Dream: giant spider cuisine, bomb plot
Dream last night:
Eating at an expensive Asian restaurant with Meaghan and Chris. They serve giant spider (about the size of a duck). It’s very shiny and colorful and kind of beautiful but weird. Meaghan shows me how to cut it open along the spine. Then you have to sort of massage the skin around until it comes loose. As you do this, the muscles of the spider move jerkily. Meaghan explains it’s the nerves in the tissue. “Isn’t that cool? That’s how you can tell it’s super fresh.” When the skin is more or less coming loose we peel it back. Inside it basically looks like a brain — that’s the meat part that you’re supposed to eat. Around the brain are tendon-type things and strands of fat. Then I realize it actually is the brain — which is surprising because the head of the spider has been removed, it’s like the whole body is made up of brain matter.
I feel bad for the creature. It seems like it’s feeling pain, and like it was cooked alive. I am feeling more and more guilty about this, it seems really evil to me. Meaghan can tell. She says, “But it’s just a spider.” I can’t decide if it’s more wrong to eat it or to not eat it, now that it’s already dead. I try a few bites but I’m not sure which parts I’m supposed to eat and it’s making me nauseas…
Then there are several other people there, psychiatrists I gather. Bob (Kari and Meaghan’s dad) is one of them. They are talking about orgasms. Really awkward and uncomfortable and I just want to leave. Then they move to another table.
Then everyone is gone. I am not sure if they paid the check but I don’t have any money so I just leave.
I receive a call on my cell phone. The guy speaks strangely, in a sort of code. I am part of some kind of resistance movement. He is letting me know that their operation has failed, so now I am supposed to dial the number I was given, Plan B. I don’t know what the number is for — but I feel like it is going to detonate a bomb somewhere…
Now I am on a train. In the back. Standing. Another man across from me. We both stand looking out the back window. He speaks strangely — sort of like we know each other. I think this might be the man who was on the phone. He hints at the possibility that this train is going to be blown up. I become convinced that this is the case.
The train is stopped and he is arrested and interrogated. I am frantic because I am a part of all of this. I quickly delete all the texts and voice mails and phone numbers from my phone in case I am caught.
He is told that he stood out, and that he should have followed instructions and pretended to be a dad picking up his kids instead of just a guy traveling alone.
