A house where special kids are sent to learn. A narrow plot on a high hill of San Francisco, up a long, rocky and steep driveway. Deceptively large. Its two-story atrium is built into the trees of its own courtyard. There is a platform whose purpose is not obvious at first, wooden branch railings overlooking a large pit, like an animal enclosure at a zoo. Then appear several selves of the viewing subject, larger and larger — future selves? — and then the last and largest of them all, the fearsome giant, with red and battered single eye socket, furious, powerful, malevolent. I interpret it might be a bit of the ol’ ego-archetype, come to scare some kids straight… not that it doesn’t also inspire them, too.
Category: Dream Journal
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Invasion of Ghost Cat
Awoken suddenly by an unusual growl… unusual because it was clearly one cat warning another, but the only cats supposedly in the house are total BFFs Aloysius and Katie. Jumping from the living room couch, I catch a glimpse of a gray furry mass speeding out the back door like a ghost. In the bright sun of the dawn, I manage to visually confirm a well-built cat with dust-bunny appearance escaping the backyard, into the neighborhood garden (just like a raccoon, too). It’s at this moment of passing danger that I realize I must have been surrounded by cats all through the night… not just Wishus and Katie, but up on the shelf, inside a wooden box, by my dear departed Flop as well. And that for a long while I’d been dreaming of him — playing youthfully and with vigor, tumbling in the pile of blankets behind that couch, watching me with curious attention. There are mere coincidences, and then there are uncannily meaningful and timely coincidences. Come visit again soon, little buddy.
Non-linear, a dream in many parts yet all the same part. A place that could be called a wonderland.
A walk up a long ramp, a balding Bartolomeo de Las Casas or Samuel Tonsure is there among rough-hewn and brightly painted railings, tables, chairs, like being in cuckoo clock made in Mexico. He is St. Jerome, as far as I know, but his bald head and toga remind me of Aeschylus. Though he is an old teacher, because of the strange non-linear nature of this dream (all is happening at once, or can be re-ordered) I’m able to provide learning to him. It is settled at some point that we are something like the same person, if time-dislocated… I am to become him, or him me.
South Park kids are in this dream too. Perhaps they are leading a philosophical insurrection, or turning the hands of a clock that does not itself move, but moves all the time around it. This is the pivot, and the story returns to St. Jerome, who through further work is now a glossy porcelain dinner tray. His venerable cranium emerges from a moat, a bit like a well-heeled origami boat.
It was a late night and I slept between my wife and a friend. Something like a distillation of beliefs, some out-of-bounds experience, a timeless time travel, suffused this dream. When I awoke I knew exactly what it meant (I still do) but not any words to describe or reflect its true structure. I had to wait for the opportunity to write it down, which was after I’d slipped unexpectedly into a fitful, hot nap in a replica Arctic hermit’s hut. On the undersized fur-covered bed, my foot jerked and kicked over a glass kerosene lamp, which shattered on the dusty floor. I cleaned it though, had the will to pay for it too. I’m suspicious enough to wonder about a subconscious motive for such an action…
I’m invited to a huge wedding party — the catch is that it’s one of Donald Trump’s kids.
It’s at this expansive palladium/neoclassical sports grounds (not soon after, I witness it being torn up and redeveloped). Decorations are sparse and modern, and Lynae and I play music on these white plastic devices made available… the volume down is hard to control (using shift+F6). I notice someone I once dated, Meredith S., walk in arm-and-arm with another former partner of mine, and realize they’ll eventually realize they have me in common (she turns and glances back at me for just a second). There’s also a bin full of elaborate foreign hats (I have the thought “this is what our wedding would have had). Donald gives a toast and I enjoy it the same way I enjoy my father-in-law, knowing that our politics differ greatly but appreciating him as my family.
The celebration winds down, I head north to explore some tangled dry woods (this dream turns into a city-planning dream, the industrial and residential areas angled diagonal to each other, joined by a single thick link road, arguing in favor of adding more links). I view a flyover of all the thin multi-story houses (the opposite of the bungalow in Ojai that I’m visiting).
Afterward, somewhere near the wedding grounds, Lynae and I are talking and realize we left some important item under the table. Returning, we fruitlessly search. We ask a large hairy bearded guy who seems friendly if he knows where else to look — by way of answer, he and two other guys perform a song-and-dance bit about how reasonably long certain things might be held for lost-and-found. As our item (maybe a bag) is much less important than a dog (48 hours) there’s not much chance for it. At least I got an entertaining soliloquy from my subconscious regarding expiration dates on “lost” things.
Oh yeah, my wife got scared because she thought I was a monster shape-shifter (one with little white ropes for a body) and I decided to play along for a while until she came up with a reason to believe I wasn’t. It was easier that way, but I must admit to a certain sinister enjoyment of a well-received villain act. Maybe that happened because I was still waiting for a response from earlier in the dream, where I was out-of-communication with Dara V., and my wife said she woul resolve the problem one-on-one. That… makes me long for the long-lost girl again (not unusual for me). I suspect her presence is a big reason why the dream felt important enough to write down — here in the summer heat and flies of Ojai valley, sticky and rough.
“There are those that are lost to us forever.”
–message from a dream I had in 8th grade
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Dreaming of Internets Past
Forums info lasts too damn long. Passing opinions from barely passable experts keep around forever, never get updated… some small part of the dream talking about how the internet has changed. Yup, in this dream I had a long discussion with with my wife, topic: when blogs ruled the world. People used to pay for their own sites, their own stores, their own obsessive passions… because there was an ecology of people doing it at the same time. People used to go to a good deal of work to have their own toehold in that vast yet somehow intimate space. We didn’t know then that it united us, made our internet world the warm, snug little home it was. There is mention of tech utopianism and I gaze further down a hill toward a woven bridge of white lace. Spy is there, riding bikes with me, halfway distance to the bridge. She’s meeting a new sweetie of hers.
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Dream of IN20MN1A
Truck is parked on a curvy road, with it’s bed oriented up the slope to where two men sit in a car. The gate has been brought down and slid off somewhat. I check and, seeing that nothing appears to have been stolen (I have a bunch of typical junk kept back there, like a subwoofer speaker enclosure) I slide the gate off the rails and discover that it *can* be stolen. Obviously this isn’t desirable so I lock the gate closed with my car key. The two men on the hill have been muttering complaints this whole time — I think they disliked having me nearby. One of their aspersions directed so I could hear it was that they should call the police to deal with me, and I shot back with “do you think they’ll arrest me for existing?” I notice the car license plate reads IN20MN1A…
(I’d been kept awake until 6 in the morning feeling weird about money.)
Someone is telling me the story of the first time their partner took the test to be a contractor. It could’ve been Ais, about Reece. There’s a fence made out of foot-diameter PVC pipe ends, and there’s a big open pit filled with toxic, discarded seeds the previous testees have picked and discarded. (For some reason the ‘end-of-the-cul-de-sac’ locational feel reminds me of another, maritime dream, a street-side deep pool with old military ships sunk into it in with a Hawaiian vibe.) Of course, Reece falls headlong into it and contaminates himself and everything around him. This is related as both embarrassing and hilarious. He still has three more tries, though.
In an elegantly-styled modern library, section titles tastefully backlit, there is a flash-mobby conspiracy to hide behind the walls during closing hours. The day is communicated with candy bar wrappers placed in the trash cans. Of course, the hidden couples, eluding detection, still manage to all make out together in the secret compartment.
Autumn & Fox’s renovated naval facility. I didn’t bring a gift for Autumn & Fox, but they gifted me.
Jim Fourniadis invite/escorts fancy occult art sale mansion group, all with same teal robes.
Very old ship on delta dry-dock, could slice into water if water was high enough.
Secret bone room, bonsai human skeleton.
Sweeping out bones, whale-sized parts.
Swimming in delta waterway with younger person (Chris?) and spotted a blue whale.
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Creepy Dead Kid on a Boat Dream
Awoken suddenly by a dead child entering the room.
Earlier: Chicken is still captain of the boat, The Relentless (but bigger with more people). Fun party, I’m playing along, trying to act goofier than I’d otherwise be — everyone else gets inebriated quicker, per usual. I make up with Chicken with a brief but amicable conversation… he’s the big man, after all. Lying down amongst the potted plants of a side hallway, the boat approaches a water gate, and I watch from the front window as we swerve and brake to the right, nearly hitting a Coast Guard tugboat trying to help us through.
In another dream, I peek in the garbage and my wife has thrown out several frozen dessert cakes… she says they’re expired (as well as cheap sugary garbage food), but I’m compelled to fish them out and go through each, deciding if they’re actually still good. This dream reminds me strongly of the fact I’ve been procrastinating on piecing out raw meat for our cats — if that were to go bad, it would be a stinky, expensive, embarrassing mess, and it would be all my fault since my wife is out of town.
Anyway, I’m in a room… someone’s there with me helping me do a manual task… mentions what if a creepy dead kid were to suddenly appear… then on cue, from a door behind and to my left, springs out this eerie 8-year-old. Their throat is immediately in my hand. I don’t know what I’m trying to prevent, but I remember speaking ‘dead kid’ in my sleep, and waking up feeling rattled by having to choke something that may or may not have been evil. I only got 4 hours sleep, but the thought occurred to me that I somehow woke myself specifically so I’d have a better chance remembering these dreams.
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Dream of Seattle College Bars
On a wide, smooth lawn in Seattle. I’m in a group of college-age girls looking for a place to drink. In the bright sunshine, I survey the urban college-y bars around the square, all of them ladies-night-out, party-with-the-girls novelty affairs. Through a telescope I see one that’s in a penthouse location, neon-clad, very impressive. They might all be the same corporate interest. Smelling the fresh-cut grass, I notice my orange-and-brown blazer is crumpled on the lawn.
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Little Girl, Escaped
In the dream, I’m a small girl. There’s a train, a fancy public transit train with a snub nose, bright kindergarten colors on the inside. I’m fidgety in the plastic chair. Two cars, I think? There’s a lot of back and forth running around in there. It reminds me of some dream aircraft I’ve been on. Somehow I escape, a momentary transit stop where I take the opportunity.
The next place I’m at is near a wide swath of lakeside coastline, smooth lawns hosting families picnicking out of wood-clad automobiles in the distance. The lake borders a hill and is in a well-to-do neighborhood. I climb a building that’s built into a hillside, industrial concrete stairs and iron grates. Peering through dusty windows, I see an old diner covered in a thick layer of brown dust. There’s something of it that evokes a streamlined diesel locomotive, connecting it to the previous scene.