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Dream Journal

Well, the Cement Mixer Exploded

Walking down an alley off market street. Threatened by a character calling himself “the Jew with the knife” — not even sure he’s Jewish with his portly full beard, and he seems the type who’d find it a funny in-joke. I back off but don’t run, and my respectful reaction to his threats earns me an invite from him to a throwback hipster bar, Ri-Bread, around the corner on Market.

The folks there are a motley bunch, youngish, but low-key and slow-going. They seem all-too-familiar with knife-guy’s nonsense and welcome me with a quiet drink. I spend time staring through the 1930’s-style wraparound street window, talking with girl at a window barstool next to me.

I ride in the backseat of a truck, taking one of several branching roads to Burning Man (or possibly Camp Tipsy). I’ve never chosen to take the road the driver picks. It’s a 4×4, then a bus/RV. Making out with Robin at back of bus, staying out of the way of Chicken (the driver). My wife, meanwhile, has trouble finding her matching colorful gypsy hoodie.

We arrive and park at broad public campsite, near dusk. Chicken “parks” a stubby cement mixer/backhoe, hanging its front shovel off the now gigantic bus. I try to offer a ladder but he quickly scurries down the superstructure. A bit later I’m in a tree between our campsite and a ravine, on the property of some neighbors in rural house. I watch as the cement mixer dangles off its perch, rolling violently downhill toward the ravine. Its path of destruction passes almost directly below me, through the neighbor’s pool, crashing into the ravine beyond in a violent mess. The mixing drum explodes high into the air — an absurd and amusing sight.

From the horizon zooms an Alpinestars-branded drone, having faraway noticed the large explosion. I speedily catch it in mid-air from the tree, finally catching the interest of the neighbors there. One by one they come out. Nudists, it’s apparent. I see their oldest daughter has some obfuscation or malformation over her crotch, hiding the shape. She’s shy but shows strong interest in me.

In a traditional, king-ruled Southeast Asian country, two heads of national security organizations are imprisoned. One red-faced, one blue-faced, their intricate fully-tattooed faces are meant to intimidate and display status — but now that a revolution has come, they’re a liability for being not the least bit anonymous. The two former security chiefs are brought before a tribunal, near where the cement mixer once hung, and past where the Alpinestars drone zipped in. They speak to a young prince with round glasses, intoning to him with vague gravitas that is his “destiny is to usurp the suzerainty”.

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Dream Journal

don’t worry, the gorilla baby in traffic is fine

A baby gorilla in the street, more of a juvenile actually. I see it almost get hit by a car. I rush to see if I can help, almost forgetting my mask (it’s still the pandemic).

I look again at my phone, and the whole thing is like a Reddit post that’s been edited to more clearly show it was satire.

A blue handmade glass dish, with an olive branch contributed from my friends Don and Tracy’s garden. Tracy is in a parked car holding a metronome on her lap. It keeps going off like an alarm and I’m having trouble figuring out how to disable it.

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Dream Journal

Field Trip Rest Stop

Driving for a long time down a freeway backwards. I’m sitting in the back seat of this station wagon, enjoying my half sleep. By the time I spot a freeway exit the driver seems used to reversing, has even somewhat forgot they’re doing it. We take a rest for awhile during which time it becomes more like a sleepover class field trip.

I go to get coffee, considering whether I even want to drink much of it since I’ve been having such a nice sleep. I find a tap placed around a curved wall in rustic, 1940s era hammered enameled metal. Its label reads “Beverly” which I recognize as a generic vintage brand. I sample just a little bit. It’s honestly not bad (reminds me of my Nana), but I notice around the opposite wall, in a darker alcove, a tap for Folgers (I think this was my parents brand). Masochistically, I sample the unappealing dirt-colored liquid, then immediately plunge into a reverie about how you could drink this every morning as a parent — and fuzzily, apathetically, read a new disposable kids book to them every day.

I return to see my classmates/travel companions lined up in library-style booths. The teacher (akin to 11th grade chemistry’s Mr. Brown) has assigned a test sheet he found at the rest stop, one that even has scrawl copied at the top already. I carefully evaluate it, concluding it’s busywork of no value to anyone, and I decide it’d be better for him to have “lost” my paper if it ever matters. While gathering my stuff to leave, I check out the carpet, which will alter color to distinct shades of blue depending on how much water is spilled on it. Looks like carpet mosaic tiles.

I step outside onto a crowded patch of grass at the roadside, where many class friends are already waiting for the bus to pull round. I notice that most of us have coordinated our gear to match, and the colors we chose are mostly a few degrees away from each other. I notice Christy T. (who I went to school with from 3rd to 11th grade), has a surprisingly bright shade of khaki, the same as my big kratom bag.

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Dream Journal

Dating & Being Belle Delphine

I encounter the one and only Belle Delphine. Despite how famous she is, I decide to start dating her. This isn’t easy as she has very high standards and I need to balance my respect for her (she’s a real artist) without feeling like a simp.

The dream switches to first person from her perspective. I escape via some back stairs into another area. More to it, but gone now.

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Dream Journal

Escaping from a Life Among Dioramas

I’m a girl living in an apartment built into a rock outcropping, containing crystal protrusions, waterfalls, and garden diorama-scapes. A distinct relaxing Japanese feel. I make my way out of the enclosed 1-person space by navigating up a waterfall (much higher than expected), revealing that the apartment generously provided for me was also a restriction — there are much bigger areas beyond what was accessible before. I pass over a wooden gate into a back alley, with a tiny, quaint moat running along one side. I can now view my place and its exquisite dioramas from the other side, and it’s 1 of 3 similar apartments for elite long-term guests… guests of who, I cannot recall, if I ever knew. But if I can see so clearly, it seems perhaps our hosts were watching us, keeping tabs. A tiny snowfall lands on the miniature traditional town hall.

I’m angry at my brother Patrick, giving him an explicit warning in the car backseat. About what, I can’t remember.

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Dream Journal

That Hot Pokémon Girl

A stone bird submerged just below the surface of a pond. Jumping on the stone and seeing the profile. Meant to be a cue for a longer dream, now forgotten.

Last day of school. The ebullient kids from Mrs. Plescia’s 5th grade, with the boxy confined aesthetic of middle school. After hours of games and getting up/sitting down from a desk, we have quiet time at end. My childhood friend Robby T. and I are part of the group who cleans up during it, stuff from microwaves to chipped commemorative mugs. I peek over the wooden-post fence to the road beyond, as in another dream set in a mountain prison where I planted mushrooms in a garden bed. I see boxes a boxes of supplies I’ve brought during the year, all of which I need to bring home. There is, in fact, what Robbie (it’s spelled Robbie for some reason) points out what he calls a mushroom tray, but which looks to me like a colonized mushroom tray.

An art event sponsored by Cameo W., a darkened central room with grand, open rooms branching from it. Avoidant of typical San Francisco tech themes, despite that she made most of her money from cashing out in tech. There’s a girl I don’t know, Erin Collins, who gives out loads of her self-made business cards to everyone at the event. I’m not interested in calling her on account of seeming desperate for… whatever it is she wants.

Later, though, I’m back within the setting of the last day of class. There’s a jumping contest to leap from the last railing of a stairway leading to the beach. I make impressive distance, but realize I may have not followed the rules by stepping further beyond my sandy landing imprints. The girl, Erin, makes a similar impressive showing and I realize she’s a Pokémon (!). And she looks, very, very good naked. We make out and then begin to fuck. Her vulva does this weird thing where it bulges forward, almost as if her vagina was just below her skin. When I’m fully inside, a small bump appears at her pubis. I realize that although it’s amazing to fuck someone this pretty (and a Pokémon!) I won’t be getting off as she’s missing something, somehow. She’s not getting as much pleasure as she’s giving and we can’t fix it for now. We gaze at a sick battleship docked nearby, being eroded by the waves.

Riding my motorcycle, turning onto a street like Mission in SF. Behind a group of riders on what look like scooter versions of my motorcycle, the Honda CTX. I pull off and park near Willows, labelled on the awning as “A CTX Bar”. I remember thinking how I have to be on my best behavior so as to give a good impression to the young ones.

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Dream Journal

Outdoor Ring of Learning

A hallowed hall of education, circular ring of open-air lecture spaces. Speakers are a variety of interesting, respectable people I’ve never met before, reminiscent of the BBC hippies documentary I was watching last night. I find myself at one end of the ring, a beautiful “room” with cracked plastic walls, trailing vines, and white columns surrounding an open area.

Nearby is a small art display of four objects, which symbolize struggle, made by a grey-haired female instructor. There are tiny toggle switches that electrify, for instance, a frosted glass chalice (reminds me of an absinthe brouilleur, something I’ve lately been struggling to make/buy). Also a spider plant with a naked root ball — something that looks identical to something the instructor wears in her hair.

One lecturer I listen to intently, to the point I try to record them. Unfortunately instead of beginning to save audio my phone starts playing an ad. I’m quite upset — I don’t want the instructor to think I disrespect them. All is well though, and when I volunteer an anecdote about my own expertise I’m dispatched to fetch an item from the far side of the circle.

I pass through what appears to be the open wall of an under-construction bathroom. There I find a wire bucket of pink toy balls with silly doodled faces on them. My childhood friend, Vince Saunders, has also grabbed a bucket and makes a chiding comment. I shoot back that he’s just jealous that I have bigger balls than him — which comparing our buckets, I do. This, for whatever odd reason, does the trick.

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Dream Journal

Cacophony Fair Complications

A Cacophony Society event, tents covertly set up in an elementary school playground — my elementary school, as it happens (the side parking lot where I fell on my ass rollerskating). I’m there helping John Law, Mikl Em, and others break down from the event, but there’s soo much stuff, taking soo long. All while remaining undetected.

A search ensues to find a place to safely leave 3 pet guinea pigs. Eventually I settle on a small, almost cubby-size room in a sheltered school hallway, room 17D, while I return to pack up the rest.

Sitting on a stairway watching a show as the event continues during our breakdown, a lethargically drunk Robin Williams slumps directly ahead of me. He lurches awake and insists he has to get his friend water, knocking down and shattering a glass water pitcher that happened to be in front of him. I start cleaning up the broken glass, and a very diligent 5-year-old joins me to help. Their parent then asks me to help put them to bed. The parent mentions “the sandman” needing to put sand in their eye, and I quite unstrategically ask if the kid if they know about sandman… a.k.a. boogeyman. Immediately I cringe at my mistake, but manage to still get the kid to bed.

For awhile I’m sitting watching another show (maybe put on by my friend Spy) and a guy sitting next to me informs me that my palm is covered in blood. I’ve known the whole time of course, ignoring the injury as I just don’t care, but thank him by saying “oh yeah mate” — somehow being Australian makes it both funny and apropos. But i still make to go clean it up, while dropping my blood in big wet patches on the ground.

Later, I’m positioned in front of a tall row of lockers. I’m confronted by a pair of blonde, white supremacist twins (akin to the racist teen musical duo Prussian Blue perhaps) who are trying to make me jealous. This is almost certainly on account of my rejecting them for their regressive ideology. Two guys I know they recently met brag with bluster of their heavy makeouts with the twins. With a keen eye though, I can tell that the red on the twin’s cheeks isn’t flushing, only rouge. Not makeouts, but makeup. They seem crestfallen.

I finally go to retrieve the guinea pigs from the petsitter in 17D. When I get there, though, he’s not disposed to have us open the door. It seems he just got the three guinea pigs down for a nap together in a cute little shopping bag. Smiling, I say I’m fine to come back.

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Dream Journal

Massive Handmade Map in Quiet-time Classroom

It’s third grade, and I’m starting a painting assignment in the last period of class — a massive mural-sized map. At first I paint on large paper at my desk, then moving to the walls of the classroom. Making the land using smooth strokes of light red against red. Switching to a dark purplish blue for the seas, and aged vintage yellow for other empires of the world beyond my knowledge. The border of the colors is arbitrary, artistic. I experiment, blending darker parts into the sea to make it look deeper. The recommendation was to use blots of red, but it blends terribly.

The teacher leaves through a side door to grab something. Since the door is in my row I have to move aside. As she comes back, I hand her a pair of sunglasses I found lying on the ground there, telling her she dropped them. She claims not to recognize them.

During quiet time at the end I survey my finished work, with the goal of convincing her to let me seal it. I only need to ask her the finish: matte, satin, or glossy. Her car is parked inside the classroom, and I circle around it, noting its make as a Capri, a “Capri Sun.” I look up the car on a website; it’s related to a ’94 Tirder, which is Scandinavian-style word for fending off collisions. She won’t let me ask about either, as it’s still quiet time.

A girl complains in the front row — which now appears opposite of where it was — and tries to impart how worldly she is; needing to tan, that she’s only slept with 10 people. Teacher proclaims “if you’re 9 and have already slept with 10 people, how do you feel about a visit to the school psychiatrist?” This elicits a sigh and shuts down the complaining. The girl acts as if she was talking about her dog sleeping with 10 other dogs.

I’m floating/wandering through a simulation of my neighborhood. It’s 4th of July, nighttime, and I have a special appreciation for its uniqueness — the colors of lights flashing everywhere as I pass through corridors, watching them reflect off windows of closed-up music shops and grocery stores. There’s one large simulated power station which draws energy from the physics engine (in the same way a real-world power generator would). I recognize it as a facility I’ve made a delivery to before. I witness as one of the explosions spawns inside the locked-up doors and begins an explosive chain reaction. I’m the only one right there, and I happen to know how to get inside, and mount rescue efforts even though it means I might be destroyed in the simulation.

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Dream Journal

Return to School/Work: Naardviot or Naardveet

A multi-stage heist to steal a baby (or wealth) in broad daylight. It repeats, the same beats with variations of setting, dozens of times. A grouchy burly male criminal, a heavy cart going off the side of the road, and opportunistic me. A sci-fi Star-Wars-like fleet of floating swarming police assault craft, of AT-AT like bubbles, zooms away from a post nearby foiling bystanders hopes of intervention.

The last repetition, we’re stealing the baby/treasure out of the mother’s body. A gesture made fingering to an unexpected hole in the mom. A blank beat, an empty space, the pattern finally breaks and our criminal gang is dismembered and transmogrified. I see my dream character as the female protagonist of Assassin’s Creed Odyssey, just her doll-like torso and head, floating down into a watery abyss trailing tendrils of blood as she rapidly exsanguinates. The question sits there at the end of the dream: what was different this time, what went wrong?

My first day returning to work as a delivery driver after a long break. I feel different, pulling up and parking my motorcycle near the assemblage of other vehicles. I carry a folded-in cardboard box under my arm, two of my smallest pet rats inside. I naively try placing a delivery bag in there too, and hastily pull it out when the ratties predictably find it (but before anyone notices).

It’s my first day back at school, too. I’m in a classroom where the teacher is demonstrating how to hang string lights above a blackboard, but giving wrong information. I smoothly take over and show how to correct braid them so the strands stay together. She admonishes me by asking “something-something to not” and I wittily joke as if she said “to knot”, still trying to act as though I’m not overriding her. She pivots to teaching a lesson of describing me by an insulting term, akin to”North Idiot”, or Naardviot. I’m pretty sure she actually meant Naardveet, though by now I can’t say anything without her authority feeling threatened.

A girl I don’t know is sitting on a locker room bench talking to herself in Korean in a semi-crazed tone. But I can understand her, and see the danger for her, so sit nearby and begin talking too. I begin improvising as if we’re having a normal conversation, miming eye movements as well.

Still sitting nearby, I change from my 2nd school period outfit into that for 3rd period, without taking off my pants. When I see the pants I believed were white on me, they have huge overlapping layers of colorful stains on them. I don’t have enough time to change again and I have to make a compromise one way or the other.