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Dream Journal

Dump Truck Crush & Dance Restaurant Escort

Riding my motorcycle in front of a dump truck, crossing an intersection somewhere fancy like Palm Desert, where I went to college. And crossing it again. rest in front of dump truck driven by woman I’m interested in.

Waiting at a sushi restaurant early to serve as an escort on a date between two teenage girls. I wait for a long time but come back 5 minutes before they’re supposed to open. There’s two videos one can watch while waiting, I click on the one with dancers. This actually seems to begin the evening’s dance, an elaborate version of a Chinese traditional dance. Ah, so it’s a touristy dance restaurant. One of the girls whispers in my ear. It seems loud and profound and visceral at the time, but I can’t recall any of what she said.

I have an easier time now remembering to remember my dreams; it’s basically my last stage of sleep. But today I got a little sad, realizing that I was done dreaming and that was it. I didn’t get as much as I do some nights, and what I did wasn’t anything particular. And I didn’t even remember the interesting message whispered in my ear. Hm.

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Dream Journal

Alt Wolverine Steals my Papasan

Mom didn’t listen (My mom? A mom). Mom left my papasan chair on a street in my neighborhood. The street might be different than where I live now, more north/south than east/west. But it’s certainly my neighborhood. Even though I almost immediately notice the chair was mistakenly put out, a guy still insists on trying to take it. Says he claimed it first or something, while ignoring that I just ran out of the same house. Round-faced large guy with glasses, young and entitled but fit. Bothersome in a deeper way than mere inconvenience. I drag the chair back through a maze-like thicket of brambles surrounding a friend’s home with him still clinging to it. The brambles seem designed for such purpose. I make it all the way to the communal home at the center. The spirit seems to have ebbed from whatever consensus-based group project once powered it, in the heights of 1970s communalism perhaps. Folks in the rooms there seem sleepy — the rooms that are even occupied. To my great chagrin, the round-faced thief runs for community mayor of the home. Despite my efforts I can’t stop him from being elected. The community is too apathetic. I know it’s still just about the chair.

Later, I discover that this man is an aberrant clone from an alternate universe. He should be Wolverine in that universe, but instead he took the role of Jean Grey. It’s quite clear when I see the color palettes swapped. Here, he’s a thief of X-Men genetic material. This dream much seems like a justification for my feelings in the one before, a dream created just to make peace with my own attitude toward him.

Discussing with my wife when I should really leave Gathering. Doing the math that every extra day I stay, it’s equivalent to an extra $100+. This feels tied in to other parts of the night’s dreams, but mostly the later ones.

I observe rolling hills in a long line, evaluating their land usage. These hills are outside Phoenix, Arizona supposedly. Most have a particularly, perfectly smooth pasture land that gives the impression tight clothing. Delineated thickly are occasional nature preserves with hiking trails, the natural state of the land. It’s bizarre that they chose to convert most of it to plain boringness, when it seems so obviously more valuable in it’s diversified and self-managing state. But that’s a lot more complicated, especially for the simple-minded.

In a warehouse thrift store. In the front section there’s a record store. I mention to the guy running it that he has several records my friend and I both have. I exaggerate a little, mentioning a record that I claim only had a hundred copies made but which we both have. I inquire about a certain record my friend showed me last time I was over. I’m only half interested in buying it, I suppose I want to test his knowledge. The guy answers that he has it and hands me a the record sleeve. He seems to expect I’m buying it. As politely as I can, I let him know that this is just the paper sleeve and there’s no record inside it.

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Dream Journal

Velociraptor CEO, Star Wars Bumper Cars, Matthew in Charlottesville

The actress Jessica Barden is a velociraptor, locked in a room with a CEO. This is set to happen over 3 days but he’s clawed to death by the second day. A whole day’s headstart to go on the run. I peek inside the chamber early and get to see my old friend Kelly G. naked, in profile, silhouetted against the background. I always did think she had a great body.

I’m rewatching bumper boat scene in Star Wars and it looks startlingly cheap; they should let George Lucas remake it. Certainly looked like a lot of fun they had making it in the 70s. I love the space they filmed in, a massive dusty off-white room with ceilings so high in the middle you can’t see them, but dim areas beyond the colonnades where old machines rust into bits. Maybe it was bumper cars, but then again maybe it changed.

Taking apart RAM from a computer to put back together, but it looks as though it’s been hollowed out. A big chunk in the middle had been removed underneath where the heat dissipator would be. I think this can’t be repaired; don’t know how it could’ve worked in the first place. Maybe it didn’t.

An extended visit to our friend Matthew S. at his home in Charlottesville. Or perhaps at least a place near the Charles River, a long low bridge we cross together with him driving. Is it named after King Charles, that one who the English beheaded? The right colonial time period. Maybe this city is near Baltimore, somewhere on the East Coast at least. I’ve hardly ever been on the East Coast so I can’t really intuit. Driving around I get a strange impression of more noticable cultural differences. Even the stores, the street corners, the taxis give a more conservative impression than I expected — just not in the way I expected. Beyond the car windows things have a grey/brown cast, but bright, like they never had color they could have lost.

Later I’m seated at a lecture next to my wife somewhere during our visit. She asks the first question to the presenter which is uncomfortably something like “what is your position on gay?” I tug her shirt hem, frantically trying to reel her in, recognizing that our “California-ness” is utterly the wrong tone to move any hearts and minds here, knowing how we must look to these dingy generic townsfolk. No effect, but perhaps someone saw me and at least saw that I realized this.

Maybe this was Canada actually? Nah, that doesn’t sound right.

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Dream Journal

Creepy Emptied Home, Corridor with Vacuums

In the back of my apartment, my studio has partially cleaned out. I can see into the kitchen where the walls are similarly blank, a creepy and almost eerie emptiness compared to how I normally exist in that space. Plywood panels are exposed on some of the walls, and I keep looking down at my feet when I notice rugs missing.

Searching throughout the house for a mysterious electrical issue, perhaps a circuit with vacuums running. I go into is a long hexagonal corridor, shorter vertically than wide, a place I was before. It feels like a 70s sci-fi inspired space, perhaps themed a similar aesthetic as Disneyland’s Space Mountain. Nothing like it can be found in my waking home. My dad and I together open a door at one end of the corridor which goes beyond to another, where there are in fact **three** vacuums running. This further corridor has the feeling of a dusused old European aristocratic space, some forgotten fad from hundreds of years ago. There are no lights, and the darkness stretches into the unseen distance. Back in the first corridor there are video screens and I settle down to rest. The one in front of me is playing The Last Starfighter, thinking to myself “I’ll sit here until I can be useful again”.

Trying to convince a young couple (maybe some new people I met, Yune and Brook) to vote in favor of a new bridge. Specifically a proposed thin pedestrian path in SF that would join alongside a large existing car bridge, allowing passage when traffic is bad. I don’t recall why I was in favor, but this part of the dream is more vague than the rest. Less imagery perhaps.

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Dream Journal

Hidden in the Cantina

Street scenes. Navigating blind sidewalk corners of New York’s rectangular grid while attempting to retrieve or deliver a suitcase. Tall, colorful, narrow buildings. Autumnal.

Another street. This is literally Hollywood Boulevard and its crowds of tourists. Many themed experiences with their lines of ticket gates outside, bustling excited people.

I find a quiet cantina that was mentioned by a friend. No cover charge. I make my way directly to the back room, an enclosed patio that looks carved from sandstone. It’s based on the same design as another bar I’ve been to, the exact layout. With my existing knowledge I gain access to the upper level, the mezzanine ringing the patio space. Usually this would just be decorative but I take the opportunity to lounge in a corner, savoring the assurance of privacy in a public space. Eventually a group of people enter the space and begin chatting, unaware of me. I make my way down and exit the wall closest the front of the building instead of the far back wall. I inspect what looks like a small piece of art, an incomplete outline of a five-pointed star formed by a living plant vine. I have the chance but for some reason intentionally don’t try take a picture — perhaps I am already waking up, perhaps I know I won’t be able to keep it, perhaps it would be too frustrating with dream logic rules.

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Dream Journal

Two Punk Queers with Magic

Two girls have developed their own magic, subversive punk queer magic which they do with their bare hands. Their hairstyles reminds me of the girls in tATu. They roam the school as they please and perform mischief.

My perspective is as one of the girls, but I’m also in the dream for certain parts — though I couldn’t tell if I was Orin (but I don’t think so).

On the second day of the month the pair are involved with putting up a giant unauthorized pride flag. Quite difficult to remove, logistically and politically.

In an empty student dorm one of them invents a new spell on the fly called “repair zipper” to alter a backpack. Upon finding it, the student will have no idea why it’s fixed. That’s the kind of chaotic faerie motivation that is their modus operandi. It also has the edge of an absurd perversion, using magic on something so base and technological/manufactured.

Idly, the other girl recalls wistfully when they used to actually touch each other sexually, when they first developed their queer magic, when they felt they had to prove they were “real” lesbians. By now, they’re totally preoccupied with using the powers they created then. No one would even question them.

They sneak up on the outside windows of the lowest-most student apartments. These coveted residences are high above the ground, the best views of this giant 4 level tree-like school building. One corner I see even has a toilet with that great view. Mostly the residents are seniors, meaning their friends here have known them the longest. Experienced enough to not welcome such antics, but resigned to accept them when they do. The girls have no trouble wiling their way inside. There’s a hypercolor file cabinet in a dorm, guitar and amp, other things you would expect.

I wish there were a firmer ending; I don’t remember what they did! Perhaps that was more of the mischief.