Dear Journal, another dream about a great flood just woke me up. I am so afraid. What have I done to deserve this? I fear that I have lost her and that I have lost forsaken God. I have to tell you all of the dream journal so you can know what I am seeing. It all took place in a bunker in a field that was called Bunker Ten. It was fucking cold in Bunker Ten. Rats scurried, blind creatures stumbled in the dim structure, and the sound of my breathing was an angelic delay against the walls.
“I suppose I suppose I this I suppose this I will suppose will will do do will do do will do...” I spoke aloud. Echo echo echo. It was making me sick. Like dreams that make me sick, I wanted to throw up.
I was hiding out there in Bunker Ten, not remembering exactly how I got there. My head ached. Somehow I crawled into the vacuous cold womb, and I realized then that these were my last remaining hours in preparation for the great flood coming.
I recalled myself wandering through bonfires and festivals earlier that day, religious conversions and prayer vigils, suicidal pacts, public divulgence of booze and nicotine, medicines freely distributed, no children in the streets.
I knew that many speculated that God would not send a flood to end the citizens of Earth. They always say, “He will send locusts and scrolls and frogs and fires and two witnesses and His head will be brighter than the sun when He comes with thunder and tribes. Then the world will end. Not by waters.”
Dreaming, I foresaw it all. I can’t remember exactly how I first learned about the great flood, whether it was by those journeys one has while in a trance, or those types ones has while awake, called visitings, where God or Mary, saint or shaman, guru, ancestor, etc. appears to warn you about the state of your life or some kind of bad event that is coming or something like that. I can’t recall, but I knew it was coming, and I was afraid, but I believed it in my heart journal, that I could survive. I always survive.
Bunker Ten was my salvation and shelter. I tried every other bunker out there in the middle of nowhere, in the groves, in trees, in spring bloom, far away from citylights and trains and celebration. And out of all the shelters in the compound, only Bunker Ten appeared able to withstand and hold firm.
I was going to make it.
Inside of me, a rush of vomit, not so precisely aimed, shot its way up my throat, out of my stinking rot, and spilled hot across the black soot ground. Now I have filled this room with my own stink, I suddenly thought. Pride filled me. I laughed like a tiny God. Was this how big God would end us, too? The great bodily waste, the great flood? Swirling and with no landing in the vomit of Olympus?
One imagines these vulgarities towards the end of all things, somebody whispered.
I stood up and walked around the dark shelter of the bunker. I was waiting here in the barricade of Bunker Ten, I was trapped. It was solid and I knew its walls would not be crushed by the first onslaught of the great flood. I was ready, I would make it. A hole in the roof would send the waters pouring down into the middle of the room, slowly filling the complex, whereupon I thought I would float out of there, through the roof slowly, with a brand new yellow safety raft. I would survive, and the world would perish in vainglory. I was a tiny Noah.
I laid down - but a terrible pressure moved against the atmosphere. Head splitting, blood and bone tightening behind my eyes, disarming silence. I heard the lulling patter of rain begin gently on the ceiling. For what seemed like an hour, loving and giving rain blanketed Bunker Ten. No crushing waters. “So this is it, is it?” I laughed aloud. ‘”Not with a bang but a whisper?” It was so still and so calm lying there. I listened closely for a dull roar, distant frequencies, for thunders and quaking of Earth - nothing. A great expansive plateau of nothingness. Numbing existence. I fought against the hush, and screamed out into Bunker Ten, I hated the whale’s belly, voice buckling the walls and flying back at me like menacing trumps of angels.
Desperately I ran under the roof’s opening and cried out above to the fucking high waters, fist thunderous and mighty.
“Come down if you think...” I started to say, but before I could finish, a rushing tome of waters crashed through the sky, through the opening of Bunker Ten, God’s vomit, tossing me like a tiny doll straight across the room, breaking my bones against concrete slab, not all my bones broken, but enough.
Vision. Breath. Laughter. They abandoned me.
But then journal, the sight of this great display, this God-sent waterfall! My ancestors swam up and down the heavenly stream from roof to ground, slowly filling the vast space of Bunker Ten! My mother spun around in a sexy white dress, a mermaid fairy of ancient splendor! My father was here also, strong in the waters, diving down, swimming up out of Bunker Ten into the great flood, the great gulper of Earth. My father then motioned to me and mouthed, “Come on”, and I tried to move, but my bones were crushed, I couldn’t lift my arm, and I was in such terrible agony of body, of spirit. Luckily, the yellow raft came to me and I grabbed her rope as we were suddenly rushed through the roof.
Underwater. Suffocating. I wanted to wake up and God wouldn’t let me. The terrible pain. One side of my body, crushed. The other side, flailing and holding to the raft. The raft and I were being propelled so fast out of Bunker Ten, a hundred million miles and hour, me and the raft. As we shot upwards, I glanced around. Cars floated and whirled, homes and jetsam rushed right past me, thousands of women and men were frozen, vacant, and starry, trees uprooted and suspending themselves in the rapture of the flood, weeping. My lover was there, dead and drifting.
50 feet below the surface, I let go of my yellow raft, and the raft made its way up without me. I couldn’t float any longer, the terrible brokenness overcame me. Bubbles surrounded, little clouds, little friends, little helpers touching me, the tiny god. My father was gone then, my mother and ancestors were gone. Giant sharks, not locusts or frogs or scrolls, invaded the sacred space of the waters.
They encircled me.
Ah hell, I thought.
Before they could begin their feeding on me, the greedy Pharisees, I looked below me, hundreds of miles below me, and beheld the triumphant remains of a stone city. I had been carried very far to see this. Then an awakening began in me. I saw that the stone city never dies. It always is. It always remains. Atlantis. A great fervor for life, for the city, came over me. With all the remnant strength in my form, I raised my arms parallel with the ground (or, rather, one uncrushed arm) and, suspended over the stone city, high and exalted, I wept, the tiny god, I weep like a tiny Jesus. How I love this stone city, I thought. From far off, a giant beast came into appearance. It’s massive jaws opened and drew me in and I was swallowed into a dark and rotted tomb. That was all. I had to tell you.///