Went to Florida home Depot, one at the end of the land. A total carpet of drug waste, human filth the likes of which I didn’t think existed. I could pull the tarp up and reveal clean surface, though.
Surprised to run into Lauren in Knoxville, on a houseboat bar.
Small 1-person boats impaled on pillars, to dry perhaps? Reminds me of a golf cart installation I saw in the Mojave Desert.
In a free movie theater, there’s a disused and neglected triangular video game room off to the side of the hallway. Behind a flimsy wall can be found a secret, colorful 70s dining hall. The hall still has chandeliers somehow. I’m discovered fairly quickly by some other students who work there.
I’m a red-headed sun-kissed kid, looking in a mirror. This is the end of the dream and I’ve been experiencing it as him, and he’s the character I’ve most liked, he’s made all good decisions. I use his image as an anchor, hoping to remember the whole story.
Seeing mom in Cathedral City backyard, confused because I remember some people who are there actually aren’t supposedly around anymore.
Diztroyo: a kind of chaotic and confusing music I hear with glitched-out visuals to match, the end of the night when I’ve essentially slept too long.
Lying backwards in a papasan chair. Naked, but covered in a gray blanket so no one tell. Cozy and happy. I overhear a snobby girl say how gross it is when men are naked in public, and laugh to myself. From the clothing display above the chair, I pull down a couple colorful sportswear outfits and surreptitiously re-clothe.
A pile of my old minidiscs have spilled onto the street. I look back at them and don’t really care about picking them up or not.
Making a list of things
Things that are googled as I type them
All of which center around dying this horrible navy-colored hoodie I just got (I actually just got a cozy red hoodie)
(and actually it was Lynae who posted this morning about how much she hated an ugly navy-and-grey ModCloth ensemble)
And it’s hard to type because Swiftkey keepsfuckingup thewords
I realize that I’m alone in the attic space, where a moment ago the rest of my classmates (tenth grade history, Mr. Conklin) had been all around me
And that they were all downstairs now, and I was about to get locked in with my depressing craft search list
That’s when I woke up in my loving lukewarm bath and knew if I spent any longer there, I’d be trapped all night
On double-vacation in San Francisco. Pass the Nihil Cafe, might be nice to go before we leave (to return to our first vacation, eventually to return home to SF). Slick marble streets of many colors, on some the water has been blocked off so you have to scramble over them. Mixing cum with radio magnetides to turn it electrically active, andand last step creates rusty blobs (these blobs result from lack of enough reagent resources, I imagine). Beautiful bathrooms in these SF houses, I wished I had pictures. We shampoo the fancy white carpet in our rental. Maybe I did this in an earlier dream? Then vacuum it up with a toddler’s ball bobble walker.
Seventh grade science classroom home video. Halfway up the walls are ringed with panels of handprinted student messages (MC CHRIS HAHAHA). Big Bird trying to go up on stage wearing someone else’s t-shirt of single yellow feather, is warned then tackled off by tankgirl character. This is when I wet-vacuum. It’s so effective it reveals holes in the wood flooring where planks join at odd angles.
Opening up a chain-link gate to a coastal area for workmate Manny (Manxioc on chat) and hopping in the white interior of his car, they’re probably gonna smoke weed but I’m fast enough I think I can ditch if that happens.
Tall skyscraper in the distance has a loose symbol atop it (glittery purple teeth?); I see it wobble and wonder what kind of job it is to fix.
Frozen forest riverbank, I find my spot under a tree with hardly any ice. But the branches are more brittle from exposure. Looking up, one by one they fall (at an oddly uniform speed, no acceleration) and
the biggest nearly impales my head.
Immediately afterwards, Sir Paul McCartneyis escorted though a toy store having just dodged the tree branches. He’s shaken and a bit angry. The store is packed with shoppers and it’s quite dark, I use the button built into a toy box to see a Millennium Falcon playset, though it’s still too dim. There’s an exhibit off to the side in a 3-room alcove, some singing animatronics. Some cool, trippy florescent stuff in there. I bump into one of the bands (they remind me of Tusken Raiders) and a nice old lady helps me to remember the area by showing me archival “before” pictures from her booth — including a dinner attended by my Uncle John and Uncle Bob. Maybe a week ago, maybe 40 years.
On awakening in the dream, I see that the house Lynae & I are house-sitting has had all it’s furniture stolen. Running through my head is a reminder to lock all the doors at night, and I’m not even sure if it was a true instruction or something I made up. They’d even stolen several of the cars. I saw, too, the area behind where the master bed was, where I’d hammered some nails back into the wall the night before, and the wooden support beam stuck out, was now bare and exposed. I think I went back to bed, not knowing how to explain such a catastrophe.
Earlier during sleep, I’d been laying out a (Sim)city that was mostly of a string of hospitals on a diagonal coastline, connected awkwardly by road to a larger blocky building.
Suddenly awakened. Was in the kitchen with Lynae, heard a sick cat’s wail from behind me. There on the doorway threshold was… I guess I expected it to be a sick Aloysius, but maybe it was Katie back from the dead. That sound, though… sounded a lot like Ginger, now that I think of it. Such a realistic sound, I thought something in the house has woken me up.
Visions afterwards were colorful distortions of living beings, like a 60s flashback warning film passed through a pastel oil bubble.
Then there’s that painting in the hallway… Dead Cat Dance.
I’m sitting between Lauren and Mickey in Ms. Fitzgerald’s class (although the room is Ms. Snowden’s).
A test she gives has two sides, one a question on how to make a single page layout in WordPress without access to the file system. I can’t be motivated to write out the answers to these boring questions, and I know it. Still I receive a decent grade, perhaps because the instructor is passing on.
There’s a broken red light sitting in bowl above the dishwasher. Electricity comes on. I notice the bulb is still broken, and I replace it with a pink bulb taken from another light cord.
Snippet of conversation:
“how many in our peloton (pel-o-THON)?”
“¿What is this, Barthelona?”
In a forest and see a deep fryer by side of a dirt road. Like a barbecue grill, but red, with what looks like a red gas container connected to the side. My mom and I decide we don’t need to take it. We go over a small tree-lined ridge and down a steep hill. We pause to lie down and take a break, on our way to what looks like a rundown railyard below. Mom is large, maybe six times my size, like when I was young and much smaller. (This dream took much effort to remember.)
During 𓂀 I had a feeling I last felt when I was in my first bedroom, in Santa Rosa, maybe 1-4 years old. Flowing through the bars of a crib perhaps. The trainman clock on the wall, the one from Germany. Indoor lighting, not sunshine, nighttime. The wooden ‘Robert’ blocks, the ones with the rainbow letters. Some of these recollections were seen, others felt.
In a later dream, inside an abandoned train car, the side has a painted-over sign reading ‘FREE AIR’. A couple passes by the end of the narrow hall and I jokingly call out “Ah! Other people! Ah!” Another train car painted orange and green has an ad for a neighborhood Irish radio station/bar, 9.53 FM — I think it’s really 95.3, but the misplaced decimal point is for charm (and to throw off lazy authorities).
Bernie Sanders is 87 years old.
(I really gotta stop staying up until 6 in the morning. And I gotta stop then being woken up almost immediately with lots of stuff to do.)
(There’s just not a lot of detail in a dream like this. Honestly, it’s a silly thing to save. I just honestly don’t know what meaning/value anyone — including but especially me — could hope to derive from such information.)
(Except to say that keeping a dream journal is important. Somehow. Maybe I’ll find out?)
Until then: Bernie Sanders is 87 years old.