Tag: Airbnb

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Dream Journal

My Own Island, Faraway in the Ocean

An artificial island in the South Pacific called Rularilalani island a.k.a John Connel island (the name is breaking up, as is the island). I bought it with Bitcoin and last visited in 2014. It feels like a celebration when I finally recover enough to go back. It’s tiny, perhaps the size of a street corner, covered in lush decorative bushes on two sides and browning salvia plants on one side that doesn’t get the correct sun. Almost like a tiny 18th-century square in New Orleans, dropped here far from civilization. Underwater I see the island is shaped like an upturned sand castle bucket, dropping away into the deep. As tiny as it is, by using solar energy and an (hopefully reliable) internet connection, this place can be a real home now. I swim in the sea around it, and I repeat a warning louder and louder as a coral snake swims toward me — us? Not sure if someone else was there. This dream persona doesn’t feel quite like me.

Gazing at a hamster in a birdcage. Though now I consider, it looked more like one of my pet rats.

An Airbnb underground, multiple levels built into dug-out ground over a long time. On the wall is a joke diagram showing it going all the way down to the water table, and Earth’s outer mantle. One house is on the corner, the place the owner first lived here, a small home with a real door and shelves and plumbing etc. Another place, more recent, is a more industrial-looking vertical shaft situated on a thin strip of lawn between the street and a faceless building. This is the auxiliary AirBnB, somewhere only guests would stay.

Categories
Dream Journal

Hot Vampire, Bedroom Rain, Hardware Construction

A vampire demonstrates some of his heating powers. First round isn’t too hot, then he has his girlfriend back up. Guess he’s a Twilight-kinda vampire, having someone called a girlfriend and all. The next time he glows bright red. This is a family entertainment show, and I remember thinking how rare it is to see people just comfortably naked (on TV). Someone brings up the idea of using the ultra-cool morgue refrigerator to keep them chill, but aren’t sure if it would kill them.

I spot my 92 year old Grandma walking away down a grassy sidewalk. I try to say goodbye to her as she leaves a gathering. Though I’m myself, fully grown, I still feel like an infant, like it’s still the 1980s, like my relationship to her has never changed.

In the smaller of my childhood bedrooms (second night in a row, here). I’m letting rain run down the walls, dripping from the white “cottage cheese” ceiling, flooding the hardwood floor in an inch of water. My original bedroom had neither that ceiling nor that floor. I remember to peek under the bed and inspect the spot where floorboards are cracked and missing. I reflect that I’m 36 and still live with my parents, gazing at my mannish arm hair. While I don’t precisely feel like a loser, I also don’t feel like someone to be envied.

There’s a hardware store under construction across the street from my home. It’s replacing a leaky warehouse where the second floor temporarily housed my favorite art store, SCRAP. Climbing down from peering over the wall, I notice that an AirBnB there has placed a painted post outside, horizontal rings of dull green and red. It’s a crude wayfinder for helping guests, and I’m sure unlawful, but the longer I look the more I admire it — and the matching ring-shaped gate made similarly. Crude, yet beautiful.