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Dream Journal

Hawaiian Accidental Theft, Groundskeeper Accomplice

Stealing stuff from Hawaii by accident because I’m think I’m going to come back. Bored with dates for November and student activities.

A mafioso guido-type guy significantly under ranks me… by several bosses. To teach him a lesson I pawn him off on the old groundskeeper. He rambles on a tour all day long, finally grasping the importance of the orange liquid on display in its original vial. This is the actual vial of stuff that helped discover something way back in the ’50s. The old groundskeeper passes by and I throw a small hex nut pliers at him to assist in something. At sunset he allows a Thanos-looking guy to touch it. Who promptly goes mad and has visions of his brain dissolving into orbs.

Talking on the street, I admit to my dad that I have to pay to mail back the Hawaiian stuff I accidentally stole, lamenting that I wasn’t thinking when I packed and really thought I’d be coming back sooner.

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Dream Journal

On the Origin of Terminators

An incident on November 18. 1970: an unpaved side road in Japan. Gritty, tan, a little downhill and out of sight from the main road. A few joggers, maybe military, going one direction, while a vehicle travels another. The nature of that vehicle is unclear; could be a forklift, some military specialty unit, utility/construction equipment. It’s driven by a single driver who sits not quite in front… with not quite a clear view. What happens next is the subject of years of investigation and litigation. The vehicle and the joggers collide head-on, full speed, in the middle of a clear day, on a straight stretch of road, with adequate signage, no intoxicants involved… the list goes on.

I’m there to watch it in some abstract form. I don’t get the impression that I’m viewing a re-enactment or simulation, rather I feel like the scene I view is in fact better than any from the years of inquiry — that is, better than what those present saw. And I feel like I know what caused it, because in my time it’s been fixed: human inattention. My purpose in viewing these records is to write an unobtrusive message to send back in time via the obscurity of the early internet, yet an obvious warning for those looking for it. It can’t be too specific, though it might change events; this may or may not be paradoxical. But the reason I can send things back in time (and the reason this incident is so important) is that I live in a world with Terminators, a superior general artificial intelligence. In their exponentially sophisticated causal analysis, this is the inflection point where they determined AI became a priority for humanity. This is their own origin story.

I’m now in the present day or near future, going with my wife to a gathering at our old stomping ground The Dark Room on Mission street, here in San Francisco. I’ve rarely been here during daylight. I notice a curious architectural detail: atop the Spanish-style façade is a short half-cylinder crowned with a short half dome. Adorned with a mosaic tile pattern, it turns to reflect light from any angle into the shaft of a skylight. A number of people show up about the same time as us, several old SF and Chicken John friends all with large bulk food boxes. I open one that my friend Abbie brought, a heavy flat of granola bars, and snack on some tasty loose grains that got compressed inside the box. My wife reminds me (in question form) if I know why we’re here — because our downstairs neighbor Rhiannon’s mom (Mable) has moved back to the country and wanted to go in on a bunch of bulk items. Rhiannon, who worked at the Dark Room with me once upon a time, puts on one of the Terminator movies on the Dark Room’s big screen for background ambiance. This is one I haven’t seen before, Terminator 5 or 6. I find it much much more ambling and philosophical than its predecessors.

Watching the film more intently, it shows how a Terminator always was a Terminator, and as an example shows two in their previous form: an alien’s massive tendril-like ribs vibrating in a museum, and a running almost toy-like tyrannosaur robot.

In my hypnogogic awakening state I piece together the logic and importance of the story, how the mass human suffering — the all the lengthy legal wrangling, the senselessness, from this and countless other cases — focused humanity’s intentions into the creation of intelligent machines. It strikes me also that the first Terminator movies were full of fear, but the later ones I saw were musing and exploring what it would mean if the idea were made real.

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Dream Journal

Backpack fell off from Motorcycle

Riding my scooter on the freeway south down the coast of Monterey, CA, with my wife riding another motorcycle alongside. We pass the skinniest Costco I’ve ever seen, with a parking lot running adjacent to the roadside. Just after passing it, I notice my backpack has fallen off. This has been a fear for awhile. I can see where it is and, seeing no better option, I begin driving backwards along the shoulder. Some cars let me pass on the left, some on the right. I make it there and I’m relieved to see it’s held together, although it’s obviously been flattened and run over a few times. I don’t remember everything I had in there, but I know there’s a few things that probably survived, definitely not my croissants though.

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Dream Journal

Old Friends, Covering Up Accidental Terrorism

In the city, walking along the sidewalk to a favorite Mexican place of mine when a light but colorful rain starts falling. Waiting in line alone, I’m concentrating on what my order will be, rock-a-pulco and some kind of snack ball. People keep cutting in front of me though I try to ignore it, when I finally reach the counter I go to the right hand side, I’m told only the left hand side has what I want. I knew this already but I suppose I’m stressed by all the people cutting. I place my order with the smaller, narrow family-run side, round the corner benches, and run into an old childhood friend, Robby T. There’s some tension as we haven’t seen each other in so long, but eventually we make friendly and I move the big wooden tables around.

I leave headed around the back way, down a dirt trail between clusters of buildings. Riding a bike, I pull over in a clump of bushes as I suspect my GPS is misleading me. Decide I need to pee anyway, but reconsider when I spot a group of women I know standing gathered under a tree nearby. Among these is Robin, but also… Emily Wentz. Somehow we begin a friendly conversation, we even smack butts, climbing into a wooden wall alcove for a longer chat. She’s herself, but older, with the reserved energy of most middle-aged adults.


I’m one of a pair of small companion robots (like PintSize from Questionable Content), and my human/creator/master is worried she’ll be caught for a terrible crime. We revisit what must’ve happened — a fiery explosion at the top of a mountainous roller-coaster, a disaster compared to a lava eruption, crowds fleeing in panic. Although she intended no such destruction, she did miscalculate, and she feels no responsibility for the accident victims. Authorities treat it as a terrorist attack even though there’s no motive.

Moving about hastily among backyard garden ponds, we obscure evidence, knowing we’re running out of time. At this point she knows she will be caught, and is only trying to protect people who helped her. While I scratch red marks into a note-taking board (mounted on the wall, using a broad flat scraper, with feigned-purposeful arcs) one such couple speak in Italian from inside their bus home. Able to robotically translate, I understand they’re trying to decide if they can pin some of their unrelated crimes on my friend/master. Something involving a kid I think. Creepy.