Definitely cool dream: I could inhale thunder (not lightning, just thunder). This is best through the mouth because it makes the nostrils burn like laugh-snorting cola. When I inhaled too much there were hiccups, tiny timpani storms, or sneezes, abrupt little cymbal crashes that startled the dogs and babies nearby. Within the dream, a psychotherapist at the bar was telling me about the person who invented electroshock therapy. He had gotten his inspiration from an aunt who was struck by lightning and abandoned all bad behavior, from smoking to procrastinating. I told him that this was a myth, and that it was clearly harnessing the wrong power of the storm -- chasing lightning is only for inventors and magicians. Thunder was the true gift. After all -- we dont call them lightning storms, do we? I showed him something Id learned... if a person focused on a certain thought or behavior and closed their eyes, I could breath a long, soft stream of thunder into their ear and use its waves to smooth out that kink in the brain. The thought was gone. The behavior would change. This quickly turned into a kind of parlor trick that people would ask me to do, and the psychotherapist and I became good friends. Some time later, I discovered that I could do more; if I breathed out a larger dose of thunder I could confuse and incapacitate peoples brains... at least temporarily. It seemed useful for self defense, but this proved unfortunate when I argued with the psychotherapist, whom I had started dating. In a moment of anger I yelled out thunder at him, so intensely that it wiped his brain completely, collapsing him to the floor and leaving him comatose. The official word was that hed had a stroke. Angry at myself, I ended up sitting in the middle of a field in a pouring thunderstorm. I was crying, breathing in mountains of thunder and screaming them back out, occasionally knocking an innocent bird or bat from the sky. I was begging to be struck by lightning. It never happened. I went back to the hospital in the end and sat beside the bed of the brain-dead psychotherapist. I knew he wouldnt recover. Instead I just read him rainy-day books and, occasionally, leaned over to try using a straw-full of thunder to breathe his brain back to life.
Posted on: Sat, 05 Apr 2014 23:45:43 +0000
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