Dreams of Doom

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Last time I wrote of a dream Iíd wrecked the Earth.

A little bit later I dreamed that aliens had invaded the earth. In my dream Iíd had a dream prefiguring their attack. My prophetic dream caused me to be fleeing. Canít remember whether it was from the aliens or the government. I woke up so scared I had to get up and look around the house to make sure everything was OK. The best part of the dream was the bright infinity signs that flashed in the sky when the aliens used their weapons.

In last nightís apocalypse an asteroid was heading toward the earth to crash into a nearby mountain (gilding the lily). For once I was a bystander, merely flipping channels on TV to get news of my impending doom.

A few years ago I lost my ability to read science fiction. Iíd gulped it down for years. Iíve probably read a large chunk of the bad to middling science fiction published in paperback up through the late 60ís.

My special delight increasingly became the very bad. I was steadily looking for hitherto unseen paperbacks put out by poverty row publishers like Belmont and Macfadden. I doubt they ever commissioned a book. They mostly found the slush from old magazines that nobody else wanted to reprint.

At my happy nadir I was reading the works of Pel Torro (Robert L. Fanthorpe aka Leo Brett, Lionel Roberts, John E. Muller, Karl Zeigfreid, Bron Fane Ė he wrote nonstop, dictating to into a tape recorder with his family members serving as transcribers). I canít help but think the very title of his Galaxy 666 captures his awful quality. The book was as bad as an Ed Wood movie but without Woodís peculiar, pathetic appeal.

During one stretch in the late 70s I was sometimes reading two or three books of this ilk a day.

Even though I havenít read science fiction in years it isnít surprising Iím dreaming about alien invasions.

It was one of H.P. Lovecraftís awful Randolph Carter short stories that gave me a dream Iíll never forget. Being an HPL story Carter and a companion were searching for eldritch and blasphemous knowledge. In the middle of night the other guy descended into an old tomb. Carter remained outside and the two talked by wires. Suddenly the guy in the tomb falls silent. Carter frantically calls for him. Suddenly an inhuman voice comes through the phone: You fool, Name Forgotten is dead!

Lame story. One night while visiting my parents in Savannah I dreamed the story. I woke up so terrified that I never went back to bed. I remained spooked for what probably wasnít nearly as long a time as it seemed.

Later I felt pretty embarrassed but only because it was such a dumb story.

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