Round 2 (fight!). Actually, these are more snippets of old dream recalls. I’m sorry these don’t have nicer beginnings. They kind of just pick up wherever my memory left off at that point in time.
Almost immediately, I received this really unofficial looking prompt from my computer asking me if I had read about the recent events and precautions against improper use of power cord plugs. It asked me to indicate my agreement to a user license, implying my understanding that if I were to be electrocuted by my own fault, Apple would not be legally liable.
There was apparently some incident that took place in India, where an American visitor was staying at a hotel and was fatally electrocuted when trying to plug in her laptop power cord. Her story appeared on a television screen in the room I was sitting in. There was a diagram of all of the parts of her body that were affected by the electrical shock. Different parts of her body were indicated with different numbers. I didn’t know what those meant.
The next thing I know, I was standing backstage somewhere. I was in a group of people whose names were being called alphabetically. We were walking out onto a stage to receive awards or recognition for something. Some girls from my Modern Art class were there. Now that I think about it, it was pretty much entirely girls. My name was called, but I wasn’t able to walk on stage until moments later. When enough stage space was cleared and members of the previous alphabet letters had returned, I walked out on stage. I couldn’t determine who marked the end of the line and almost tried to walk around it. A faculty member yelled out, signaling that I was going the wrong way. I got back at the end of the line.
The next thing I knew, there was a certificate in my hand. It was an award for excellence in news journalism. I had apparently written a series of articles, some sports-related, some not. I had been chosen to receive something I believe was called the “Marshall award” in journalism. My name and information about my articles were listed on a yellow sheet of paper, as were the names of several other recipients. I read the certificate, which included a few comments that briefly critiqued my work. There was a bit of stipulation about my wording of the title, and it was concluded that my journalistic style offered “the usual smiles”. I remember feeling a sense of pride that I had been awarded something, but had no recollection of writing those articles.
The other award recipient was a young black man named Risdon. Risdon talked about his work as a journalist, as well as his family. His mother was a former athlete who was now disabled, only barely able to use her legs. Risdon had a physical disability of his own. His legs were abnormally short for his body — a congenital problem apparently. Risdon informed me that his mother was a part of what was known as the “Free Love” movement, which apparently sponsored a regularly held black pride rally.
I was sitting in a sea of people with long, dreded hair with blue streaks and blue shirts on (this included Risdon’s mother).
Suddenly I was transported back to what felt like the late 1980s, potentially early 1990s. I was attending a free love rally in the inner city, an indoor pool center somewhere in Brooklyn to be exact. Public Enemy was blasting out of two large speakers on either side of a giant projector screen. Nothing was being projected, however. It actually looked almost exactly like the video for “Fight the Power,” except it was indoors and there was more dancing and less walking. This also strikes me as odd since I haven’t seen that video in quite some time. However, I will note that I had recently watched ‘Do The Right Thing’ (which probably explains away a good portion of this dream). The people here all seemed to be young and middle-aged African-Americans between the ages of 17 and 40. Everyone was dancing and what looked almost like moshing inside of a giant pool. It was literally a pool situated right in front of the screen. I don’t know how deep it was, but people were slinging their hair around, getting each other wet, throwing water and looking really pumped about the rally. There was no violence at this point, just really intense dancing….and some really intense hairstyles.
I walked around, trying to figure out what I was supposed to be doing or where I fit in exactly. I noticed a cloaked figure in a hallway outside the rally. The figure had a scythe, and looked precisely like the grim reaper. I watched this person lurk around the rally, pacing back and forth repeatedly while the people inside danced and provoked each other into enthusiasm. Then suddenly I realized that in my staring, I had caught the attention of the cloaked individual, who began running at me with his scythe. They ran right into the rally. I screamed. He chased me around the perimeter of the rally. I ran behind the projector and around the other side. I considered jumping into the pool, which I noticed was quickly being cleared. I heard a booming male voice shout “DREAD” .
I quickly discovered that this cloaked figure incident was not an uncommon one at these black pride rallies. The cloaked man was in fact a white supremacist who had come to wreak havoc on the participants in the rally. I learned from another Free Love member that “dreading,” which I assume was a play on their preferred hairstyle, referred to the act of responding to a white supremacist intrusion during a rally. The protocol was apparently to grab any of the free-floating spears in the pool and repeatedly stab anyone who was wearing a black cloak and had a scythe. The next thing I knew, I had picked up a pole and was running full-force at a white man who was already slumped in a cloak against a back wall. I jabbed him repeatedly in the abdomen with the pole. I ran away violently, running across walls and leaping over obstacles, eventually returning to him to stab him some more. I impaled the man until he showed no further signs of life. At this point, I woke up.