RSVP event horizon

Last night I dreamed I was at a sort of high-brow party at a sprawling modern California home, its yard filled with pointed-leaf plants and guests clutching glittering cocktail glasses.

A man in a khaki suit coat who seemed to think his wife was secretly a member of some extremist group was talking to me in earnest, and I was telling him I really wasn’t sure how I could be of any help in the matter.

He went on to show me an interesting little slideshow/film that looked like something cobbled together by Ralph Bakshi, the most provocative image being a that of a dozen slight scarlet shrouded figures crouching along the base of a black structure. But were they trying to lift it or merely trying to look dodgy for the camera? I really didn’t know what to make of it and made an excuse to get back to the rest of the party.

Everyone seemed to be having a good time: costumes and styled hair hearkening back to a lost decade, and there was music and dancing, general party ribaldry of a lighthearted sort.

Something was off though, an uneasy undercurrent.

The man I’d been speaking with earlier, his wife had been a decently successful DJ maybe ten year prior, so they were playing some of her old mixes. I actually liked them, primarily without vocal, I keyed in on a sort of bell-synth line I particularly liked that reminded me of something.

I was in a little side room where some of her old albums were stacked up on a table, cover art seemed to consist primarily of her posing in one unflattering one-piece jumper or another. I found some of those jumpers hanging in the closet beside the table actually: one long sleeve and thicker white material and one more sheer and sleeveless. I could imagine she probably wore the latter with a bright colored bra for contrast.

On exiting the closet room, I encountered a slightly off-putting friend of their family or maybe just another house guest. He was playing a flimsy electronic keyboard alongside the overall party sound system, though he seemed to think he was doing something a little more important than just that. I asked him about it, and he explained that there were six black holes there, one behind each of those doors along the hallway ahead of us, and he was playing his keyboard in order to calculate measurements about their size and movement and such.

We glossed over the first two as perfectly ordinary specimens, but he instructed me to open the door on the third one as there was something unusual about the way it was moving. As with the film shown to me earlier, the visual seen through the door was more than a little cartoonish even if the sense of size and depth was still intact enough to induce vertigo: the black hole was a sort of “heavy” purple blotch on a burnt orange background, and I watched a fuzzy greenish lightshow spiral into it a couple of times.

The guy at the keyboard said something about the visual, but I forget what it was before I woke up.


Dreamed I was on one side of the street, looking on as some sort of picnic or otherwise friendly get-together progressed across the street. No one I knew, so the specifics didn’t concern me, just that there were a good number of people, food, wooden tables, perhaps a nearby storefront. A little bit to the side of them was my Grandma, the one who died a while ago, but she looked like she used to, before she got really sick. Curly grey hair, round face, glasses. She was wearing one of those old polyester 1970’s shirts I used to like to steal from her when I was a teenager. This one was a very dark blue-almost-black with silver/white lily pattern, long sleeves, maybe a tie of some sort at the neck. She saw me from across the street, reached out to me, waved, “Welcome back to the real world, kiddo.”

And very suddenly I was awake in my bed again, and only a couple minutes had passed since I lay down in the first place.