Tag: driving

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Dream Journal

Big Cult Weekend

Attending a cult weekend in a big, barracks-like compound that still has charming old-world angled streets. After you arrive you’re given an assigned room to stay in the whole time. Your room is your affiliation, like belonging to a noble house.

I drive an old white Buick to and from the location — it’s one of the most faithful cars I have ever driven in dreams (though never real life). I don’t usually drive “vintage” cars, but I get the comforting sense that I happen to have the perfect temperament to take care of a car like this.

I find parking somewhat close to a workshop where Chicken John is working on a big project repairing an old steam train. From an aerial view, I see that only it’s front fits under the roof. The train, as beautiful as it is, might still be rusting.

On the last day of the event I’m wandering the cobblestone streets of the guest houses. From one of the wide and scenic street corners, I peek into Ani and Sarah’s dorm room, everything laid out like a painting. It feels like everything that’s happened has been longer than it actually was; it’s really just been a few days.

Reveal of the great hall with portraits of old leaders papered over, symbolizing their end of power, missing since their time — that’s how leaders end here. Brad Bramishe type (from the movie Brick) as a “Mitred God” getting covered in gold necklaces and jacket, gradually cast as more corrupted, sacrificed when the group wants a new start. Supposed to be a microcosm of society.

I watch from my bed and catch the neck of a stuffed brontosaurus moving as I wake up and conclude it’s sunlight-based. I have a doll of my college girlfriend Jenna M. and realize I could have sex with it, moving her body around — she’s still in there somehow (like a poppet maybe) and I wouldn’t be doing this if anyone were around and I weren’t already feeling uncaring/nihilistic. It’s useful but not something I’m proud about.

Traveling in group of three to find an ascension exit, like a stairway to the next level. A ruined street running parallel on a slope, maybe like Brooklyn. We reach a potential stairway hidden in a graffitied outbuilding and that’s when my companion chooses to accuse my other companion, the cook, of theft during their cooking. It’s a false accusation but she is expelled and in the next area we can fly.

Riding on a bus, perceiving myself as one of the older ones, observing eternal travails and dramas of the new twenty-somethings. I envy them, despite how obvious and stupid their mistakes. Running into two friends as I move toward the front of the bus.

Overhead tram passing through an indoor art installation. The youth are still going. I am sitting down at yellow paper cafe, at a table with a single foreigner, with menus folded like bread paper bags around vinyl records.

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Dream Journal

Dump Truck Crush & Dance Restaurant Escort

Riding my motorcycle in front of a dump truck, crossing an intersection somewhere fancy like Palm Desert, where I went to college. And crossing it again. rest in front of dump truck driven by woman I’m interested in.

Waiting at a sushi restaurant early to serve as an escort on a date between two teenage girls. I wait for a long time but come back 5 minutes before they’re supposed to open. There’s two videos one can watch while waiting, I click on the one with dancers. This actually seems to begin the evening’s dance, an elaborate version of a Chinese traditional dance. Ah, so it’s a touristy dance restaurant. One of the girls whispers in my ear. It seems loud and profound and visceral at the time, but I can’t recall any of what she said.

I have an easier time now remembering to remember my dreams; it’s basically my last stage of sleep. But today I got a little sad, realizing that I was done dreaming and that was it. I didn’t get as much as I do some nights, and what I did wasn’t anything particular. And I didn’t even remember the interesting message whispered in my ear. Hm.

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Dream Journal

Roads of San Francisco

I’ve taken charge on handling an absurdly tall Victorian mirror (measuring over 8 meters) which I gently lay on a long sheet. I’m in what appears to be my parents old bedroom in the house I grew up in. While I’m very careful and never break it, it’s so long that it flops about end-to-end like a giant semi-stiff ribbon. I imagine the kind of Great Hall where such a mirror might even fit; a grand old San Francisco mansion on a hill perhaps. Echoes of another dream: a house of tall rooms curving along the outside, a slight hill, flowerbeds and iron fencing, perhaps converted to a hostel.

Using an unfamiliar route through a posh neighborhood of large homes, I notice two particular large buildings. My eyes are lead upward as I appreciate their distinct old timey theme and quaint names carved on the outside. Though one is clearly meant British one Frenc, they fly opposite flags. Perhaps what were once embassies have become private homes and the eccentricities of wealth. The street becomes more crowded just a little ways on, with tourists. I realize I’ve become turned around and am headed north toward the bay and I’m near Fisherman’s Wharf. I conclude that the buildings are now explicitly to service the hordes of visitors, though in what way I don’t know.

When driving down a roadway I become trapped in a line of cars which must turn around due to an unlabeled street closure. Very useless and frustrating. When I finally make my way out I find an official riding a horse and inquire/complain. The portly bald private contractor (I remember looking at his face) says the city allowed them many more horses than signs, which is why he’s riding a horse. There is no further explanation.

I have to take a road through a poor neighborhood where we once considered getting an apartment. I spot the place, with its janky plywood hillbilly door still exactly as it was, a scraggly old punk character smoking a cigarette outside. The neighborhood is just like this. It’s what they’ve allowed to be built here. The only thing you can get to across the street is a cheap FoodsCo market — which has very similar plywood scaffolding draped over it’s entrance. The place feels crowded and neglected at the same time. The most efficient way to leave this part of town is actually with a shortcut through a private parking lot. And, as you’d expect, they can decide to close the gate or restrict access whenever they like. Truly, what a shitshow this place is.

I’m diverted down a rural route through the hilly and less developed middle of SF. I pass a row of square little slope-roofed cabins which are rented out by the zoo like Airbnbs. Beyond a frail chainlink fence they sit on stilts above a slow marshy creek under eucalyptus. This is the first time I’ve actually seen them, and I immediately decide I would one day like to rent one out, maybe have a trip weekend there.

Riding in the backseat of the family SUV with my dad and brother in the front, we park in a dirt lot in a little isolated development on a side road in the boonies. I’m consulting my map hoping we can get a brief walkthrough, but I declare that I’m not sure there is a path through the private property fence… just as a girl in black sunglasses and dark hoodie strolls past, rather demonstrating I’m wrong (and that my research is ineffectual). Shortly after, while clambering over rocks I realize that I’ll need shoes. My legs are so dirty though from some mud earlier, I figure I’ll have to find a place to rinse if I have any hope of keeping my shoes clean. I’m afraid now it’ll be a whole thing.

[[Unexplained note: wife 4 guys, Corey B. 6 guys, but when is there time for me?]]

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Dream Journal

There Went the Neighborhood (lot of cooking in this one)

It’s the first day in prison for a “The Joker” type character. He’s older, finally skidding to a stop after years of getting away with it. Resigned to finally giving up public mayhem, and fading from public fame. Escorted across a tall prison courtyard structured around catwalks by single elderly guard played by Jim Carrey. And then hosted in his home like a guest, surprisingly.

Proceed to cooking dinner of eggs and ham in a single pot. It’s styled after the show Kitchen Nightmares, which I’ve never seen actually. The cooking takes a long time, and the timing isn’t easy to get right. All the while there’s the gloomy vibe of being inside a big reinforced concrete block.

Driving a borrowed SUV near my hometown of Palm Springs. Veering off along the way into a little cul-de-sac of dumpy houses, I attempt to drive up a steep berm and take a shortcut across a boring rocky plain. Instead I’m immediately flying a small airplane, demonstrating for my wife that they aren’t hard to fly — or maybe that even though they’re not hard, they’re still practically useless.

I discover a phone in my pocket, rubbery and square-cornered and slightly smaller than mine. Only then do I remember how happy I am to have this spare so I don’t have to put as much wear and tear on my normal “good phone”

I don’t know how we got together, but I’m driving Eileen H. back to her secondary home in Santa Rosa. We used to be friends a decade ago — I babysat her kid many times. Now we sit parked in her driveway finally catching up. In front of us there’s kids playing and crawling on the façade of the house, which is decorated with graffiti. In the course of getting out of the car I find two similar-looking USB sticks in her middle car divider, noticing that they have the wrong cap on each. Helping her by swapping the caps back correctly gives me great satisfaction somehow. Across the street, there’s a house on the lot next door to where my parents’ old place would’ve been. The house is smoking profusely. I happen to know this is normal, for this house at least (just some problematic cooking habits of the residents)… and yet it’s a bit unsettling isn’t it? It’s very obviously reminiscent of a wildfire that swept through the neighborhood 7 years ago. I ask Eileen what happened to her home here back then, and she answers that it was just fine, actually; the fire didn’t get that far. But my parents’ house, which burned down, it was… Right. Across. The street.

I’m programming. Trying to place correctly a code block dealing with Chinese police. Am I dealing with the Chinese police, or does the code block have something to do with them? Then I wake up imagining my wife has cooked with a wok, and I’m eager to scrape it out with a spatula. It reminds me of a dream… but none of these. Ironically, I forgot that one. Whatever it was.

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Dream Journal

Meeting the Rust People

I’m suddenly awoken by my wife barging into the bedroom, asking if I’m asleep. My fight-or-flight is triggered and as I lay in bed calming down again I can recall much, but I fall back asleep and what I recall is: wooden pegs partially painted blue clatter noisily from a row of horizonal posts where they were attached. (I fall asleep around 10pm and this happens around midnight.)

Serving a crowd of fancy folks out on a balcony overlooking Las Vegas, maybe in the Luxor pyramid. Speaking slowly up to it then ingratiating myself as a servant; meeting people like Trump and Boris Johnson.

After talking with Trump he leaves via my living room. I come out afterwards and see the shocked faces of my unexpected guests, my old roommate Emily W. and her friend I don’t recognize, waiting on my couch. I briefly confer with a series of representatives from tribes of widely different people, including the a male/female pair of Rust people who pursue a specific variety of magic. The discussion concluded, the slightly scaled-down duo flip sideways down into the couch and vanish through a portal.

I spot a dedication sign at the entrance to a random town in Florida simply saying “books & my wife”. I infer this as a clear if esoteric reference to supporting Trump, something fake-ish he said in response to being asked what he’d want on a desert island. A little ways on there’s a homey sign on a cabin with a charming curse of “by Meatloaf’s Mother and the Queen Of Sheba”.

Right before I wake up I’m playing a GTA-like game with simple accelerate/brake controls. Driving as a little old black lady, I just try to round corners as normally as possible.

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Dream Journal

Strange Forms of Water in Coves

Observing shapes of water in a bay from cliffside above. A lighthouse or dock sits amidst what seems like turbulent waves, which coalesce into nearly vertical walls of water rising from the estuary floor. They form sophisticated mirrored patterns. An informational picture-in-picture appears in the corner and I scroll around a wider view, examining the next cove over — where the shapes are less grandiose but more distinct. The sharp outlines of the PIP really help discern the unusual forms, which are mesmerizing.

Riding in the backseat with my dad driving down a road in Palm Desert. A tiny bit on edge as I’d normally be driving myself, but I’m handling it ok. We round a slight curve and he has to brake hard and quickly merge out of the left lane as there’s a wicker bench in the road. Briefly I mention how lucky it is he was only going 22 mph, the same speed I choose to go on that particular stretch. I volunteer to get out and move the bench aside if he stops at next place to pull over. But that’s a country club, and instead of just stopping by the side of the road in the little turnout my dad drives around their big complicated parking lot for a bit till I tell him to just pause. I jog along under some lush overhanging foliage along the outside of the road, mindful of cars that could be coming. I realize I’m not fast like I used to be, and the turnout was pretty far from the bench. I finally round the bend and see it’s actually a parked car without even blinkers on. The task now changed, I dash across the road to see if I can find the driver. I do, on the second floor of a weird little ski slope store. Despite much patience on my part they seem disinterested in even listening. I realize, oh, this person just feels entitled — I can’t rationalize the problem to them because they don’t care about other people.

Running airline tubing in a long narrow kink club space where I work/volunteer. I remember the first time I went there, the entry corridor (made up of personal side rooms for storage/changing) seemed to take forever to walk down; now I barely notice. While fixing something in-between the gate and the front door I get locked out. I was half-expecting this so I’m not stressed, I just climb carefully over the old corrugated roof, taking my time. Spot landlord of the building down ina courtyard and pause, not wanting to meet him. Thereafter, examining the tank, I decide we can’t have a keyboard in the aquarium despite that it looks pretty cool.

Special event room with bunch of kids partying. It’s like a home movie night, with pull-out beds in a bleacher stand configuration, popcorn and snacks provided too. But it’s a small space finished in bamboo, smaller than 10′ x 10′, and I consider the COVID air problem. There’s a nitrous dispenser stocked on the bed, but I’m not going to point it out to the kids — one of them seems to know, and calls it a whippet.

Not long after, I’m cleaning up a couch in what is kinda the top floor flop pad of a hostel. It mirrors the previous space, but I can’t say if it’s the same. I manage to dislodge an old plate that’s been wedged into the cushions for a good long while, discovering in the process it was put there by someone I like. Although I’ve done a great job cleaning the couch, if I report this find I know my bearded and newsboy-capped friend might get in trouble.

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Dream Journal

Three Wines: Hard, Mineral, Spicy

At the end of an unpaved road in the desert, dunes on either side. Searching for a spot to park and sleep in the overland SUV. Up a short side road is a private campground, but they’re full of long term RVs after recent redevelopment. I get the impression people aren’t even staying there.

Viewed from above, I survey another hilltop location once a vantage for scenic stark beauty, recently built up with houses. A bit of the outback lost to civilization. Overpriced houses, packed tight, the parking all in the center of a cul-de-sac. They cite new houses right up against fences built the year before, knowing the residents only work in offices nearby and couldn’t care less.

We leave the end of the dusty unpaved road, passing through a rough-hewn log gateway — something you might see built by the orcs of Warcraft, yet having the semblance of an old English gallows gaol. We’re waved on; everyone here knows us. Past this point the car accelerates, as if on a track, rocketing toward a towering city. Sooner then expected we pass under vine-laden bridges and all manner of infrastructure. It’s so sudden that while I’m zoning out looking at an apartment building I’m struck by the baffling thought of just how many human lives are now within my eyeline.

An unexpected bit of FOMO while camping at an event that occurs during Burning Man. Cited on a hill with acres of underground bunker to be explored, dirty, dangerous, and wild. A total of ten levels. I’m warned that the lowermost has toxic mud that can get tracked up when trod by the unwary.

Sharing a house with longtime roommates. The suggestion of renovating the walls comes up while I’m off nearby playing on the floor, and I notice that behind each of the wall panels — and I deliberately check them one by one — is pressure treated wood. We couldn’t replace them if we wanted. I’ve been quiet for a while and wait for the opportunity to speak up, hoping I needn’t wait too long.

A man is hoping for a new income stream by advertising his well-trained dog as a performer. The dog is loyal and easily performs for the scheduled entertainment industry boffs who’ve come to scout for talent. I’m pleased to watch him do so well, but understand there’s only so many roles one dog can get; he will always still look like himself. I can already imagine the man (who reminds me of my cousin Ricky) pushing his dog into more absurd and dangerous stunts with the goal of getting more business. I can imagine it getting bad enough to border on animal abuse.

Ensign Tilly fakes her death at an airlock. She lands underneath in a metal rack.

Three wines: hard, mineral, spicy. No explanation left of this detail, a curiously distinct detail nonetheless.

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Dream Journal

Not That Crush

I’m sitting in the middle front seat of a car, my former crush about to drive. I use the seatbelt of the passenger seat to strap down a glass quart jar full of salty saline, quite content with the result (the jar is possibly related to some nice homemade drug that the group of us were working on and enjoying earlier). The girl gets weird about it and I gesture upwards to large round pods hanging from a nearby tree, which she picked today along with the rest us — for just this purpose. I ask her rhetorically what she thought we were going to do with them.

While we converse the car starts subtly, unnervingly rolling backwards. Suddenly it’s over the edge of a cliff,! We’re in full freefall watching the cliff recede! After several seconds of watching the overhead gap of pine boughs grow smaller and smaller, I realize there’s no bottom — we can just fall backwards forever. The view of the gap overhead will recede infinitely, and we can simply enjoy the sensation of falling. Essentially it’s just a ride, a fun ride.

Dining in a white hexagonal room separated from the main building with Mickey. Sleeping in an armchair in the common area of a house rental. There I remember a dream I supposedly had earlier, about my college girlfriend transforming, disguising herself as this wizard girl I know… Plarvolia.

It’s early light in the dawn hours now, and I hear Plarvolia puttering in her room’s closet. Through my narrowed eyes I watch her going about her morning-time business, inspecting scattered evidence from the night before. She draws near to me laying half-asleep in the chair; I close my eyes completely and still clearly perceive her moving about the rooms. Only when she leans over me in the chair (mockingly, I perceive) can I discard my pretense of sleep. At this point some heavily playful flirting happens, near kissing and the like, I’m still undressed partially from sleep. Now I can’t remember the room assignments.

It takes a long time before I remember that I was simply recalling a dream from earlier. On reflection, I don’t think this is Plarvolia — I think she’s still asleep.

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Dream Journal

Big Old American Car

Huge classic American car with rows of comfy seats. The driver’s chair is, conveniently, behind a late night TV talk show hosting desk. But front window is (inconveniently) a small rectangle through another room from that seat. There’s hardly a safe way to drive this behemoth — despite being rated as relatively easy for the time.

I’m driving the beast around, having to pass to the right of stopped car at an intersection. This is only made possible by piloting the massive car via remote cameras.

I noticed that there is a garage sale, a thrift shop on side of road. this makes me think the town is like Virginia City. Memorably, there was an outdoor thrift stop in Virginia City which got snowed on while I was there.

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Criss-Cross Causeway, 777-11-21

I encounter my crush topless in my backyard. She has no nipples though, a smooth flat chest. From context it’s completely unclear if this is a normal state of affairs. It does tend toward disconcerting for us though. Over the course of our conversation they manage to grow, though not returning quite to normal — more like odd unpainful welts in their place. Meanwhile, a party three backyards over continues to rage on (a strange detail is this exact thing was happening as I went to sleep).

After travelling along a causeway, in a car with my male family members, we pull into a gas station. My turn to drive and I immediately pull around and run over the curb at the corner of the pump. Nearby there is a famous but struggling restaurant, Jalisco Taco. They’re known for the great human contact of the restaurant setting. Not so great during the pandemic, obviously.

Young Patrick leaves the little coupe, and inside we examine a map marking out where we’ve been today. There and back again across the causeway, also showing what sections I’ve driven. A feeling of being young and uncertain about what I was supposed to accomplish.

I receive a call from a relative on my dad’s side. The caller ID has changed from a very expected 18626 to the mysteriously intentional-looking 777-11-21. (I feel like I never used to dream of specific numbers, but this was very distinct. I have no impression of its importance, but it was certainly a number tied to an emotional reaction.)