Welcome to LA
I hate mornings.
The dream I had last night was under a burned orange sky with a fried sun that needed its oil changed. I’d seen that sun before in dreams where I die.
There’s a pregnant woman, a black-haired Hoosier in every sense of that word. She’s completely ordinary except for her size. In this dream I’m 12 or 14 and wandering around an apartment complex with terraced gardening. I’m playing on this stepped landscape when the woman cries out in pain and panic.
Her vomiting is sudden, as if she didn’t have enough time to retch properly. She fountains liquid all over her chest and the ground. Her bubbling is sickening.
People come to watch or try and help her and the dream shifts the way dreams do – everyone is now at a bus stop or a sports arena. I’m not sure, we’re all too hypnotized by the woman’s sickness to notice.
She continues to vomit, sudden and surprisingly. The stuff coming up is volumetric, thick and soupy, egg-whites and oil, then doughy un-baked bread and bog water. Some horrid mix of kim chee and Drain-O.
I’m afraid to smell. People think she’ll die or start throwing up blood or her unborn – even though nothing about those systems are connected.
My eyes flutter – trying to escape this terror dream. The first sound this morning I hear is the clacking of picture frames on the walls and then the blinds chattering from the windows. To me, it sounds like a proper wind or electrical storm has finally struck southern California, but then there’s the sensation of what could be a small person jumping on the bed.
Neither the cat or Dani show any sign of notice.
Was this a psychic disturbance caused by my overactive imagination? Was there a disturbance in the force of a million dream voices crying out?
My phone buzzes on the nightstand with a text. I read it and wake Dani with a hrumph.
“Well, I guess we really live in Los Angeles now. That was our first earthquake.”