Dream Journal

Dental Office / Photo Box Date

In two days, I have two dates at a dental office. It’s with my friend Dara (whom I used to go out with). I’m obviously more touchy-feely compared to the other patients — it’s a strange situation as I wouldn’t announce we were dating (Dara never thought of it like that anyway) and who goes on a date with a dentist multiple occasions to work on one’s teeth? I can’t remember if we made out at all, what with all the work being done on mouths there. Weird thought.

Inside a white office drawer under a counter, I find a drawer full of photos. I make it my task to clean them out. Unclaimed property and all that. I almost disrespect the person by default for leaving all their memories for someone else to deal with — then again, I don’t know the circumstances of how they were left.

I’ve been dealing with photos for awhile when I find one taken by Dara, one that was mentioned. It was taken at a seashore with craggy spikes, flamingoes, a 1950s wood-sided family car. Different areas of the photo are shown as I turn it in the colored lights — the flamingoes in the corner only show with the pink, for example. This is how I know it was the one mentioned, taken by Dara.

After doing the work with the photos I come into possession of an old blue suitcase. Not by my own choice, in fact — it was practically thrown at me. There’s a small group who are plainly coordinating with one another, trying to pull a scam of some kind. With feigned nonchalance, I’m asked to read aloud the address handwritten on the inside of the suitcase. It’s in Chicago with a zip code that someone insists “checks out”. Though I’ve been aware of there’s some scam, I’m starting to suspect it’s an actual curse — something that has to be passed on to an unwitting host.

I perceive, beyond just the curse-related suitcase, that the layer of fabric lining a nearby fence is named Malcolm (a very human name for fabric, isn’t it…).

Dream Journal

Not So Haunted House

Staring at monstrous face, like the Pan’s Labyrinth pale man or tentacle-faced Davy Jones. It’s supposedly my Dad’s face but I remember it as being oddly still. I reach out to touch it, coincidentally Lynae is sleeping towards me and I awake with my hands over her face.

Wandering through an autumnal neighborhood, there’s a strange abandoned mansion next to a stepped ice hill or pyramid. I sneak in through elegant Art Deco Gehry-style (or Mucha-style) windows. On the white-carpeted central stairway I easily overcome a barricade blocking off a craftsman-style kitchen, a barricade with elaborate written warnings. The house, even after you leave, is cursed to put you into a personal hellscape — a tortuous existence meant to frighten others from temptation. But the curse is that you are “just ok”, forever. It’s a curse of moderation and I’m content to explore ice mazes and sloped game-courses with friends and strangers. I’m… totally ok. I suppose that’s why it’s not such a great haunted house.

Later, inside a big building run by a friend, I discover they’ve made a cozy dark hostel with a tiki theme. Many errant reviews of hamburgers start showing up in my dream backups (just completed that job late last night). There’s Rick’s snarky comments from Rick and Morty, too.