Dream Journal

Collected Dreams from the Past Week

In the dream I’m blogging — here, on — 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…)

  • I’m on the phone, giving my friend Reecy directions while she’s in Germany
  • Lorelei is having a second baby, I’m very happy for her but unfortunately it wasn’t her life plan. Later I’m walking along the outside of a rounded fence near an abandoned area, I accidentally re-dial her and am embarrassed.
  • A biplane crashes just outside the Fartpartment, it’s an excuse for me to leave and wander the streets, and become lucid.
  • I stare at the beautiful horizon, receding infinitely into the distance, lucid but unimpressed with reality and the dream. It’s unimportant to me.

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.


Maybe I’ll Another Glot?

I’ve been getting that itch again. The itch to write bullshit that I likely will never read nor remember in this abandoned, ridiculous edifice to my past self. Something about remembering my life during the course of actually living it — something about caring what I think — something about caring what other people think.

An altogether forgettable day, today. Woke up from dreams remembered but unwritten (running past a train in the snow). None of them clearly evoked waking life. Spent time working blissfully in a free reaction-diffusion program, Ready. Thought mostly about how I wanted to redesign my blog — a blog I hardly write in, and which I have no qualms about calling a damn blog now (see how much I’ve matured?). Made a proof-of-concept using CSS masking.

For the past few weeks I’ve been feeling like I want to write in here again. It’s strange, though… I don’t want to write for anyone but myself. I like the idea of keeping dreams and diary entries. I want to have the LiveJournal that I never had when I was 18, when having a LiveJournal was a thing. As is my usual pattern, instead of actually writing anything, I manage to obsess over the design of the bloody site until I’m practically sick of the idea. All I really want is a space I myself find beautiful. I want a place to leave the thoughts I don’t want anymore. I want to be able to look back at something I like. My current spate of design ideas are perhaps best conveyed by this dinosaur’s camouflage:

This blog feels old. Lots of people’s blogs do… and I should know since I just went for a snoop around. The era when the personal blog was relevant is gone. My tech-savvy friends’ blogs are left as a testament to the brief period of history where we myopically perceived it important to maintain our own websites. Silly, in retrospect. It was only a matter of time before mass-solutions like Facebook and LinkedIn evolved to decisively address the problem of digital identity. Because, you see, writing in them is probably more important than designing them.

To you reading this don’t take it too seriously. This is me cursing out my diary, for goodnessakes. It’s something I do from time to time. I just wanted to edify something, to perma-cast the feels I grok at this moment’s happening. That is to say, this is just to say. Just word-talks.

EDIT: if you’re reading this on, you can probably figure out what happened instead!


New Taglines

I recently added a few more taglines to supplement the all-purpose, totally true, “blogs Я dum. read GLΘT.”

  1. Way too much time, I know.
  2. Yeah. I’m a sucker for free stuff too.
  3. Everybody’s got a damn blog, don’t they?
  4. Actually, I don’t have anything better to do.
  5. Self-centered American naval-gazing at it’s best.
  6. Boy, do I miss books sometimes.
  7. XHTML-compliance is a vice.

These turned out a little pessimistic, I admit. Especially since I like blogging more and more lately. I just… I wish there was another word. “Blog” used to mean the mixture of different alcoholic drinks you stole by the capful from your parents liqour cabinet. No, really—I read that in a book.