all are welcome to play, just be gentle

In the dream I am at a encampment. Not a slammer but we are all sharing cots and food is scarce. I go to help with the crawlers. One of them has grown silent…too quiet. I pick her up and realize she’s stopped breathing. I know it’s difficult to give a toddler mouth to mouth. The breastbone is still quite fragile and risks snapping under the weight of misplaced pressure. This is no ‘Pulp Fiction’-esque procedure with markers and best guesses The little angel has fluid lungs, the product of a c-section. I worry for her, I kiss her blue’ing lips and place her next to an older girl in different sleeping quarters to secure her safety. Later, I’m in a pool.

There must be hundreds of babies splashing around in the azure puddle. The water is salted and cold. With a deep, warm undercurrent, I can feel only around my ankles. I cannot tell if we are all there by choice, or have been assigned. I cannot tell if these little ones are swimming, drowning or just splashing. And I’m overwhelmed by trying to assess which to save first. Chubby little arms, legs and faces are crowding me with urgency, making flesh colored foam.

I have a vague recollection of where I was before this prison, in Virginia, at a multi-floored beach house with my sister. Cynthia has tickets to a Stone Temple Pilots concert, and promises, with some malice, that she is most definitely not going to take me. I’m devastated and a humming rings out throughout the house, to the tune of “Sour Girl”. I run from the house, over the dunes and down to the ocean front. A couple of older kids walk up to me, and I’m encouraged to go with them. I don’t feel too much younger then they must be, and I’m enjoying the adrenaline of risk. We wander off to a nearby dock. I’m aroused…

Back to the camp. I’ve heard Scott Weiland is there. I think this makes perfect sense and I wonder if he’s going to offer me a shared heroin needle. Cynthia’s there too, but she’s never had the same inner ill-advised, risk taking tendencies. My confusion begins to grow brighter. To love a rockstar is a given disaster, this seems obvious, but is not – as things in dreams often go. Now, the babies are all crying with scarlet fury. I am the only person paying any attention to taking care of them, and I’m so high I can’t keep their faces from morphing into devilish hellions. I can’t sleep and I can’t see Scott, until they quiet. They’re reaching for me, through wet, soft gauzes, tiny limbs disowned by mothers and caregivers.

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