Dream: The Skinned Man

Dream 20021103, 7:10 AM:

I’m at a Renfaire or state fair type of place; it seems like it has aspects of both. I go to get a drink, and the man shows me a big bottle, like the jugs that juice comes in, and tells me it’s $7.99. I get one, but when he hands it to me, it’s a little skinny glass bottle, like one that a Mexican soda would come in. I am annoyed, and I explain that for that much money, I want the one like he showed me; he tells me that it’s the same stuff, this is just the size that they sell. I ask if this is even twenty ounces; it looks like not even that much. I throw it at the man. There is another booth that is adjoined to his, sharing space in the center; there is a man in this other booth who is doing some sort of fried food. He says something about how the other guy has “mega’d out” – I think this means he can’t sell me the big bottle. They argue back and forth about who has the better booth; the fry guy is in the sunshine, and it’s always warm, but the drink guy is in the shade and it’s always cold in his booth. Then, I’m with a friend, and we are walking along and someone’s husband or father (who seems to be Homer Simpson) is lying on a mattress, covered with blankets. I reach down under the edge of one of the blankets, and find some popcorn there; I pick up a handful of it and share it with my friend as we walk along. I go to a booth that seems to belong to another friend of ours; this part seems much more like a Renaissance Festival than like a state fair. One of the people in the booth is making some kind of brown bread rolls; they are in a big warming tray under a light. I have a bar of soap in my hands, and I’ve been lathering up my hands with it. I reach down and touch one of the rolls, and the guy takes that one out so it won’t get served to someone with the soap on it. I go around behind his little stall, where another person is making biscuits, and he’s smearing butter over the entire top surface of each one with his fingertip.

I go home – or is it to the home of a friend? We hear a thumping noise on the roof, and for a moment I think it’s the cat or a tree dropping acorns or something, but the thump is too regular. After a while, I go through some sort of access hatch, and on the roof I see a man walking around on the roof. He is small, and seems like something is wrong with him, like his proportions are wrong. The thumping noise is being made by a weight that he’s carrying in one hand; I make a noise, which startles him, and he drops it. It is about the size of a five-pound plate weight, and painted yellow.

Without a clear transition, we are back in the house. We catch two dogs that are running around the house – I think they belong to somebody at the Faire. We put them in a big cage and put it in a room beside the kitchen. We are talking about suing the Faire because of the creepy guy on the rooftop stalking us.

Then, back at the Faire. Now, it seems more like a state fair. I walk past a big stone building, and there is a garden with several different kinds of passionflower vines growing up the walls. In retrospect, they aren’t really passionflowers -but in the dream I know that’s what they are. One kind has HUGE green parts surrounding a tiny flower, it almost reminds me of the Little Shop of Horrors plant. Another one looks almost like a dried flower, all wrinkled and purple. There are a couple of women in a little greenhouse that is open on both ends, and they are talking about a moss rose plant they’re looking at. It has pink flowers. One of the women calls it “Better Boy.”

Then, it’s night time. I’m in an area that has large barrow-like hills. I look around with a flashlight; there seems to be a lot of little debris in a pile here. There are some padlocks, several keys, and various other little pieces of stuff. I find a tiny steel knife that has Swiss-Army-like scissors on one blade; I pocket it. Then, I find a lighter that looks like a black hand grenade; it is one of those that burns the bright blue flame like a torch. I push the button and it burns for a minute, but it runs out of gas. I fish around until I find a padlock that looks reasonable, then dig around until I find a key for it.

I look over the little mound that I’m standing next to, and there is a boy with a book. His friends are telling him something; I think they’re saying not to read the book. He opens it up, then closes it, and they are emphatic that he should not open it again. Then, he opens it again, and something comes out of the book. It looks like a blob of flesh, and it seems like it’s eating his face. I freak out, and take off running. I feel spooked, but not terrified – I’m not running for my life or screaming, just getting away from the gross stuff. As I run along, there are more of the hills; they are long, and seem almost like earth-covered bunkers rather than barrows now. On one of them, I see a chain coming out of a hole; I shine my flash light along the chain, and standing at the other end of the hill is a completely skinned man, with the chain binding him. I don’t remember where it attaches to him, but I think it’s his ankle. He doesn’t seem bloody, just red all over, like he was skinned but wiped off. He seems to be on guard, and I’m glad that the chain doesn’t give him enough range to get to where I’m standing.

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