Tag: ghost

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Dream Journal

Russian LGBT, Cartoon Dog for Time Travelers

In my teenage bedroom. A river of ghosts, like a circular racetrack. From the direction of the closet someone says say “that’s us”, then two hand-carved reggae dolls kiss.

(I don’t remember what this means, but: reincarnated as ghost and as colored lights, eaten by a shark to complete the dream sequence.)

Accusing Putin of being gay due to his homophobia, but contemplating the ethics of outing someone even when they’re hurting their whole community. I think this while I’m scraping flakes and microSD cards off of my red metal thermos/cup. Congressional Democrats now have the push to reconsider a Russian LGBT bill, while I look over a box of bottles.

Still in the bedroom, I ask a future traveler as he prepares to return, “hey have you heard of the 80s cartoon — sorry, 1980s kid’s cartoon movie All Dogs Go To Heaven”? I gesture toward two stickers on a filling cabine, different characters named Union Jack: one an actual British person, one a floppy-eared dog from that movie. To prove my point, the time traveler does recognize the dog.

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Dream Journal

Chaos Ghost Derby

A railroad encircles the edge of Sacramento river delta vineyards. Slow journey. I’m a kid, and it’s a parallel journey to my flight back home after a living abroad — flying across the entire continental USA and landing somewhere in Oregon. My parent says we’re going home, to the pine state, but I check my weekly predictions and foresee several saddle & ranch-themed places and events… dusty winds from the East.

I’m a ghost, a spirit, and I’m called to enact the Destruction Derby. A motorboat near the scenic park-side boardwalk splits in existential mitosis, splitting again into four motorboats, panicking at my invisible intensity. Other boats flee into the sides of houses trying to escape my wake. After the chaos, while clothed in humanness, I witness buses driving around torn in half, motorcycles needing to be un-embedded from the street. There’s great disorder and possible loss of life, but I only do it once in awhile and I’m not me when I do it, anyway. And I’m never mean. In fact, I’m fair.

Afterwards, Betty and many other girls are being evacuated, marched out in formation. In semi-ghost form I squeeze butts & hips. New girl with them is like “and… you randomly just sometimes have a ghost feel you up after this stuff happens? HUH.”

Categories
Dream Journal

A Game of Ghost Story

Store/cafe near Disneyland, heavily themed with natural wood for an ol-time-country feel. Space is sunk below street level a bit, bright windows in the back. The whole neighborhood is a shopping district, curved downward becoming more Disneyland the further you go. Near the cafe counter, I see a few people in costumes with masks that look like Will Smith crossed with the “I, Robot” robots, featuring a glowing 20% discount over the mouth area. It’s suggestive of some kind of Black Panther protest.

I’m a successful smuggler and I’m getting out of the business. I know my compatriots will be upset, even panicked at my departure, so I leave a letter hidden under sawdust at my regular drop. It’s a semi-abandonded lot protected from the street by overgrown trees, the same hillside view as the Disneyland cafe earlier.

I drive off in a convertible with Lynae. We’re briefly diverted onto the other side of a divided highway, the broad expanse of a mountainous pastel evening desert before us. I suggest we play a game called Ghost Story — Lynae side-eyes me, knowing I know the edge of night isn’t exactly when she wants to hear ghost stories. I clarify that the objective of the game is to start saying something that seems scary, but that has its scariness vanish (like a ghost) once the sentence is complete. I’ve just played the first round, now it’s her turn.