’t move. She wasn’t moving at all.

Her stillness was a message, or part of one. The rest could be found in my surroundings. There was more around here. Or that’s what I told myself as I pulled away, so that I could dampen the discomfort from the sight. When we knew each other, she was so lively. But that, that woman was a ghost. 

And maybe I should have done more to comfort her: this ghost of a person I was very fond of. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It might have been my duty, but I was never able to do something like that. It was just never a skill of mine. I’m sorry.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

The entire apartment was defined by that deep blue. It wasn’t just paint over a surface. It was much more than that. It went far deeper than that. Where the color sat, that is. There were other spaces marred by deep, vacant pits on walls, in corners, or where you would expect furniture to be. It was like the place was made of holes and about to fall apart from that structural insecurity. I mean, how could it not come apart with so much of its structure eaten away?

I wandered around, exploring each room I could find and growing more frantic as this pattern continued. It was the same thing everywhere. Maybe to the same degree, but it always felt like it was worsening. I don’t know there, but there was something about the sight of a thousand blackholes filling an apartment that set me off. I started running.

But it was hard to orient myself in a space that looked like it was falling apart. It wasn’t a big apartment. The layout was straightforward. But all the same, I scrambled. I fell over my own two feet, throwing myself into rooms at random.

I was running, calling out her name, trying to find where I left her. All the while, I felt myself being pushed through the hallway, like a current was flowing around me, and I merely a piece of debris that had fallen into the stream. I was a passenger. The piloting force was unknown, but it held my chest in a vice.

(Music fades out. Beep.)

And as a bonus I have a new trailer for an upcoming production at Miscellany Media Studios: Aishi Online. Coming out September 15th.

(Pause)

            Hi. We’ve met before. (Music fades in) Probably. Or not. I don’t… I don’t know. I jumped into this whole podcasting thing after lurking for a long time, and I still don’t understand how people find their shows. You know, that’s how I am with the entire social internet, if I am to be completely honest. Like… I had a Twitter account for years that I have never tweeted from. I didn’t really use it. At least, not in the (quote) “social” way. I really just liked being moderately engaged or informed on global affairs and looking at cute animal pictures. And Twitter is great for both superficial information and cute animals. Neat.

            Well, not exactly neat. There’s a lot more to the internet than that. And I’m bad at most of it.

            And you know what else? I think a lot of people aren’t great at socializing, but I might be one of the few who fail in a digital context. Maybe don’t think too much about that if you don’t want a sudden controversy. Because I promise I am getting to that. In time.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

            If you didn’t know about my other podcast, The Oracle of Dusk, I’m really curious how you managed to find this one, but hi, let me catch you up. The important thing is that The Oracle of Dusk, whose titular character is named Delphi or calls herself Delphi, has a Twitter account. Or the show has a Twitter account with her name on it to create some sort of immersion. And that was the point. I mean, Step 1 immersion. Step 2, a series of questions marks. Step 3. Fan base.

Okay in terms of a plan, that isn’t so great, but I thought that’s what other people were doing, even if I didn’t understand it. So that had to be the thing to do right? And this may seem cold—why couldn’t I do that too? I mean I had this story to tell, and people might find it mildly interesting. But only if they can hear it.

            So I made the show and then the Twitter account and started off only making in-character tweets. I built up the account, connected with other audio fiction fans and creators, kept tweeting, made more connections, kept tweeting… And all the while, I was trying to maintain a distinct all-lowercase style—to the chagrin of autocorrect.

            But then that stopped, and then before or… I don’t know, but it wasn’t me tweeting as Delphi anymore. It was something else and whatever it was I don’t know if I understand it. But it felt familiar. It has happened before. I know that, and I know that this is something I need to talk about.

            The Oracle of Dusk is Delphi’s story. Now, I need to tell mine.

(Gradual music fades out)