Wherein Guerrilla-Gardening Zombies declare War against Surveilance.

My kitchen. I turn on the oven and use it to light up a cigarette; the touch of my beard against the fingers feels scruffy as I take a drag. I turn to the side and start mixing the water with cocoa powder in a bowl, thoughtful as the two ingredients resist to mix. As it begins to look homogeneous, I add syrup and dyes—red and green—and start mixing again, bringing the brew to fire only to warm it up a bit.

I am making fake blood. This particular recipe, notwithstanding its strikingly realistic looks, has the quality of drying up in a very bloody manner. As I put the thing aside to let it rest for a while, I get a cork from the sink and burn it gently in the fire. I put out the cigarette and walk to the next room where, facing a mirror, I set out to fake dark blemishes under my eyes, patting the cork's smooth ashes against my skin. My beard looks scruffy indeed, and my hair looks as if I had just fallen out of bed.

The bowl which I had left in the kitchen is now on the table next to me, along with a make up set of purples, whites, browns, blacks and greens. I apply that in layers, always patting the product against my skin and then using the tip of my finger to draw it outwards into an organic look. I apply the whites, the greens, the blood: little by little I start to look like a zombie.

I adjust my shirt—red, checkered and torn—and fasten a tie around the collar with a loose Christensen knot. Facing the mirror, I see a guy who might just as well have woken up five minutes ago, blood-soaked from a fight-induced coma. Sweet. I grab a bag made of cloth, which I bind to my belt, and a pack of cigarettes, which I stuff in my pocket, and set off to the street.

This particular dreaming had it that my old high school was just couple-blocks-and-a-plaza away from my house, a distance which was further shortened by dream logic, as I don't recall much of it. I enter the broad, grassy fields of its campus, the sunlight making everything almost overwhelmingly colourful, as if the buildings and trees were about to start dancing to some Disney musical scene. Rather than basking in the warmth of the moment, though, I walk slowly and steadily, feeling watched from all directions in this horribly open field.

It occurs to me that the school campus, rather than being open to the benefit of the students, is designed for this perceived vigilance to happen, in a "Discipline and Punish" manner. That perfectly trim grass and those planned trees do little to disrupt this atmosphere, they're just way too fortunately positioned and obsessively cared about to feel natural.

But what concerns me the most are the new buildings under construction. Worst than the open fields of green is the space that was taken from them to erect new classrooms with their barred windows and doors with glasses. Where there once were trees and birds there are now massive, incomplete blocks of concrete with their straight vertices and right edges. They're the reason I'm here today.

I reach to the bag bound to my belt, and from it I pick up these little balls of clay mixed with compost and seeds: in guerrilla gardening parlance, they're called seed bombs. After throwing the first few into those buildings, I'm filled with a childish joy. I feel watched from all sides, surrounded by invisible eyes behind those trees and bushes. Anyone could see me as I threw the seeds over the half-finished walls and on the dirt where there once had been green, and every successful throw of a seed grenade feels good.

I wake up filled with energy and wondering if I should let this dream play itself out in reality.