Tag: abandoned

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Dream Journal

Port-a-Potty Stabbing Samurai

Entering an abandoned hospital in the future where there are much fewer people. We’re here to scavenge parts, including an alarm clock block of wood. In the bathroom, I have a strange feeling of understanding: I’ll be one of the last people to know what a place like this was before the fall. In the bathroom, I imagine finding a hidden wall panel to go through a secret corridor, a way to escape the ward — the kind of fantasy someone I would have been trapped here would have, the kind that one day won’t be understood anymore.

A samurai race: one samurai leaves the starting line early, chasing the quarry into a port-a-potty. He stabs his samurai sword strongly right through the middle at first, then seems to have a moment of reflection and genre-savviness, realizing his victim would probably kneel to avoid the strike. So he then thrusts the blade diagonally down into the porta potty, likely killing the victim (who was seen to enter). It is never confirmed, though. The race was scheduled to start at dawn, but the other samurai remains asleep at the starting line. The winner hopes his opponent will not notice his cheating.

A magazine from January 2005 features a light green background. It’s eye-catching, seemingly an intentional misuse of chroma key. More to do with it that is now forgotten (I used to be better at leaving myself hints… hmm).

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Dream Journal

Ferry Boat Findings

Just got back from a long journey home. After a while, I realize I forgot my bags on the multi-level ferry that dropped me off. Unexpectedly, I have to swim all over the delta looking for it… lots of houseboats and channels to get lost in, and weirdly, Israeli spies.

Following up on leads, I’m getting closer and I know it. I’m the neighborhood of Chicken’s boat (Chicken did actually have a boat in a Delta that I worked on, but this isn’t it). The boat is a scrappy mastless pirate-ship-looking thing sloppily painted light blue. A young man approaches in a barrel-craft and I negotiate with him for information. The ferry is hard to find for good reason, so it seems. It’s been parked for some time on a disused secondary level of a channel. Once I have that hint, I can find the local address and bootstrap my way into going there.

When I finally find it, it’s suspiciously gone downhill, fewer passengers, maintenance neglected. The crew seems nervous, too. I discover what’s been going on: trapped onboard is an unkillable giant cell, a non-sentient entity like the astral spikes in Control. They’ve been keeping it in the boat’s hold, or basement as I think of it, for some time. When I encounter it, it’s recently drugged by the crew. I help by wrapping it with duct tape. It’s immortal, so this is only a temporary fix, but I think it might actually work.

I’m given surgery to help my heart. Confusingly, it was placed a little too high. Maybe I have two now? My heart is excited to wake up, so I do. It’s an odd feeling, and I’m not sure whether to be worried… but I wonder what it means.

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Dream Journal

Decaying Mansion, Full of Falls

I’m staying over at the big fancy house of my friend Tracy in Richmond. This isn’t her real house, but a cavernous, fading, historic mansion with at least six stories. I find myself sleeping on a bed at the edge of one of the high atria. I catch myself at the edge of the bed one night, about to fall over the edge (luckily I put my travel bag next to me).

I learn of the forgotten story of a three-year-old boy who once fell from a height in that same atrium. The kid had become trapped in a decorative curved alcove, something looking like a luxurious conch shell ornament from the 1920s. This oddly dangerous decision was built along the smooth, carpeted ramp on the floor just below where I had been sleeping. He was saved by many firefighters who held a very wide sheet across the entire floor. The boy did fall, finally, into the rescue sheet, still asleep. Of course he wouldn’t remember it — despite the high drama. Yet one reason it was forgotten.

I like to explore the structure since I can’t move back to San Francisco, where I actually have stuff to do. I sometimes find little wooden square vents high on the walls and climb through them, just to have something interesting to do. Certainly no one else is bothering to explore the structure.

One day I find a gold mine. I discover a large unused space, dreaming of what I can do with it: a cafe, a clubhouse, a performance venue. Tucked away in the back corner, I discover a deliberately manufactured scary animated doll puppet, specifically designed to artificially frighten others into avoiding the space. It’s immediately obvious to me that this is a deliberate act of deception, and I quickly realize that I’ll need to persuade others to understand that the situation isn’t what it appears to be. However, it’s also the reason why the space remains freely available. Despite this, it’s also just another forgotten thing in the mansion.

When I first woke up, I remembered different dreams, the dreams I had just before waking. But when I found this one again, I stayed stuck on it. It was more enjoyable and interesting, I suppose. The others were totally forgotten in the process.

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Dream Journal

Building Inspection Plarvolia Friendliness

Visiting London. Picking random stop, to check out how average people live. Walking around the block wearing a bright blue poncho, which happens to be the exact uniform of a school nearby. Someone mistakes me for one of the schoolkids and I have to point out the logo on the side of my hood. London is in a much steeper valley than I expected, with parts that had to be leveled flat and interstitial slopes left unbuilt — this gives a terraced appearance.

Inside a neglected industrial building, I inspect the many floors one by one. While in the dim former stairwell or elevator, I encounter Plarvolia by chance, not really realizing it’s her at first. While carefully examining the dappled moldy walls, newly decorated with art, she mentions working on something to help with a virus. I immediately but subtly pick up on it, responding by mentioning the exact name (which could’ve been Epstein-Barr or Tay-Sachs) — as it’s something I’ve been working on too.

Soon, we are in shared company in an open communal lounge on one of the floors. The furniture looks scavenged, cozy, the room layout open and welcoming. We don’t talk directly but seem to mix together pointedly in conversation. While I’m sitting low at a coffee table, I remember one question topic involving proper form of a word combining “themselves” and “threesome”, which someone poses as possibly “threeselfs”, but which I jump in to say should grammatically be “threeselves”.

It is difficult to describe what happens next. Plarvolia and I are scattered amongst the group as it devolves into affectionate touching and partner play. I lean against a couch with my leg stretched out. She is moving around under a blanket with her companion, possibly a boyfriend or something equivalent. My foot comes in contact with her hand while she sits on the floor in front of him. It isn’t rejected. She seems to touch it purposefully over some time, perhaps even absent-mindedly. It’s not clear she knows it’s mine, but I can see where she is and know it’s her touching it. It is pleasant to be here in this room, with this camaraderie.

Eventually she moves my foot under her butt. This is an escalation, and well-considered. I know it’s intentional. I know she wants it there; this isn’t merely the mere absence of rejection. I can tell now she knows it’s me. Her butt is smooth and warm. I am here, with her, having made up, enjoying having bodies together — with no words or even eye contact exchanged.

I wake up peacefully 15 minutes before my alarm, reminiscing. I get most of the dreams down… minus the last paragraph. That takes me about 3 hours of stalling on my phone late at night. Even though the dream felt good, felt meaningful, it’s still challenging to feel so vulnerable about her. I’ve often wondered if she reads these, or what she would think if she did. Rationally I doubt it, but I don’t know how to feel about it anymore. I’ve lost sleep over it.

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Dream Journal

LA Cinderalla Phone Sale, Returning a Message

A gambit pays off, and after I leave a comment or invite for Plarvolia she finally responds. I think she messages about being open to meeting. I spend the rest of the dream vaguely excited and anxious how this will turn out

In the Los Angeles area I witness the rich meddle with reshaping hilly land near the coast. I decide to interview for a job available in the oil extraction industry. In the dream I’m in persona as an older black guy, wearing tall black leather boots and a blackleotard outfit. There’s some logic that this minimizes the problems of getting the black-colored oil on one’s skin when you’re a worker, so is kind of part of the job.

Through Criagslist, I visit a decaying neighborhood to but an older candybar-style phone. I look around and recognize many “Cinderella” style details on the underkept houses, fairytale roof awnings and such. The whole neighborhood was once an overly-decorated marketers dream in (perhaps) the 1950s or 60s, though it probably looked overly cookie-cutter back then. It’s obvious there was never any plan to upkeep them, and the natural tides of money and time left buildings that were difficult to distinguish between abandoned and simply poor.

I spend time going up and down neighborhood catwalks trying to conclude the sale. It’s a mess. In the course of negotiations I realize that since this is LA I don’t have an easy way to get back to where I’m staying unless the person who broght me here on the prospect of buying the phone also drives me back. I settle for a much-inflated price of $100, hoping to get back sooner than later at least.

The dream ends with me realizing I’m now the one who has taken a long time to respond to Plarvolia, much different than before. I am worrying that the phone won’t even work and I won’t be able to get back to her in time. I find I can’t get back to sleep and message…

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Dream Journal

Beast Outside Cafe, Beauty of Diner

I’ve been dispatched to check out Beauty and the Beast cafe, in a double decker bus. There’s more story before this but I can’t get myself to recall more. I pass through the entire layout and ponder what I’ve seen in a smaller area behind it, above road level. I’m people-watching, happening to see a small fancy-looking yorkie dog plodding purposefully around the corner, no owner in sight. Hm… I’m not familar enough with this region to understand whether I should be concerned and do something about it. My companion introduces me as Neil, which in this story is my deadname that I didn’t even know they knew.

I go up the hill outside, exploring further into this land I’m visiting (Alaska, I think). It’s a glorious climb. I take my first step onto late-season snow with a satisfying crunch. There’s a geometric dome structure that’s prismatic and pretty, a puzzle of some kind. Summiting the hill I come into view of a famous diner, fully as picturesque as any tourist brochure could hope for, with massive snow capped peaks in the background. It’s a ideal image of classic rugged Americana, with classic cars and station wagons nearby. Turning around, I discover something of interest to me personally, an abandoned building with a plaque outside, reading simply “Train Ruins”. Some relic of railroad infrastructure that, in it’s way, is as beautiful as the postcard-worthy diner and mountains uphill from it.

Unusually, I only got half this dream down after I woke in the morning. I had (as is frequent) intended to write it down completely, having put in the effort to remember it while lying in bed during my typical hypnogogic time. I was still able to recall *enough*of it to be satisfied.

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Dream Journal

Band Hotel Storage, Free Nowheresville Home, Movietime Interruption

I’m tracing the early crimes of Phil Spector, before the kidnappings. I’m with one of his bands at a hotel and he’s abandoned them. The realization of this is slow. Eventually I’m begging the hotel staff to help us find a place to store a piano. A staff member disappears through a reinforced metal service door, leaving me anxious as I wait next to it. Another staff member warns me to step back, and I assure him I didn’t plan to follow. Hours pass, and I sit outside at a temporary plastic table, surrounded by fancy guests, with my cheap water bottles. I’m far less dressed up, just waiting for an update on storing the piano.

In a vast industrial area, there’s a secluded courtyard with two apartment blocks, feeling like a tight-knit community, possibly in Anaheim or even Antarctica. I live in a home there for free. The layout eerily mirrors my childhood home, making me uneasy. I sleep in the room that would have been my parents’, and I try to describe to my wife how it feels to be surrounded by these familiar yet disorienting surroundings. Outside, the narrow backyard has pathways and large trees, and I spend time planning how to adjust their positions to modify the shade, having nothing else to do.

I’m watching a movie in a theater, discarding the tiny bones from my chicken snack on the floor. A greyhound dog starts bothering me as I sit in a single chair ahead of the other rows. Eventually, I move closer to the screen and concession bar. A young girl sits across from me at a cheap temporary table, chattering nonstop, even annoying her friends. I drag her by her hair across the slick floor and dump her outside, which her friends seem to enjoy, but I continue talking to her afterwards. She’s now naked, complaining yet acknowledging how she’s being a pain. She finds a scooter on the street with my old blue leather motorcycle jacket draped over it. The similarity is striking – it looks identical, and the scooter is the same color as mine, with a brown battery that doesn’t quite fit under the seat. The memories it stirs up make me emotional. The scooter appears to have a loose security chain, and its back wheel is missing.

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Dream Journal

Missed the Bus; Mother Zerg

On an overnight group bus trip. We crowd into a wood-panelled roadside tchochke store filled with various odd objects. Happening to know the purpose behind many of them, I regale my companions (classmates? friends?) about one item after another. I know at some point that I’m oversharing and being annoying, yet I’m so enjoying being an expert on something — I get carried away with it. I recall this as “acting enlightened” (whatever that means). As a result I miss the group bus when it departs, leaving me stranded after the store closes. I loiter and pace outside in the parking lot, wondering what to do, trying to reason out where I might get a ride. Across a long distance of strip mall emptiness, I make out what might be the bus, my bus, with all my people that left me here. But that could be simply wishful thinking. By the time I could walk all the way over there, they might very well be gone.

I’m part of an alien hive-mind-ish force, zerg-like, bred in great numbers like insects. As one of the exceptional males who survived, today I’m tasked with re-fertilizing the zerg mother. This is regarded as somewhat of an honor for a zerg drone — it’s rare for us to have sex. The actual experience is unpleasant though. The zerg mother stares at me with gazeless eyes, her exaggeratedly big hips meant for storing vast quantities of genetic material to make whatever brood is needed. But I am a brood — could this be my mother? Not that it matters really; we’re all so genetically alike anyway. But since that’s the case, why does it even matter if I contribute my material to future broods? I find myself wondering if I’m allowed to simply stop having sex with the empty-eyed queen. Eventually I do — and nothing bad happens. But what now is my purpose as a drone?

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Dream Journal

Mall Empty, Different Owners

Over visiting someone else’s place, a rental. I run across the landlord in the downstairs garage, with his tools out, fixing some old Victorian equipment. I quickly get buddy-buddy with Mr. Landlord since I seem to understand what he’s working on. The light in the garage / front room has a gauzy look from being filtered through dusty windows.

An aquarium sits on its side such that I can dip my fingers through where the front glass would be. Working out how to get a filter to work, I flip it back and forth over different surfaces of the water. The water remains cloudy and dirty, despite that I’m confident the filter is now working. It will just take a while to clear.

I walk all the way down the ramp of a mall lined with storefronts. Then back up. During the time I walked down many stores have closed, and the place feels much emptier. Maybe like SF’s Chinatown.

Across a mall parking lot (different from above, I suppose) there’s an abandoned store which is poorly renovated. The owners perception was it just seemed any good buyer would consider it dated. I think it looked fine, warm and nostalgic even, but they insisted on renovating it for whatever fad they imagine business owners want this year.

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Dream Journal

Glad to See an Abandoned House

Passing though a neighborhood, I notice something though thick metal fencing. There’s a charming abandoned house deep within a private lot I’ve never been in, to the right of a flat patch of dried grass. I thought it had been redeveloped years ago and was long gone. It’s just a neglected barn-looking thing but it’s surprising and nice to see it again. I take pictures through the fence.

I’ve been having trouble lately getting myself to write down the dreams. The habit comes in cycles; I admit it. Sometimes it seems like there’s certain more powerful dream that overwhelm me, make me resent how relevant or insightful they are. Often I just get sick of having so many dreams end up in the hopper (that’s what I call the large backlog of unpublished, partially-edited dreams clogging up the back end of my site — currently sitting at 376). Even though I’m aware that these are fully for me, and that I can go look though them at any time, there’s something bothersome. Perhaps it feels a little like disrespecting those dreams. I know, too, that those are remembered more poorly — the longer they sit back there, the less likely I am to review them. So I want them published. But what’s the solution? Occasionally I’ll tell myself to strap myself in and power through the more recent ones. I’ll get through 3, maybe 5 if I’m lucky. And that could happen once every few months. Maybe more. Meanwhile, it’s not a big change. Turns out I mostly don’t remember most dreams. Worse, it seems that when I do go to the extra effort to carefully document them, the memories of writing them down can overwhelm the feelings from the dream itself. Such a delicate balance.

This has been an interesting experiment, this dream journal of the last 6 years. But it would seem I’m starting to come up against diminishing returns. I need to change something. I want it to be more than it’s been.

It occurs to me, not without some savor, that I’ve been meaning to pen down some of these dream journal meta-critiques for awhile. And it was a dream of an abandoned barn house that did it…