Dream Journal

Peering at Yard Prettiness

At the edge of a very wide artificial pond serving a fish market, I pull out a special creature. A frilly fish that I know belongs in an aquarium. I have to take it somewhere across a barrier, perhaps up to another pool.

Helping at friends P + S house while they take care of their baby. While I’m there I idly volunteer to take care of the backyard. I have a moment where I’m distracted by the lovely light teal color of the painted fence, the perfect color contrast it makes with the stubby plants growing along it. It’s strange thinking that a landlord painted it such a nice color, but then again it looks like it was painted in the 50s or 60s. Walking through the backyard, I shake a tight bundle of tree branches which is laid on the grass and set it upright. It’s like getting a witch’s broom to stand up straight.

Peeking out of window of my childhood bedroom, I observe the nicely-built brickwork in the front yard. There’s a half-barrel for a fountain, and behind that the neighbor kids play next door. Reflecting on how I’ve been privileged by never having had to move away from this house for my whole adult life, but that’s it’s also constricting to have to still fit into the same space.

The window has a warped shelf in front of it, and I set down a wide milk-glass bowl on it. It predictably tumbles to the floor, landing oddly on its edge, and leaving a distinctive symmetrical chip.

There’s a shiny holographic plaid sticker which I examine, turning it side to side. (This marks the transition to wakefulness.) Moreover, train authorities can swap your luggage out on the train car if they need room at any time — which makes the service useless. Connected with the sticker somehow.

Dream Journal

Thank You, Ursula

I’m proud of my accomplishment. I’ve set up an observation post overlooking all ten delivery sites in a lake, at the only spot on a ridge above that has such a vantage. Everything is set up for when those happen and I can walk away.

I’m contacted at my unlisted number by a mysterious girl. I figure out that she hacked me, but I put off responding until I can hack info on her, to respond in kind. This is a delicate thing, and she could become a love interest.

In a brick alcove on the side of a street I encounter a “Tweet 3D” training kiosk, with little floating panels on a laminar sheet. I already know this futile attempt at a new feature will fizzle out soon.

Going to attempt retrieval of stuff stored in a USB combination locker, from back before the Ukraine war started. We had all been worried things were going to escalate much worse. I’m then waylaid by a (very) former friend Kate W. who traps me with accusations. But it’s relatively easy to parry these accusations and discern that she’s stalling, waiting for my long-ago roommate Emily W. (no relation) to get here, as they are in fact now roommates. While I’m arguing I notice their many pet fish, kept in Tupperware containers on the shelf below a big CRT TV. Normally I’d love to ask about these fish.

Instead I see Ursula K. Le Guin sitting in a chair on the other side of the room. I pointedly change my attention to her, and take the opportunity to give personal thanks for her works. I mention “Always Coming Home” especially, and say that it counts as one of my favorites — even though I’m not through with it. Ursula congenially answers that that’s fine and appropriate even, as she never felt like she was done with it either.

Dream Journal

Out-of-Aquarium Fish, Psychic Baby Moment

At my kitchen table, the fish are swimming outside of the aquarium. Classic dream image for me. One fish bullies another into synchronizing their movements, which is entrancing to watch. From out of the aquarium, I lift out a curved plastic support to help a baby turtle out of it — a tiny little miracle which gradually coalesced from particles shed by the fish.

While I’m flying surveying a wide cul-de-sac, I watch as a rabid giraffe stampedes across driveways, a dilophosaurus one of its victims. Like a whole zoo went awry.

In another dream, I am introduced to a tousled black-haired baby, and lay my head on it. The longer I lay there, the stronger I feel the familiar feeling of a psychic link — the same feeling you get looking into directly into someone’s eyes. I pull back suddenly, startled by how strong this feeling is.

Dream Journal

Sleeping in Backseat of Borrowed Car

I’m outside my childhood home on Kemper court, trying to get my scooter over the fence. This is behind the family room, the narrow walkway. My green vintage Vespa ends up just a foot or two into the neighbor’s yard, and I unlatch the side gate and wheel it over the front path. I notice a garage freezer among the gravel landscaping near the house, door hanging open, chugging hard to keep cold — so hard that I smell melting plastic. So, it’s the first dream where I realize the house belongs to someone else now.

The neighbor’s house on the other side has a Starbucks running out of it now. I note this curiosity to my homepie friend Lauren, since the road construct “court” or “cul-de-sac” is more formally termed a “starbuck” (at least in the dream).

A big gym or theater, an enclosed space, flooded at end of year for cleaning. People can now float around in three dimensions. Varieties of ocean life shows up, one is a species of fish that leaves a trail of blue pigment. I share this info with the crowd, as a vast school swims through, turning the water almost black in places. I also half-speak/half-chatter nearby my third-grade crush Christy T. about my secret and considerable knowledge of drugs and/or sex. I slyly offer her a giant pretzel from a jar as I snag one myself… she takes it, and we’re both rather pleased with ourselves.

The performance stage club at one end is flooded for first time too. Lauren had worked there before — at one point she doesn’t recognize me and so I respectfully abstain from pursuing sex within the club (no surprises for anyone). Go there again with Lauren on a waveskimmer, dipping a paddle ahead of us, cutting water to steer. Lauren unlocks a crypt off to stage left, a heavy metal door. The way it latches, she must squeeze through a smaller secondary hatch. As she’s getting out I read an unnoticed sign above instructing to smell for lisp gas (?) first, as there could be decomposition. Geez, it’s actually a crypt!

Dream Journal

Broken-Foot Buddha

Palace of flags, maze of interlocking metal gridwork platforms with flags hanging down. Taking certain flags and letting them fall to the understory, where I see them crumple. Los Angeles vibe with big, distant sky.

Baby puffer fish (which are also baby rats) let out of cage/tank by glass sliding door near the bottom. Timid explorations. Central Europe, maybe Germany, floating log in lake I jump over to get to rocky shore.

Giant Buddha statue with broken foot. The toes are small and conical, curved upward. The statue is holding spoons and forks, balancing bags in front on it’s arms (perhaps backpacks hadn’t been invented, perhaps this encourages mindfulness). The statue is supported on it’s sides by the massive rock face. I move the foot back underneath and it fits nearly perfectly, but I’m informed the statue might still collapse on it.

Public gathering at a dining/entertainment venue similar to Medieval Times. Dave asks in front of the crowd what I’m drinking from the bottle next to me — it’s some really lovely homemade kombucha. A young FTM transman realizes they’re surrounded by female friends, and it’s the trust they’ve always wanted. The friends surround him in a tight hug.