Will Bueché



I don't blog much 

David Bowie Survives the Apocalypse

Posted in Dream by Will on Tuesday, January 26th, 2010 ~ 1pm

My dream last night was filled with apocalypse. First there were tiny earthquakes that caused an overpass bridge to become unstable. I knew this was a dream because the bridge was covered in grass despite being at the top of a street. The bridge passed over train tracks. I tried to wave off a van but it barreled ahead and fell down through the unstable bits. I intended to call for help but didn’t think to use my cell phone, so I ducked into a hotel in search of a security office.

I quickly became lost, as the hotel covered several city blocks and inside were wedding parties getting their bridesmaids dressed up. I averted my eyes and tried to find the security office, getting further and further lost, and of course by now my call to the police would likely be redundant since many minutes had now passed. By chance I was wearing a suit, or at least a vest, so I looked like a hotel employee. I was also, however, carrying a hammer, which looked a bit off.

By this time I was many blocks away, inside the hotel, completely lost, and that was when the apocalypse struck. I am not sure what exactly happened, but in our part of the world a tidal wave of water was headed towards land. Everyone who had a straight view through several city blocks could see the height of the ocean and almost sense its speed, though it seemed almost still and quiet at this distance. Soon it would be rushing through those blocks, headed straight for us. Everyone tried to run in the opposite direction, hoping that perhaps the momentum of the water would diminish, but knowing that was a vain hope. Further complicating survival was the fact that we were somehow still indoors, and the water would reach the ceiling and we’d have no air.

We passed a mechanical sort of door — it seemed vaguely related to some fire equipment on the side of the wall. I doubled back and using my hammer I busted its seals with the intent to try to get everyone inside this side-room, to avoid the force of the onrushing water. But it was unclear if anyone could fit inside it — it wasn’t quite a room, more like an equipment cubby. I climbed into a different equipment cubby as the water rushed through. I was momentarily unable to breath, and I clawed for the ceiling. Finally got some air. The wave had passed.

I used my hammer to help break out of the hallway, into an outdoor yard, which was still green. The dream was not a realistic depiction of what a tidal wave would have done to the area.

At some point I was in a room of a house — I believe we had broken in — and was given a jumpsuit with a fur-lined hood, since my clothes had been largely destroyed by the wave. The homeowners had several of these jumpsuits to give out to people who fit. I was appreciative.

I then found myself in a large car with the band R.E.M. The car was long, with an extra row of seats in the mid-section, which they had filled with orange juice concentrate. The orange mush filled the middle of the car. They intended to live off of the concentrate, leaving no waste, an ambition born of renewed ecological consciousness in this time of crisis. Somehow the concentrate remained cold. I was not pleased, because the acidity of the juice would hurt my stomach. But I traveled along with them as they drove into a new city, looking to see what survival had done to reshape the society.

It was night. First we passed billboards, then small outlying buildings, then we were in the city and would soon get off the highway.

As we headed in to the new city — perhaps somewhere in Europe? — I caught a glimpse of a double-billboard on a distant rooftop, which was showing a live television broadcast from somewhere in the world. It was a live concert commemorating survival. And on the screen at that moment, I could just make out David Bowie. He’d survived because he’d been in London at the time, not New York. He had a beard now, and was singing — rare for him since his heart attack forced him to stop performing. But apparently this was event enough to sing a song.

I was overjoyed at his survival. It was the first time since the apocalypse that I’d had feeling. I wept with joy, trembled at my fortune, cried for the tragedy.

We were in some danger, because civilization was sketchy. There was electricity but not much else in terms of rules, certainly no protection. We pulled into an area of half-destroyed brick buildings where others had parked their buses (our car was now a tourbus, double-decker), and nudged one away a bit to slide in, in a more hidden fashion.

The buses magically linked together somehow. We met the neighbors. Loud, uncivil women, dregs. There was one toilet, which was filthy like an outhouse toilet.

I woke up about then.

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