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.
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.
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.
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.
I’ve been waiting for something to happen. Something to push me in the right direction. I don’t want to want that which I don’t have. But I want to want what I want, so I guess I want what I don’t have. Only reason to want something, it seems. Makes perfect sense.
Feeling very absent lately; very useless and unfulfilled. As soon as I wrote those words I dropped into presence, into being-here-ness. Whenever I’m not in it I know that it’s absent, I don’t remember how to get into it. I don’t remember why I would want to be in it. It’s not a thing that makes sense. It’s focus, concentration, awareness, but also somehow the effort is effortless. It’s balance. It’s letting-go-ness, that I keep as an active observer. It’s me being inside myself.
Last night, felt engaged in a way I haven’t for a while. Still a bit forced perhaps, but again I think that may be part of being happy for me now. Staring into a mirror now — with my kaleidoscope in the background. An unusual form of meditation.
Strong feeling while it was happening that I’ve had this dream before, that it’s a complete replay.
I’m playing a side-scrolling dinosaur video game that’s quite violent. You start off a fairly standard size, and you complete the level and think you’re through with the game. But instead, you fly over this rocky riverbed area with some snakes — in the development process, we (the developers) made a big deal of there being no snakes in this video game. In order to continue and get to the second act you go and become a small character (perhaps a Compsognathus?) and get brutally ambushed and bitten by dozens of snakes and snake-like dinosaurs (like Vertigo from Primal Rage).
Thereafter you ride on top of boxcars, and get to an island area where a gigantic T-rex head emerges as the hillside itself (like Grant’s final waterfall level of Jurassic Park Rampage Edition). Going into a concrete stairwell, you run into the Furies from Labyrinth (or Fireys, as they’re called in the movie). The Furies turn you into one of them for the next level — in this case, being a young woman trapped in a burned out, rotting, scratched-up stump of wood displayed in a high-end department store. This level is really hard to get past, as the other women there turn you back into a stump, and I get repeatedly get turned into different artfully-aged chunks of wood before I’m woken up by our lovely cat doing a pee-pee-shake dance on the corner of the bed.
Is it a good idea to post a bunch of rambling old freewritings that I wrote last year? Or even further back?
Why do I keep remembering “l’enfer, c’est les autres” (Sartre: Hell is other people)?
Lately, had thoughts about the respect for attention — what it means to intentionally call attention to something negative, perhaps something painful but unchangeable, some old scar or another. Lord, how I find my experience of Facebook to be increasingly terrible and confusing. Why do I keep coming back, then? It fills small gaps of time where I’d not otherwise be doing something productive with my life — caring about the lives of others and keeping up with them is the selling point, sure. But lordy, how little I can help, the problems I see there, the focus and training I’ve had to resolve those conflicted feelings, yet I know they come back. Longing for greater affection, but necessity of only stepping in where it seems wise. Perhaps my social network is too wide for my life now. Perhaps being physically separated for too long unmoors me from what I liked about them in the first place. Maybe they changed, or were never like that to begin with. Maybe Facebook weirds human relationships.
The problem, too, is that I think posting old stuff with unclear expectations is a problem. This project is an ongoing one, and the point is it’ll never be “complete”. But it’s also worthwhile to think about you, dear reader — hi future Orin! As you’re probably aware, the writer always reads their words most. And I hope reading these brings you a certain delight, and commiseration, a recognition, although I’m honestly not sure why… except perhaps you remember/imagine being chilly, sitting on the Munchery parking lot stairs, wanting to organize your thoughts, to see them click together with the click of the keys, wondering if you successfully shoehorned enough evocative descriptions of your setting to ground in that “real world” we’re always hearing about.
Is it a good idea to post a rambling new freewriting that I wrote… just now?
(Sure! Fuck it, dude. The privacy setting that matters most is “hope you should know”.)
In the dream I’m blogging — here, on ori.nz — and see that the URL permalink reads 10-2. I have an intense come-up feeling as I become something like lucid.
Pax Imperia, little cute solar systems. I see my homeslice Mickey B. I’d later realize this dream was very close to a ninth-grade fantasy I’d had while first starting to lucid dream, that we’d be able to play realistic space games together while we slept.
Dressed in a pair of tiny cute skivvies, I’m hopping from boat to boat in a crowded harbor marina. I get inside a spacious empty ferryboat filled with rows of low-slung benches, the windows and walls are clear plastic. Jumping from public bathroom to plain basic houseboat, battening the hatches. Off in the distance there’s a massive wave, a wave the size of a mountain. Later, I’d recall another dream of being in that massive wave — no sign of a harbor in that dream. Also, another dream many years ago where I scubaed alongside a whale.
J’aime Andrade, a member of color guard in my high school marching band, showed up in cool convertible with a few of her friends. Post-gothy aesthetic. They were having a blast and lifted my spirits.
(this night I meditated in bed before sleep for an hour…)
In a darkened apartment I’m with an elegant Greco-Roman topless statue of Sabrina W. Who should wander in, but Sabrina! She makes a show of approving of the work, and I find myself speechless (once again) in her presence.
Last day: I run into my nana under my apartment stairs, she finds me hiding a water bottle. Somehow that bottle is evidence of murder, but not one I had anything to do with — I just don’t want the creepy water bottle anymore. My nana gets me to put it someplace it could be found later, in the basement.
Stephan Colbert is a teacher, has a golf course house on a hill. The house has streetcar tracks leading up to it. Then old tracks are buried due to the very steep slope. His neighbors, who live on opposite hills like in the Palm Springs mountains, shoot golf balls at him. But the golf balls are actually small fighter jets that get shot down by his fighter jets. If you think normal aviation is expensive, try repairing ridiculously tiny planes that have been shot at, in mid-air.
Lynae: Oh no one of the Kratom capsules was incense kratom
Lynae: The last one I took
Lynae: I can feel it writhing inside
Lynae: Torturing me with its evil
Orin: You need to take them with like 8oz of water
Lynae: I am
Lynae: But this tea is so cooooooold brrrrrrr
Orin: That has nothing to do with it being infected with incense smell, and has everything to do with it being a extremely flavorful substance inside a very sticky capsule
Lynae: Hypothermia is setting in
Orin: That happens to me every time I don’t drink it with enough liquid
Lynae: No I smelled it my body is rejecting it
Lynae: It says DO NOT WANT
Orin: Can you just skip to acceptance https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kübler-Ross model of grief
Orin: Or you could just skip to stage five, barfing
Orin: jeezus this is why there’s no ayahuasca for you
Orin: the shaman is all “maybe just some nice homemade apple cider for this little muffin”
Orin: fucking liberal snowflakes, no tolerance for the kind of drugs taken by real men
Orin: in my day, drug tolerance was something we avoided with titration to get ourselves at the minimum viable feelgood vibes quotient, because drugs were expensive, and we wanted to save enough for later. we took the drugs home in a little doggie box. that’s what we called it too. and you know what? $0.06/capsule, no wonder you’re having trouble. you can’t appreciate how much the damn things costs to smuggle on a high-powered speedboat up someone’s ass (just to be extra safe), because your drugs are too legal.
Orin: fucking communist dirtbag poloshirt-wearing rubbing-broken-glass-on-you-genitals newswanker
Orin: you probably read on Facebook that it was bad for you and now you’re going to go vegan because hot dogs are made from discarded pig vaginas
Orin: well I got news for you, bra-burner, the pigs aren’t using them anymore and it’s not gonna bring them back if you stop wrapping those luscious lips around America’s juiciest footlongs
Orin: Amyway, duck Trunp