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Dream Journal

Last Day of A Sliding Rink

Using a location randomizer, I find a quirky convenience store that sells a kind of orange liqueur I used to like a lot. That section has several brands, this one is Hawaii Rind or something like that. Standing next to the different orange-colored bottles I can vividly imagine the taste, far sweeter than what I would want to drink now. The store has an indescribably nice vibe though, with twisty little aisles that you can see over. It has a homemade feel. Novelty items are interspersed with staples like chips, nuts or candy. They might actually be playing Boards of Canada over the speakers, the walls under the high ceilings decorated with oversize posters and zany memorabilia.

I watch several videos tagged at the store and their entertaining. One starts because a guy films a screen which dispenses a humorously malformed Muslim prayer (intended as a novelty keepsake) but the moving sidewalk he’s on keeps moving him till it abruptly ends, the rubber printed with an oddly-worded warning not to let shoes get sucked into the conveyor. He immediately rounds the corner and sees someone wearing toe shoes, broken into four segments instead of the usual one for each toe, made of vintage brown leather. Looks like he’s writing with his feet. The guy videoing starts making the sound “brother, euhhh” like the meme, but realizes halfway that — no, those are leather gloves on hands — so it becomes “brother, euhhhoooh”. The cut at the end of the clip gives an impression someone took care to trim the end for good comic timing.

While I’m browsing the clerk makes an announcement that today at 8pm is the last chance to get something from the store. I’m surprised, but I’ve happened to visit on their last day of business. I would like a keepsake, I admit. Sitting down, my face reflects on one side of double doors to the kitchen — the door has a cutout of the mayor, so that you get to imagine yourself in charge. That’s partly how I work out that this place is in Chicago, as it’s Chicago’s mayor.

I pass through to the store’s back area which is used as a recreation space for parents and their small children. The floor is of highly buffed smooth linoleum. Using a single run-up I take a very long careening slide. Quickly I learn how to lean to steer, how to keep my momentum going, how to playfully dodge the many families in the rink. I’m really quite good at it. But I promise myself that I’ll only do this one excellent slide. I know they’ll be closing soon, and I know it can’t last forever. That makes it count more somehow. Soon enough, the end arrives. I’m one of the last out — or no actually, the last one. The sun changes into a nostalgic gold and tints the grass verging a nearby stream. The arena is then folded up into a compact object that resembles an upside-down table. I’m granted permission to take documentary photos of it, hoping one day I might replicate this design myself. I certainly enjoyed myself. There’s something difficult to photograph though, a distraction of some kind…


I wake up very early and find this dream quite pleasant. Unusually, nothing else seems to have woken me up. I couldn’t get back to sleep.

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Dream Journal

Chamavada & Friends

On am open field or a rooftop, I see all sorts of photos of myself — taken by friends I haven’t seen for a while. My friend Dave is still the manager of our old hostel. He mentions the first manager Mindy, who was before my time. On reflection, he’s been the manager a lot longer than her, which I never considered before.

Talking to a high school friend from sophomore year, Kyle Bashore, in the stairwell of a building.

Soon I retreat to my room (this is my small teenage bedroom from middle school). In the desk drawer which I haven’t opened in awhile I find a soda-cup-shaped fleshlight device. Not that it seems sexual, it’s more just a port of some kind. I wonder if it’s mine.

It is the 10th anniversary of the time my family members threw themselves into the sea. It was ruled a suicide but I can’t remember their motivation. Also, it seems to be that they came back and are alive again? The name sounded Indian, Chamavada or something.

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Dream Journal

Old Family Home Rebuilt, Nicely

Showing some people my family’s former house in Santa Rosa. It’s been rebuilt since the fire in 2017 (this did happen) None of the inside is the same. I don’t know the family that lives there now, but they seem like they have good taste. The walls are Japanese style shoji, made of paper, light glowing behind them. I don’t know the family that lives there now.

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Dream Journal

Family Schemes, Good Date/Bad Date

My extended family has been sending me on a series of themed errands all day. Eventually, I arrive in a private back room to find them in a circle talking intensely and in a suspiciously evasive way. My Aunt Carol (my mom’s brother’s wife), by way of informing me and bringing me into the conversation, tells me this involves an elderly uncle with the last name Kilit. She quizzes me, expecting me to know it was her maiden name — he’s her brother. He’s unexpectedly fighting the stipulations of an inheritance, which somehow threatens money for the whole family. The whole thing seems purposefully overcomplicated.

I take leave of my family and wander into an adjacent closed restaurant. The bar is riveted metal, the lighting dimmed, a liminal space. I find I get along well with several staff who are there preparing for evening diners. I feel comfortable among the relative poverty of the employees who sleep in hammocks slung in backrooms.

Moving onward, I go on a date with a girl walking together down the street. While she’s behind me and I can’t see her she lifts me into the air — surprising me with her ability to take me flying. We survey the countryside. I observe a timelapse of how plots of land are drawn, then grouped together, such that there’s always a house. Some houses grow as grand mansions while others remain farmsteads. It depends on the land, and less on who lived there.

On my second date with the girl I’m kept waiting in her room for some time. She wasting my time (and hers, in my opinion) railing a less attractive dude just because he’s newer. Many random visitors drop by. One pops in and says “is that what I think it is”, gesturing toward the closet. Turns out he’s here to acquire heroin. I nope outta there ASAP.

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Dream Journal

Fragment: Redwoods Spiderman

On the exam on the last day of school I have a series of very intense reactions, and very intense answers to the provocative questions.


Swinging from redwood tree to tree like Spiderman, I chase after two items being carried by Latino families. These are the last two remaining, perhaps from an earlier dream. I see the families on HUD and can track them with ease.

During a quiet moment in mid-swing, I observe a hawk flying past.

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Dream Journal

First Visit to Russia, Photographing Derelict City from Peninsula

Journeying in Russia for the first time. Exploring a little on my own, taking lots of pictures of signs and beautiful worn-out stuff. It’s strange to get around as I can’t read the street signs, but I memorize locations (I think about this as I take photos, which I will later geotag). It’s bright out and there’s a lot to explore. I can remember being on the airplane earlier, perhaps this is still on the first day.

I lead the rest of our large family group out on a flat rocky peninsula to see this cool derelict industrial city on the horizon, hyping them up telling them it reminds me of ancient ruins. On the way there I even realize it’s translated as “Stonehenge” on one map. The sun is starting to get low in the sky and although we’re walking slow (because it’s a group) I reckon we’ll be able to catch the sunset over the city, which means some cool pictures.

I’m having to carry the cage with my rats Spork and Puff, though luckily I can use magic to teleport it. I set it between rocks near the end of our trek… but continue to worry about it. I encounter the strange realization that we have both a rat named Puff and a newer rat that we named Puffy, quite unintentionally.

We’ve reached the end of the peninsula and are gazing at the beautiful dusk skyline. As I’m taking picture after picture I notice the curve of a Russian freeway nearby on what must be a causeway. A motorcycle buzzes past and it seems like there should be many chances to photograph it, but I just can’t get my focus correct in try after try.

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Dream Journal

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.)

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Dream Journal

Roman Bricks, Zoo Friend Desk

Walking along a seaside path of ancient bricks made in the ancient city of Manchester. The bricks were cast in prehistory, but completely removed, sifted, and replaced in Roman times. As an archaeologist this makes me sad (so much we could’ve learned) but at least the bricks are still there. Grass grows through them, the sky is dark and overcast, and salt spray is in the air, but it’s peaceful and quiet.

A Volkswagen drives up to a sphere at a turn-off of the brick road. It dumps bricks on the family car parked there. This is some family trip with my mom and dad, I delay us by having to stow my cases of cherry soda under the table in the RV.


To enter Cleveland zoo — or Columbus? — you pass through a short-walled entrance into an enclosure with loose animals that might attack you, leopards, gorillas. The next area for guests is large and open, with tacky safari décor, but everyone immediately gets in a line to wait. We eventually get to the line’s front at the zoo assistant desk. The counter person is our friend Chloe. I don’t think we’ve met her before in this dream, but we can be openly friendly and she shows us a special brochure the attendants keep under the desk. She flips through the pages speedily — some seem to have explicit diagrams comparing animal mating vs. human mating. I comment on how cool this is, but only get a “hey, keep it down” expression in reply. Chloe then pointedly resumes the default assistant-guest script.


Atop a hill or ridge I dig through a trash pile against a short cinderblock corner wall. It’s mostly nice lightly-used furniture since it’s so close to a new upscale development. The impersonal row of buildings looms over the narrow plateau; I head over. It gets very quiet as I approach the hotel. The café’s gimmick is serving a bowl of big beans with a big spoon. A charismatic shyster tries to use NLP on me while I eat, but doesn’t say give me anything I want to open up for. I end up trying to give him an empathy lesson instead.


In a different time, a different dream but a similar hill, I gaze out on a hillside toward a stepped stadium, and the dusty hill leading down to it. I put my motorcycle boots on to leave.

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Dream Journal

The Kid in the Apartment

Escorted inside an elevator to be shown it’s “particular” controls. The up button causes it to just keep going up until someone presses the down button. But, you also must time it such that you hit it on the floor above where you wish to land, and it will then descend one floor.

A Mormon family lives on the floor I shakily arrive at. They have a younger boy, shaved bald head, playing alone. I’ve been called to help this family with this child, as I possess a certain way of talking with them, a way of perceiving their true motives. He tries to manipulate me, a technique he’s practiced on all his family.
His powers I consider extraordinary. This is rare, but also dangerous for everyone around him.

I smash his toy as a gesture, a test, but though he clearly understandz, he shows hardly any reaction. This child (if it truly is a child) is preternaturally self-controlled. Beyond many adults. I think I recognize it, and so name it: a Psychopath.

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Dream Journal

Body Snatching, a Tricky Family Role

It’s a big budget music video parody shoot, on the caliber of Saturday Night Live. The gag is that there’s too many words to fit, lots of nonsense scatting and repetition of catchphrases. It has to be cut early because the singer’s pun of “pear of genes” has been ruined by colored pineapples in the background instead of pears.


I’m a speedboat valet, participating in a training program which shows how to correctly give up your life battoning down doors during a hurricane. I’m with another bro-type dude, and we later sink together into a tumultuous sea giving each other fistbumps.


In Asian-feeling apartment quarters, taking possession of bodies, and playing different roles. An Uncle Iroh-like character from Avatar: Last Airbender. Taking a body and talking to my real-life aunt, but though I need to accomplish a task, I suspect I’m failing to play the role well enough — she may begin to believe I’m not her sister, my mom.

A load of cookies on the stove, the recipe includes letting them float in water to seal in flavor. I have an internal argument with the mom-spirit, where she keeps insisting how I’m doing it wrong. In faux anger I pretend I’m about to slap a stylish black girl with silvery metallic bangs, but she reacts somehow the right way. So I ask her why she reacted that way, and she answers, sensibly “because I thought you were going to slap me”. I say, “if that’s the way you reacted to me about to slap you, you reacted correctly, because I didn’t slap you.” Hmm.