Category: Dream Journal

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Dream Journal

Taking Tom Hanks to the Gala

“Hey I just realized… I’ve met Tom Hanks.” I say this convivially to him as we sit together, waiting for a call so I can escort him further. I’m glad I mentioned it — he really is as nice as everyone says, and we share an appreciative conversation on the unfortunate fact that, for some, Hollywood and the movie industry will be forever coded as gay/liberal. He thinks motion picture and television might be better in that regard. I note that Hannah / Rhey (Daisy Ridley from Star Wars? IDK) had that same problem.

I get the call and ask if we should he over there ASAP — they say they need as many people, as soon as possible. We drive speedily in the silent darkness of the night toward neon-lit old Chinatown for this event, a fancy excavation gala of recent archaeology.

We arrive, the place is absolutely crushed with people (most of whom are there to party and drink). We don’t have two tickets like we’re technically supposed to, but wend our way directly to a staff storage room. While I’m still in the doorway, a shamelessly bitchy rotund blonde ponytail woman taps me on the shoulder to demand I go back in line and have my big bag checked — ignoring the hundreds of people milling around, my staff badge, and the obvious fact that we’re only in this room to stash our bags. I tell her in no uncertain terms that despite all that, I’d be happy to comply, except the request had to come from someone without such a horrible attitude. Immediately afterward I turn to see my friend Ais, who says “well that wasn’t the proper emotional reaction” — I have a brief flash of disappointment, before I realize she means it 100% sarcastically, and she, Tom Hanks and I share a relieved laugh.

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Dream Journal

Dirt Bike Somersaults & Stamp Art

dark motorcycle

I get my dirt bike working on a family trip to Death Valley. In celebration I do multiple wheelies while rounding a low hill, then motorbike somersaults in the air, finally floating off on a rock. Willam Shatner is there? Or is it me?

An older, liberal stamp artist for the US Postal Service is doing a series on Bob Ross. I’m already sure this predictable pap won’t sell well in the red states, but at least the prototype drawings are good. One has him in an earthworm-like armor helmet, dressed as Trogdor (Trogdor the Burninator?) which I learn is actually pronounced tro-dor.

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Dream Journal

Isla Wnifu, Island in a Darkening Ocean

dark water

Isla Wnifu (Waifu + Knife) is an island zoo full of genetically-engineered creatures. They’re kept within terrariums stacked in the walls of tall, overgrown, roofless rooms. The island has a trashed-out feel and I get the impression it’s regarded as dangerous or forgotten. But it’s somehow mine (or at least within my purview) — I am, unusually, allowed in this unusual place.

I’m swimming just offshore in rocky shallow water with a girl I mostly know from Twitter, KC Crowell. As afternoon turns into evening we start making out, and I’m trying to balance on the sharp sea rocks while she floats above me — it’s difficult, awkward, and uncomfortable, but c’mon… makeouts.

Dusk is fading, and I peer out into the darkening ocean, past concrete arches that look like freeway ramps, to the distant lights of the small boat that must take us home. We’re nearly set when I realize there’s a laptop that needs to be taken, and many more clothes (jeans, jackets) that should also come. The prospect of swimming across a long stretch of dark ocean begins to seem frighteningly risky. I start to scavenge from the crumbling anterooms of the bizarre creepy-crawlies, thinking maybe KC and I can seal the pants and make a floatation device.

Just as I’m heading outside again though a splintering wood doorframe, crewmen from the boat round the corner — I’m deeply relieved we won’t have to swim for it. The leader is a short Asian guy, the one who I’d previously made a deal with to transport us. I’d forgotten the other half of our deal… the men are carrying a massive whale tusk, as thick as a human being, long enough for six men to hold it aloft. It’s the second of a pair… and the extent of our deal. It dawn on me that that boat, these men, who I was so grateful to see a moment ago, could’ve left us behind without much fuss at all.

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Dream Journal

France with Spy, Naked with Landlord

French cathedral

Visit Paris with my friend Spy. Beautiful 13th century convent right outside where we arrive. I scrabble along a sloped terrace to get to the gate of the place she’s staying, a cute iron-fenced yard, where Lucky’s older relatives live. Has a Eureka/Beverly Hills vibe (but only from other dreams set there). Have a great moment with Lucky that I don’t manage to record on video, despite having a head mounted camera for the trip. Note on paper left on their sliding glass door says something about being away, but Spy is evasive about what it says. I have to leave and find my own place to stay.

Around the corner from the Fartpartment with friends Rich and Lily. Working on their car, I think. I round the corner back home and head upstairs — the stairs climb side to side, unlike front-to-back in waking life. There’s quite a lot of construction material being brought up and stored there. I’m naked, which hadn’t been any concern before, but as I make my way past a number of construction workers I have the thought that this is the kind of thing that would be typical in a dream.

Upstairs, I sit between my wife and our friend Ais. Lynae is pointedly complaining about our landlord to Ais. He leans forward from a chair next to us, and I cringe. He quotes a section from Revelations, chapter, verse, even line position. The quote is actually just the word “bush”. This could mean practically anything and so I offer a few contexts, hairy bush, burning bush, George W. Bush… I wake up mumbling this gibberish in fact.

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Dream Journal

Looking for My Motorcycle in a Dark Tower

dark motorcycle

Searching through a motorcycle warehouse trying to find where they moved my bike. Folks who work there claim they’ve found it, and from the top of a tower hold up a helmet with an “Arai” sticker that’s clearly not mine. They insist I check though and I can’t think of what else to do, so I climb 3-story tower — 90° corner long ramps. What I think is the top floor has a darkened bar/lounge hand-carved from dark-stained wood, comfortable yet bare old seats right against the edge. There is abyssal blackness beyond. I never do get to check the bike.

I’m on the Calamari Racing Team, but I don’t make a throw from my bike as planned. I go back and post again with my new motor CC, giving me different status.

With Patrick, now transitioned, in a suburban two-story house, a lot like our childhood house in Eureka actually.

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Dream Journal

Buddhist Dinner, Stark Girls, Bridge Near Waterfall

I’m sitting in a communal-style restaurant, part of a big group. Instructed on how to put out my right hand behind my back (in Buddhist fashion) to receive dinner from the monks who serve it. Meanwhile, when I try to help, I over-boil the spaghetti noodles, and have to do another batch.

Arya and Sansa Stark are having difficulties cooperating. Arya is thinking of moving out. There are three bookcases in the apartment alcove.

A new bridge is built a very close by the traditional-style Japanese house where I’m staying. It’s the only bridge for many miles on this river, and it’s just after a short waterfall, which acts as a weir.

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Dream Journal

Asleep in the Cave of the Enemy

cave holes

I sneak into the cave of hostile tribe to sleep for the night, next to a burly friend who has infiltrated them. Blue marks on their face, mostly unclothed, scattered torches. I see from an opening above, the three of us lying together, each with one eye open.

Looking up some word in the dictionary in the living room of my childhood. Many pets on many chairs. I notice my old cat Flop sleeping peacefully on one, raising his head to see me, even though I know he’s dead.

There’s a babe named RevZilla, she’s got these amazing horizontal face tattoos (or makeup). Reminds me a lot of Queen Po.

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Dream Journal

Replace the Jellyfish

Small home aquarium containing a viable ecosystem of anemones, dark brown/red jellyfish, and colorful nudibranches. I revisit it several times in the course of walking around, and at some point my wife has us remove the jellyfish. The nudibranches have grown since we got them and can lift the anemones and reposition them as they like — smart little critters. But I see that they’ve gotten hungry and so start a quest to replace the jellyfish.

I’m in a neighborhood of lakes and high-rises. Across the water I see an aging building and recall bitterly a deal done with Trump many years back, I get mad enough to lock myself in a nearby public restroom stall and vent my anger by yelling. I emerge only to find an older black dude friend of mine nearby. He says that I should work on myself; he knows I had “psychological problems” in the past but being angry all the time about stuff is harmful.

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Dream Journal

Delivering Bottled Plants, Fright in the Car

I’m raising sundew seedlings into adult plants, leaving them outside in pretty bottles to grow. At one, I show cousin Diana the progress that it’s made. While I’m pruning and rewatering one and her friend Reesa screws up and squishes it –three times. Find former of this and she asks why I want to make her feel bad to which I say I just want her to stop hurting my plant. I also manage to get trapped behind a set of portcullis gates in a play castle, before luckily yelling to the maintenance crew that closed them at that hour. (When I was younger, I might not have yelled!)

There’s some little intermission on the roof of Notre Dame of two people meeting clandestinely to exchange information. I’m one of them, but I’m also someone unseen, behind the point of view of the observer. Adjacent to them his rows of unused flags, one green one from Astoria I remember, as part of a story told by Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez about someone in her district who went missing.

I’m making a delivery of two of the bottled plants to a fancy upscale residence after dark. I double check my containers as I’m making the delivery and when one is missing I go back to check my car. It’s a low two-door, and I say approach I hear The Futurama/EVA mashup song, and recognize I left my door open. Inside the driver seat I noticed the glove compartment is cracked slightly. It’s a cold winter tonight in the city, and my breath inside the warm car is unusually easy to see. I realize the possibility, but don’t use my flashlight as was my first impulse… instead using my phone as a mirror. I catch glimpse of a wicked clown grimace and actually laugh a little, boosting myself into a quick wakeup so I could write this down. I said as dry as possible, “ha, that’s really funny” …but I meant it.

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Dream Journal

New Orleans Job Interview

I’m on vacation in New Orleans but decide it’s worth a shot to go in for a job interview… maybe if I’m lucky I might just be able to live there. I make the regrettable decision to get there by bus and get stuck between the doors trying to exit with all my stuff. Damn tourists.

So then I’m late by 30 minutes (appointment was at 3:00), but I’m still willing to try. The place is a wine restaurant with charming unfinished wood paneling, upstairs is a big shipping department, high ceilings, round floorplan. I set my extra stuff down on a table in their common area. After I come out of the interview I have to pick it out from their Lost and Found at the security desk. Apparently my wallet was in there, now there’s only a single dollar left. Thankful they didn’t take the credit cards, I guess.

As I’m waking up, I recall being in bed next to my wife and exclaiming “grinding coffee isn’t a career, it’s something goats do by accident!” Unfortunately she says she has no memory of this.