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Dream Journal

The Raven’s Nest Platform

While I’m injured and recovering in a wheelchair, I create many new designs in a sketchbook with fine quality paper. I’ve filled it up almost entirely — something I couldn’t do in the past under normal circumstances. I’m the kind of person who would habitually save the nice paper for something really special.

At the top of a tower which I’ve climbed I set up a raven’s nest, placed with some other charming little objects (plants and the like). I build one then another, as I consider there’s room for two on the little square platform. I don’t recall the view but it surveyed a large area.

I escort my dad to a bathroom I happen to know is open, as I’m knowledgeable like that. It’s located within this big enclosed space, somewhere near the end of the universe, where nothing is ever complete (at one of the ends/corners of the universe at least). Above us is an even larger and grander upper section walled off by a single huge curved panel of tinted glass (that futuristic 1970s houseware aesthetic). Instead of going through the bathroom door I choose to pee in a trough on the two-way path outside. Passersby see me peeing, but I’m obscuring my crotch with an object and bouncing the urine stream off of it.

A bookcase, the bottom shelf of it, broken into three indeterminate book-like items. I determine that one of the smaller blocks of these can be remagnetized. This should restore it to whatever it was. Perhaps this is the reason these were placed here?

It’s been more difficult to remember my dreams lately (I’m going through one of those cycles). I’ve been talking Undlela Ziimlophe a.k.a. Silene capensis to try to reboot a little. It was a long process while waking up trying to remember these, beginning while I was still asleep — I tried to remember key images as words, bookcase, notebook, raven’s nest. Then I would try to get those back as I noticed myself in another stage of wakefulness. I didn’t really know at the time if this had a good chance of success, but self-evidently it did. Nevertheless I might’ve left some behind. This current cycle feels almost like the opposite end of lucidity… at least I’m getting good sleep.

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Dream Journal

Journey from Found Money

Find $15550 (three 5000s, one 500 and two 25s) in official scrip like traveler checks or bonds sitting on sidewalk next to hat. I strongly suspect it’s probably a hidden camera thing, but on way out police are searching cars. There are four of us in on the conspiracy, convinced this will change our lives.

Months later we are on a long spaceship journey. The crew, all claimant’s to the money-treasure, keep it in a special box on a table by itself, like a reliquary. There’s even more of us. During a face grooming session by one of the team, I’m told to pick my face pimple before continuing. Under the head, it excretes a long red waxy tube. Even under that is lots of liquid white pus which dumps directly into a trash can. The medic of the team has to instruct an animalistic crewmember not to eat it, as he normally might.

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Dream Journal

Two Events at the Whybrary, Directions to Lizard Milk Lab

Remembering the occasion when I signed up for a fundraiser of pesto dinner during the pandemic (pesto spaghetti is still one of my favorite meals and has been since I discovered it at she 4). It was served at the Whybrary — perhaps even my first time there. A folding wall separated it into an audience area and backstage.

What reminded me is that I’m at a Dr. Hal Show at the same space, current era. I’m getting to hang out on couches with my friend Laurie O. who happened to also come to the show also; we were friends together in 8th grade. The couches face each other and we each spread out lengthwise, heads to feet. I lean my arm over onto her couch when it gets tippy in order to balance it. The host, Chicken John, notices me do this and immediately ends the show. It’s as if he can tolerate no more of me enjoying my life and being helpful in his presence. Or existing perhaps.

Looking through the front window of a house like Mickey’s to observe a person using a computer with their back to the window. The computer and all the accessories are color themed purple. Sounds like the 90s which is when I meet Mickey. I ring the doorbell there and soon realize (before they arrive at the door) that I have the wrong address here — 3068, when the cream carton i found it on shows 4068. I quickly have to explain my mistake, keeping up a momentary charade of letting them explain the directions to 4068 when I do already know.

When I get to address it’s inside a development organized like a ring. Businesses and labs face the inside. In the center of what looks like a corral, its wooden posts wiggling in the ground. The address is some sort of lab, making a kind of experimental milk. Curved terrariums line the front. Maybe it’s lizard milk? If there was more, I don’t remember.

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Dream Journal

Integument Overalls, Wind-up Guinea Pigs

Setting: our apartment but different, and without that much stuff in it anymore. Oh, and we’re trying to give away what’s still there.

Reaching down between my the integument of my skin, like overalls. This fold in human biology is so easy to forget about — we don’t use it for anything and it just collects crumbs (so that’s something different in this dream.

Wind-up guinea pigs. Consider looking up how they connect inside, but I’m not sure I want to and forget to anyway. Worried I might overtighten, or that it just annoys them without actually giving energy like I’d expect it to.

Wife asking if we need to mix some creatine before Glenn gets here. It takes 20 min to set, and she thinks he’ll be here in 12. I think he’ll cancel like everyone else who comes over.

Learn about sale on sushi in Saudi Arabia. Getting dressed as if to go, which includes a sharp blue suit with low lapels. I could be known for my fashion; why not. I’m trying to tie the tie around the lower set of lapels while my wife explains how it’s actually too far to drive. It’s the same speech I’ve given myself earlier, but I don’t care. I want to see how I could look if anyone showed up or I had anywhere to be.

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Dream Journal

Multi-level Video Game, plus NYC, lots of Bright Light Too

Under summery outdoor awnings in a backyard, I wait at a bench examining a pair of eyeglasses on the table there. They remind me of Plarvolia’s. Sure enough, I see her return with a group and I immediately get up to leave, assuming I must be near her chair. I expect neither of us want to see each other. I briefly make eye contact and nod in acknowledgement though, which feels assertive.

In a video game level, while escaping while chased by a gargantuan monster, I under a huge turning waterwheel. It has a strange double mechanism which rotates the wheel at the same time an arm sways the against/away the wall of the pool it’s in. Good to see the monster frustrated while I simply sit and chill.

The video game proceeds. An underwater level of a brightly colored colored mall where I discover an exploit of passing through the sunroof. This adds more time on the breath meter than it should, much more. I can gather pile of trinket loot, handfuls of rings. I go back a second time and find a room with a white abstract sculptural mechanism which activates a boss fight; with the breathing bonus it’s actually quite easy.

In our solarium I discover that my wife and I own a “paper wasp” tree which is quite large. It’s in a huge pot and obviously been there quite awhile. Probably quite valuable considering it’s rarity and development. Beautiful thing too, with delicate papery-textured bark and exotic foliage. I notice while I’m watering it that over time the trunk has curled spiral-like at the base, continually reaching for the nearest lighted window. I gaze out from the glass balcony at the evening skyline of a big city (New York I think) and chuckle, realizing that perhaps the tree isn’t so perfectly valuable as first thought.

Later, my wife is selling an old electronic toy of mine. To our surprise it’s neither a PlayStation 2 or 3, but a famed PlayStation 2.5. This is rare find and should be quite a rewarding sell.

I stand atop a tall square brick tower in a public pool in NYC with a few other people. It topples with us on it, cascading into the wave pool and shoreline. There was previously a different option we chose not to take. It turns out that, instead of being on the tower, we would’ve had to turn a spigot or something. I remember looking across the street at urban multistory residences, sparser than one might hope. Those unlucky enough have to put up with this noise every day. Not that it inspires me to be quieter.

I drag myself up to the beach and notice my wife (who is very young in this instance) masturbating on the seashore facing away from the water, toward some men. She stops as I approach. The men walk away up a ramp. I have to gather my hat, sandals, etc before I leave up the same slope. Near the base of the ramp entrance, my parents are standing — my parents in this dream anyway. They’re unhelpful and neglect to tell me that my stuff is right at the base near them.

I’m in the final levels of an urban maze: interior courtyards, themed shops with neon signs (back from the video game setting earlier perhaps) hidden back areas. I’m tracing my steps back from earlier levels I played here (near where the big monster chased me onto the waterwheel). I flip through dense layers of arranged material making up a packed sewing & fabric store which spans two floors. The courtyard it’s in is highly angular, irregular overhanging floors with empty residential windows lining it. The exit of the courtyard it’s so out of scale it feels like a corner drain. Along the next progression towards back where I started, I take a side track up old-timey wooden stairs to an unassuming door. Somehow reminds me of one that might bring to a psychic reader. But this one goes to more back rooms.

Within, past a small valley and up a hill there (bit like a Appalachian holler), I visit a community that played an interesting role in the Yugoslav war. The single small venue in town was a cafe with a split part of the building open to the street. The front window became a performance stage, with people gathering on the street outside for what became rock festivals. This may have been a loophole for some law against public rock music performances. The cafe now is a popular “quiet cafe”. I watch a commercial for it where a scruffy looking guy puts on a headset and starts blathering on a work call. The entire cafe unanimously shushes him, going around the room as he tries to turn a different direction.

One last image, which I didn’t properly jot down but which was my hypnopompic cue: an unfinished structure built of colored columns, open to the elements, set amid parkland, jauntily angled to the street. I meet someone there as arranged.

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Dream Journal

Flashing Under Dress Robes

My wife and I have assigned rooms, and I’m visiting and essentially staying in her room. She’s decorated it differently than I would’ve, a layered golden yellow autumnal theme integrating wild-gathered elements. As we talk, I prep for a bath in a large plastic bin (similar to the rat cage I’m making). I wear a reversible skull mask as we talk.

I pass by a partially outdoor class seated and having group discussion. I jump into the air as I go by, floating down slowly. I may have flashed my underwear under these dress robes we all wear here — I didn’t mean to be disrespectful, oops.

Conservatives are trying to elect a high ranking general, thinking that he’s on their side. Meanwhile, the guy is actually an ethical patriot, but he’s of course not going to tell them — they might find somebody else.

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Dream Journal

Empty Apartment Rooms & Old Hostel

My dad has a very late in life baby who’s still small named Rubor. Sometimes it’s spelled with an eñe over the b, a highly unusual accent.

The two front rooms of our apartment have been emptied and I can spread out stuff on the floors, reusing the space for something totally new. The rooms seem much bigger — they *are* much bigger I think. But it’s still creepy to have everything gone, though.

I’m back to my original paid-job hostel, a flat-fronted shack (possibly made from shipping containers and roll-up doors) with graffiti covering the windows. Being here finally reminds me of a girl who loved me, who I simply forgot about. Somehow my time with her just never was revisited, her story never came up again.

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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.