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Dream Journal

Old Doctor Shares Old Records

Old doctor with funky left arm, I bang into his side playfully and he protests. I say “I used to be young and now that I’m grown…”

I look through my medical record that’s been kept since my birth, but never shown to me. There are reams of alphanumeric codes.

My four family members are all insane, to a varying degree? Who knows how likely that is.


Broken eggs on the floor of the RV I’m staying in remind me of a dream where I’m feeding a baby chicken, or duck. Unusual connection and not something that would normally trigger a dream memory.

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Dream Journal

Lauren Buys SF Real Estate

I help my hometown friend Lauren buy a building in San Francisco’s Tenderloin. It’s an old six-floor walk-up building housing older Burners, with a soon painted-over mural in the backyard called “Burning Times”: a fire symbol and a series of clocks. I’m glad to have Lauren in San Francisco, and I hope to maybe one day live cheaply in this big building with her, but I’m not sure she understands how precious and sought-after a place like it is. I peek into her first floor room there’s barely anything in there except vintage curtains and sex toys on the bed.


Our class is learning from a science teacher (in the vein of Mr. Suggett or Mr. Lonborg) when class is interrupted by a long phone call about Nick Howell’s mom getting arrested in Connecticut. Nick Howell was a real kid I knew in middle school. The teacher gives a long compassionate speech afterwards, going into the merits of whether or not we should share these things. I find it hard to follow along, despite him being my favorite teacher.

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Dream Journal

Bait Locker, Alien Repellent, Rustbucket RV-land

In a locker room, lots of stuff I need to gather. I head out once my time is over, my two friends waiting outside the heavy glass door, before realizing I still left a bunch of stuff. In the bottom half of the locker, the compartment is open so I can reach in and find other people things. There’s at least a few pieces of funny money left as a trap, I assume. The steam room hot tub adventure cost at least a couple hundred bucks.


I am a scientist like Rick Sanchez and I’m inside my house during the course of an insectoid invasion. I am one of the only people with an alien-repellent sound barrier. The insect forces go to great links with transparently fake news reporter interviews trying to discover how it works and to overcome it. I see a diagram of the architectural plan of the house with the bedroom just outside the laboratory and the clean room.


I’m in the small kitchen of my family’s old Cathedral City house. About twice as many people live with us now, and I think of them as in my family. There are two refrigerators and an upright freezer next to each other and we’re even thinking of putting another refrigerator blocking off the counter corner. I’m using a glass tray to keep a group of aquarium feeder worms alive. I have to use the same tray to store macaroni and cheese above the worms. Meanwhile, two younger kids are bothering me, throwing food and interrupting my project. I ask my dad, who is staring into space eating cereal, to tell them throwing food wasn’t okay. He responds apathetically, and in frustration I fling a spoonful of grits at him, spraying the entire kitchen corner. He still doesn’t react.


I move into a community of rustbucket houses. Old RVs and trailers are pushed together into a complex warren-like structure — everyone seems to have built a private hobby space so they can sneak off by themselves to do work, camp chairs inside old shipping containers stocked with rebar. One green RV from the ’40s has a particularly unpleasant individual in it, but a beautiful slide-off stove in the kitchen, converted to be an outdoor courtyard. It’s a very welcoming community, but also “is this how poor people really are?” is a question that comes up. At some point I try to see if I can build a large house on one of the unfilled plots of land. The small house just downhill from the main road was one of the first built.

We go off and drive on an adventure in an old VW van. We stop at a large gate down the road, waiting with an invisibility power-up activated. When a train comes behind us the gate opens and we can use a speed boost to drive overland far away from where we’ve driven before. What would take 20 minutes only takes about 3, but we still don’t reach our destination — a place called Challengeburg.

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Dream Journal

Jumbled Hometown School Complex

A large cathedral-like place, and walking out of it as an acolyte. Cars on stilts.

My hometown elementary school (actually long torn down) preserved as a pioneer cottage complex, one woman’s job to maintain. I see jugs from oil changes kept in the attic among the jumbled wooden labyrinth — though I couldn’t explain their presence.

Tilting up a drink in a half-shell as part of a ceremony to allow women’s reproductive insight. Taking in a panorama I see, remembering the exact moment when I admit that I masturbated today. My Twitter friend KC Crowell has a look of slack-jawed surprise.

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Dream Journal

Giving Chicken a Sling

Watching a movie, a small black shoulder sling is hidden under my shirt. As I’m leaving and out the doors first, I turned my left and make a comment to my wife, but it’s actually a random guy who answers in the negative. The timing of my walk back to my car works out such that I can’t help but pass Chicken John in the parking lot. The parking lot is somewhere upscale but strip mall-y, like Palm Desert CA near where I grew up. I see that Chicken is very tired and holding a baby. Trying to normalize things, and seeing an opportunity, I offer him my arm sling for the drive home — which to my surprise he accepts.