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Dream Journal

Egyptian Hallway Art, Archeology Property Snafu

In the hallway of our home I notice Egyptian art hanging on the walls. It’s been up so long, nearly since we moved in, we’d just about forgotten it. But, what to do since I realize it’s there now.

Tall hexagonal barriers (maybe like the shape of coffins?) contain a flow that fills up the hall like a tank. I can’t recall what substance it was, but I feel like it wasn’t a liquid, but an actual everyday thing.


A shack in the middle of a pasture that serves as both museum and archeological site. Spending my days in dusty careful study without electricity, I’m part of a small group of young people dedicated to its special care. A respectable older man, my teacher, has spent years of his life creating it.

By way of a simple legal trick, a younger female (possibly an estranged member of our group) gets the property line reassigned. We are forced to close up the building and shut the gate till the legal wranglings are sorted through. Knowing the site is in danger without care, I sneak back in one sunny afternoon. I just walk back in. No one stops me, no one seems to even notice though I walk down a gravel road in a broad field. I start to feel the people involved and obeying the law are acting downright foolish.

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Dream Journal

Late for the Wagon Wheel Waterpark

Spent a good long time at a waterpark. Dara V. is there. Somehow we miss a bunch of activities, and so I agree to meet her again the next day. She expects me there at 8:30 am for some reason and I’m trying for hours to get motivated out of bed, receiving intermittent texts the whole time, but end up getting there by noon anyway. I expect her to be grumpy about the whole thing, yet she seems inexplicably unperturbed when I finally arrive.

I discover, in an area that’s part of an archeological exhibit from before the waterpark was built, a busted-up wagon wheel. It has only four spokes left — an arrangement that resembles a rhombus. I know it’s a valuable artifact, but I end up putting it inside a large glass of Coca-Cola and the damn thing dissolves like a tooth in a science fair project.

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Dream Journal

Ogliamelanschmertz

Ogliamelanschmertz — a word that sticks out from this dream, no remembrance of its meaning.

I’m reading a story I wrote, through car speakers, about a letter addressed to African American survivors living in the Great Dismal Swamp. The US Postal Service sends in a young Russian guy and there’s a documentary about his incredibly difficult efforts, during which I see first-person through his eyes. The expedition finds a glossy, smooth, rusted iron cookpot. It’s a splendid find, but it’s as far into the story as I got. I ask [dream] Lynae and she says honestly she doesn’t think the story has much merit.