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Dream Journal

Lap-Straddle in a Castle

Being dropped off on the prim green lawn in front of a stately stone boarding school, one topped with turrets and full crenellations. Certainly looks like it was originally built as a castle.

I explore the curiously spaced interior with a group of friends. Seems the castle will once again change hands as it’s for sale (why we are able to check it out). The semi-underground basement has a messy unfinished feel, splotchy white-on-white paint. Attached in the middle of the ceiling is a narrow, multi-sided cabinet which I open and amusedly inspect. There are so many different types of soap in there — and only soap — we have a good laugh speculating on reasons why you’d need such an extensive hoard.

While I’m in a kitchen-y corner of the basement near some sunny windows, I receive a phone call updating me of some new people arriving soon. Soon I find myself lazing on a long rumpled couch in a slightly sunken living space. I lounge together with my crush and a friend of hers, hanging out and chatting for a long pleasant spell. She informs me they used to date but are still good friends and that certainly seems true. At some point without preamble my crush rolls over to straddle my lap facing me. This is clearly playful but also experimental; I mirror her playfulness by grabbing her hips. The joy at each of our reactions shows the experiment was a success. It’s a happy moment and a relief, us both taking initiative like that.

Conversation flows amiably along until I realize the topic has veered into something to do with mourning. My crush shares a story of something she lost. As my absence goes on a bit longer than it should (after I’ve finally figured this out), I become pressured by an incongruous and ill-advised urge to say something “important”. This lands with a predictable flop — from which my companions must afterward fumblingly recover the conversation.


I awake and recall the lap-straddle incident frequently during the day, with understandable fondness. I write not a word of the last paragraph until everything else in this dream journal entry is done. This should give some idea of my mixed feelings for it.

Categories
Dream Journal

Parking Lot Shower & A Car Named Felony

Naked, in a coin-operated shower, in a parking lot, without glasses on. Phone is on the soap tray. I’m alternately wearing a shirt or pants, washing one area at a time. I see a group of plainclothes cops walk by and start preparing arguments in my head, concerning this being private property and the property owner losing money if these showers weren’t here. They pass me by as if the arguments were a forcefield.

I meet Lindsay Ellis who has a new convertible she named Felony (unexplainably). I swing above and around the parked car and we get to friendly conversing. But while sitting at a long wooden outdoor dining table, something I say or do shuts her down. She excuses herself hastily and drives away. My wife and I puzzle over it together; I lament that I didn’t even record the conversation.

I run out the front door after strapping on my paramotor flying machine and I’m airborne in a few seconds, I even see her car make the turn at the end of my street. But I never catch her and the dream ends.


A fancy diamond ring. The appraiser comments “I shouldn’t ask how you got this”. Two large studs sit on either side, with rectangular chunks shifting between them, rotating and moving in and out of alignment. It shifts before my eyes and the big, flat sides take on a tiger’s eye gem-like chattoyance — then its aspect shifts again, altering itself into a large, expensive house, the flat chunky side becomeing a fake 3-car garage. It’s a neat trick which fools buyers into thinking the house is worth more than it is.

Categories
Dream Journal

Security Line for Fat Statue of Liberty

I’m climbing up a Statue of Liberty — a fat Statue of Liberty, which may or may not be someone’s art project. Very shortly after, I’m going through a security checkpoint. I look at my ID through a paper towel on a desk, the bath towel around my waist falls off and I ask Lynae help me. I end up falling on my ass, but it’s damn funny so I don’t mind.

While still waiting in line, Chinese-speaking ladies are like “oh good he’s south Chinese!” and starting asking me about dinnerware. I answer by going on a little pontification about sentimentality, and veer into a dissertation about a gravy boat my mom hand-chipped when she was six years old.

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Dream Journal

Grandma Australian PM tours Medieval Monument Valley

Slept at a couple friends’ home in Oxnard, CA

In a familiar communal velvet plush gathering space, chairs and windows in an oval, I talk with Patrick who is a week out from graduating high school, very bright and proud. The building is long, with conveyor belts in the workshop/basement open to the air, reminiscent of the Acme Bread Co. Unfortunately an old sorceress grandma has recently put herself in charge. I’ve no recollection of why she was evil, but my co-conspirators and I concoct a plan to overthrow and kill her. I shapeshift and sneak over the back fence. My disguise seems to fail on the way down, and I land naked in a puddle. Luckily the enchantment only gives me the illusion of failure, and to others I appear as a football (the most similar object that would make sense coming over a fence and landing in a puddle). I’m thrown by a conspirator to nearby the witch/sorceress/grandma and successfully trap her face in a plastic bag.


My wife’s late grandfather, Pa, sitting peacefully on a chair in the middle of his old living room. Grams sits on his lap, both gazing at something I can’t see. They’re having a fond conversation, and although I watch their lips move, I hear nothing.


Malaysian news crew leaves a 200 ft. folding ladder in our student news studio. Of course, this is a great temptation for my lads and I. Later, on my way somewhere else, I climb a similar fire escape ladder. A bubbly, distressed blonde runs up and hugs me, surprisingly warm, then effusively apologizes for mistaking me for her close friend who regularly climbs that fire escape.

On the city’s jagged, street-level highway there’s a single minivan going the wrong way, but the cars manage to drive around it as though it were an extremely temporary one-way lane. Later the same thing happens while I’m riding a scooter on a one-way street, an entire line of cars that were diverted, with no notice from our direction.


Australian PM has a special rule, 612, where she can reject things based on being a grandmother. A door displaying the news is marked 612. Sitting around a table, Lynae gets up and a made-up but world-weary Asian girl sits in her chair. Despite the possible tension from bringing up politics, I solicit opinions by sharing the analogy of an internet response code, ‘4xx – machine on fire’. The Aussies seem properly amused. A newsstand reports “PM unhurt by nip dip”, and I learn this refers to the particulars of temporarily banning high-priced smart devices. Australia, after all, is the country exporting the raw materials to make them. Unbeknownst, the PM was sitting at the next table over, appreciates my gab, and takes me on a local tour.

The semi-arid town seems generic — there’s a central roundabout, off to the left is the industry, upslope to the right are short flat houses with fenced-in yards. In the distance is a chunky green promontory, much like Monument Valley USA. As we drive closer I see stunning medieval-imitation towers, ramparts, and fortifications. I can’t even fathom such artistic means, or their intent. This is what the area is famous for. I’m so awed by the beauty I begin to doubt its realness, even telling the PM it looks like a Myst game. This only exacerbates it’s majestic quality. Against the golden dusk light, the elegant stone buttresses on the far side of the hill spout waterfalls, the leafless trees clutching spherical mud-daub treehouses. Yet nothing degrades into unreality, it simply remains repentantly beautiful.

Categories
Glot

Conversational Snippets

I’ve been using Trillian Portable less than a month. Just to give some idea what I’ve been talking about, here are some random, mechanically selected excerpts:

  • trust me, its not true, if its true, then my weight is not 250 pounds
  • $5 for the Charlie McCarthy grass-skirted weirdo
  • i am teh pwnzores 4 lyfe
  • so I’m watching the GET video of last year, some of the way through, I post the entry regarding all the kite-killings there last march and link to the Al Jazeera…
  • have you considered a moustache?
  • hey there Mom
  • which is pay for my flight, and once ive finished my contract with the agency in 2 months, they will up my wages from £5.60 to £7 an hour
  • cool! I thought I was the only one who carries their life in their iPod

That last one’s really appropriate, since I actually do carry my instant messenger in my pocket, on the iPod hard-drive… as well as my browser, my image editor, my bittorrent client, and of course my bad-file destroyer.

I expect educated guesses as to the identities of those messenging/messenged. Messenged is not a word.