Dream Journal: February 26, 2016

It is a film noir on Mars.

Buildings are black and smooth – matte black obsidian monoliths, forever slick with the near constant rain and mist, a side effect of the terraforming efforts that have been going on for the past twenty years. The buildings float in the air along with suspended walkways between them. Bright colorless lights from high above make shadows crisp. Everything exists in a perpetual twilight.

I have been trained in the art of line-of-sight teleportation. My teacher is a wizened man who looks like a cross between Mister Miyagi from the Karate Kid movies and Yoda. His instruction is terse. He points out that it is very important to always aim high, to ensure that you always teleport into clear air. Coming in low you run the risk of teleporting into the floor or ground, and thus risking losing toes, feet, ankles. So it is “bampf” and then fall for a few inches. A lot of time is spent perfecting the landing on strange ground. Keeping your ankles limp and flexible to roll with unforeseen surface textures, bumps and the like.

[Teleporting from one location to another is always accompanied by a soft “bampf” noise and a puff of compressed steam. Something about the quality of the space we are moving through to get from one location to another.]

On Mars I am to meet with a woman to obtain a briefcase, inside which is a secret film that I need to watch. There are other interested parties trying to get to the briefcase before me. There is a chase scene through the streets of the city, me versus several faceless agents in black who have rocket belts.

Using my teleport abilities I eventually out-maneuver them.

Mars_atmosphere_2_TN
This Viking 1 orbiter image shows the tin atmosphere of Mars, 1976 By NASA [Public Domain], via Wikimedia Commons
I meet up with the woman. She resembles the actress Kristen Bell, dressed in a slick dark raincoat. We are atop a terraforming processing plant that dwarfs the city below; black shadowy structures suspended over red sand. She wordlessly hands me the briefcase and brushes my cheek with her left hand in an affectionate gesture. She turns and slips away into the shadows, silent.

I make my way back to the hotel. The lobby is overwrought décor that is best described as a blend of 18th Century French Rococo and Island Tiki themes as re-imagined by H.R. Giger. I nod to desk clerk Chet as I pass and head to the elevator. There is a brief but brutal fist fight with another group of faceless agents on my way to my room, the penthouse on the 66th floor.

The interior of the penthouse is decorated in a minimalist style. Everything is square and flat, black stone with alabaster accents. I open the case to find a DVD. It is the latest iteration of James Bond. I watch it lying in bed, the image projected onto the ceiling above me. While the movie is engaging and entertaining it does put me to sleep, as it features all the classic Bond elements that I have seen many times before.

I wake up in my real bed, disorientated for a moment. This is no longer the dream, right?

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