Tag: contest

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Dream Journal

Light Work & Play at Family Home (After Defending from Invasion)

High atop a stadium overlooking a valley, like a 3d model in tones of grey. This is a neighborhood I’ve come to that feels foreign, but where I could imagine living one day. Maybe I’m newly moved there.

Preparing to defend a house in a Jewish neighborhood, laid out on a long curved suburban street. Suddenly the ongoing warnings are quiet and it’s the eerie sounds of just nature and emptiness. The tanks of the invaders are easily defeated before they arrive at the house, self-destructed or -dismantled, then fired on by various unlikely things (like a wolf that can hold a gun). One defender who made a ten foot knife for the battle is walking down a regular street with this giant knife in the aftermath, a sight that might cause me to advise him against it.

My cousin is 18 and fixing a computer in the open hallway of the central living room of his childhood home (this is different than the home they had in Eureka). I tell him “if I had an 18-year-old, I’d want to put him to work fixing the computer” to which he smiles and shushes me.

In the same communal family space, a girl from elementary school, Amy Naud, and my hostel friend Dave V., are the best performing two people at growing up. They complete a series of tasks that mature you along the way and they do it fastest. This hallway has long been a gathering spot — I look at pictures from years past, parties with banners, random family albums.

After carrying unwieldy stuff down a set of stairs, I miss my subway car because a clueless younger guy (supposedly on my team/group/side) doesn’t think to hold the doors for me. Of course the large raised red button outside the doors doesn’t work either.

Playing a game with different shaped cards in a single deck, like a highly-adapted Magic the Gathering. One of the older kids on my team is Amy Naud, from before, who needs to draw a certain oval card. I offer to shuffle the cards in a big pile behind my back, since then she would be able to fairly draw the card. I’m on her team and the expectation is that I might subtly help her with this. She doesn’t expect my true motive, which is to do a bit of mischief by placing all the oval cards which *aren’t* the one she needs closer to the top.

While trying to hand over D batteries to someone, I have to lean far over while doing the handoff, holding onto smaller AA batteries in my other hand to maintain balance. This leads to awkwardness as it confuses the person I’m handing them to, as they don’t understand I’m handing over each D battery separately. They try to get the AA’s and I frustratedly fall to explain my intent, as I manage to finally swap my primary hand back to give the other D.

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Dream Journal

Best One Before the Knife Dance

Sword swinging event. I get all my practice in beforehand and I’m home of the best dancers. At the last minute though I find a scimitar and curved dagger on a shelf and switch to those. I possess a lot of knives, it turns out. During the actual event I just need to pee, and I spend most of my time in a corner trying to get my underwear on. Before I know it, it’s over and they’re doing the ceremonial awards. I know I failed and never actually did the mock combat dance, but everyone watched me enthusiastically swinging around beforehand — I was the best one, before it counted. So I don’t get an award. Instead the host passive-aggressively tries to get me to sing along to a famous song I did by playing it without the lyrics (not sure if matters, but this was a Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan song). I refuse to song along for free and hover haughtily above a fence.

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Dream Journal

Tall Girl’s Contest

Back in San Francisco, riding my bike not far from my home. A new little place named The Pinocchio Cafe has opened on the corner of an odd triangular block. Usually I might wait to try somewhere so close, but I’m probably moving soon. When I decide to go in I run into my New York cousins seated at a table in a niche by the window. They’re just leaving, so we say hi then trade spots. The space is somehow even cozier inside as the tables wrap around a big tree trunk in the middle.

I notice a blue striped shirt laid over the back of a chair near the cafe entrance. It’s maybe more preppy than my usual style, but I turn it inside-out and it looks much better that way. The clothing tag is covered by the collar which makes it more comfortable than normal, even. I make an effort to notify staff that I found the shirt. An admittedly small effort, making no presumptions that I don’t intend to keep it.

A girl from high school, former classmate of mine with tall with bright orange hair and freckles, Samantha P. How we encounter each other I can’t recall. But here she’s even taller than usual — much taller than me. I vividly remember looking up at her, her looking down at me and smirking, more than a foot above my upturned face. I propose having a tall contest fully expecting no one can beat her. I do put in an honest effort though and I finally remember/come across an old SF friend Sherilyn C. It’s amazing, but she’s just about able to see eye-to-eye with Sam. Amusing, too, since there’s an obvious understanding that it doesn’t particularly matter which of them is actually taller; it’s incredible great to find someone else even in the same category. This whole dream has the same aire of friendly competition bordering on flirtation.

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Dream Journal

Cassette Cards, Big City of the Canary Islands

Middle school classroom at end of building wing, probably where Ms. Snowden’s classroom was. We’re venturing and exploring from there as a base, but my memories are now blurred. There’s a different warmth and familiarity to the room though, as if I’ve spent so long there it’s like a home. The whiteboard has kinder lighting, the chairs aren’t uncomfortable, we all face forward not for lessons but for shared enjoyment.

As part of the chores I am mucking out the cardboard box where discards are kept. I find tight stacks of index cards there, as if just deposited fresh from a box. Many of them appear made just for cassette tapes with tear-off perforations. Some even have typewriter-written labels, as if they came directly from someone’s collection.

Trying to remember where Tarzania is, a country I haven’t checked in on in awhile. Seems to be buried in Siberia east of Belarus, but maybe it has disappeared… they were having trouble staying together as a country for awhile.

Considering moving to Canary Islands in middle of Atlantic. What do you know about them? I know they have only one large city, the capitol. It doesn’t feel that small though I don’t know how I’ll feel years from now.

While practicing for Canary Islands in staying in a small brick lower floor unit. Actually my whole family, while I plan to stay in a tent just behind there — for practice, and to show I’m already independent enough to live on my own. I jump down from the end of a brick wall down to the courtyard… I realize this is just like a traditional sport/pastime of the Canaries: shepherds used to traverse the rough rocky landscape using long poles. The connection, once obvious, is auspicious.

Run across a drinking contest hosted from a street corner. Maybe still in the big city of the Canary Islands? The host informs four male volunteers that each drink is based on a recipe from their grandfather. This proves to be an obvious joke by guy #3, with the real point of the game being up quickly get these guys drunk and ask them ridiculous questions.

At an outdoor sale, the vendor reluctantly points out that I might want the sound-recording selfie stick. I remember the cards for cassette tapes I find in the garbage earlier. I awake, having been reminded that I wanted to record the sounds of the dawn chorus where I’m staying.

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Dream Journal

That Hot Pokémon Girl

A stone bird submerged just below the surface of a pond. Jumping on the stone and seeing the profile. Meant to be a cue for a longer dream, now forgotten.

Last day of school. The ebullient kids from Mrs. Plescia’s 5th grade, with the boxy confined aesthetic of middle school. After hours of games and getting up/sitting down from a desk, we have quiet time at end. My childhood friend Robby T. and I are part of the group who cleans up during it, stuff from microwaves to chipped commemorative mugs. I peek over the wooden-post fence to the road beyond, as in another dream set in a mountain prison where I planted mushrooms in a garden bed. I see boxes a boxes of supplies I’ve brought during the year, all of which I need to bring home. There is, in fact, what Robbie (it’s spelled Robbie for some reason) points out what he calls a mushroom tray, but which looks to me like a colonized mushroom tray.

An art event sponsored by Cameo W., a darkened central room with grand, open rooms branching from it. Avoidant of typical San Francisco tech themes, despite that she made most of her money from cashing out in tech. There’s a girl I don’t know, Erin Collins, who gives out loads of her self-made business cards to everyone at the event. I’m not interested in calling her on account of seeming desperate for… whatever it is she wants.

Later, though, I’m back within the setting of the last day of class. There’s a jumping contest to leap from the last railing of a stairway leading to the beach. I make impressive distance, but realize I may have not followed the rules by stepping further beyond my sandy landing imprints. The girl, Erin, makes a similar impressive showing and I realize she’s a Pokémon (!). And she looks, very, very good naked. We make out and then begin to fuck. Her vulva does this weird thing where it bulges forward, almost as if her vagina was just below her skin. When I’m fully inside, a small bump appears at her pubis. I realize that although it’s amazing to fuck someone this pretty (and a Pokémon!) I won’t be getting off as she’s missing something, somehow. She’s not getting as much pleasure as she’s giving and we can’t fix it for now. We gaze at a sick battleship docked nearby, being eroded by the waves.

Riding my motorcycle, turning onto a street like Mission in SF. Behind a group of riders on what look like scooter versions of my motorcycle, the Honda CTX. I pull off and park near Willows, labelled on the awning as “A CTX Bar”. I remember thinking how I have to be on my best behavior so as to give a good impression to the young ones.

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Dream Journal

Poly Reindeer Toy, Mayo Cult Fishing Pond

Sent by my employer, a magazine, to replace another reporter-photographer. The assignment is at a fetishist’s retreat farm compound. They much overuse mayonnaise (I don’t much remember except I expected most of our readers would find it disgusting while I only found it unhygienic).

Taking a moment, outside on a patio lounger in my long blue velvet robe which I haven’t seen since too long, I film them with a baby hippo on their arm. In the communal pond of the trailer park-like community, a man catches a smaller-than-hoped long-finned fish with extendable mouth parts, calling it “pterodac… no, it’s, you know, wing fish”. He regales us with his imagining the panic it had being drawn up from the bottom. Then breaks its mouth off to kill it. I end up in a garage watching TV with some siblings of widely varying ages, followed by a crossbow contest where the older siblings are one-by-one held back from leaving by an arrow shot just ahead of them. The youngest (a Madeleine-like girl) looks back from the door innocently, not knowing why her older siblings aren’t behind her.

A toy reindeer like something from Frozen, molded seats molded in its sides for human figures to ride. The figures are numbered “polyamorous #0, #1, #2”. In what seems an odd detail, the male figure has a 0 over it’s crotch and a female figure has a 1.

A shelf of carved and painted stone miniatures of buildings, like my parents used to have. Different eras and styles, which I rearrange to sit better on the shelf. I begin to mess with a round, very plain train layout just behind it.