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Dream Journal

Retro Store, Tree Sacredness: Zinka

[ Zinka is a name that pops into my head during the process of remembering and trying to sort though the night’s dreams. I’ve been having difficulty motivating myself to write and publish them, as my own obligations have grown tiresome. I manage to both remember, write them down, and publish them. A noble effort I hope. ]

The landlord next door has cut down a tall tree with a chainsaw, piece by piece. All that’s left is a tuft at top. There must’ve been some city order as my landlord also just chopped down some plant cover.

By chance, I come across a new Amoeba records location. They’ve relocated it into a janky space that used to be Aquarius Records. Hand-painted artfully decaying banners hang over different sections of the store. Bins of music are stacked on retro acrylic shelving. Something about it is like the original GAP store on Ocean avenue in SF (though it was long before my time). They kept the bohemian charm but increased all the prices for the bourgeoisie. Reminds me of New York City in a way. As I’m coming round a corner, over a metal railing, I chance on the beginning of a three-way in hot tub. The two guys never see me, but I almost make eye contact with the girl — which feels intrusive, though I never get a bad vibe. I coolly direct my attention elsewhere, but know that whoever she is, she knows I saw everything.

I’m stand near a steep dirt-sided cliff, in the vicinity of a sacred tree. As it happens, a line of witches is coming back from a ritual and has to make their way up the hill. For a moment I worry I shouldn’t be there, but just as quick I’m able to do a random good deed by helping give a hand up the scrabble-y slope. The witches realize this is passing chance, but I earn their favor nonetheless. Smiles of many women.

In the retro store I find a vintage two-button Tetris game device in a plastic case. It’s quite fun to play around with, though you have to smoosh your fingers hard to actuate it. I write a note in pen for the person it belongs to, thanking them, when they hopefully find it again where I left it as found.

Short stumps of trees skid across long patches of dry grass, among sparse trees of a forest gulch. I realize people are whipping them with some degree of skill, making them seem to jolt across the landscape. The whips are long and it’s difficult to imagine how quick they must move.

Visiting one of my family member’s who’s living in my old college dorm, maybe my dad and/or my brother. He mostly sits at the computer in one room while I’m there. He’s divorced now, and I’m a bit irritated to discover that he’s using up all my candles. Not even enjoying them, just forgetting to put them out. I peek in bathroom mirror (I seem to almost get confused or lucid; can’t remember now why this detail was important). Outside, near the lawn and the parking lot, no one seems to notice the clear tube coming from the dorm’s window — though big enough it’s for multiple people to slide down. I look for a moment into a basement stairwell, which my family person has been down to the first level. I knowing there are actually three floors there. And not used for anything pleasant. I have the fortitude to go all the way down, but I have the sense not to desire to.

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Dream Journal

Dord: Abbreviation of Density

An unusually intimate experience with density, by melding inside layers of a substance. Understanding the thickness of a substrate, then coming up a less dense surface layer. Watching how a new member of SNL is playing a person good at darts, or temperature. Understanding how this can replicate the circumstances from a famous murder mystery case.

Dord, a notable accidental word added to the dictionary during the 20th century, is my odd gateway to finding this experience. It was meant to be a reference to an abbreviation for density, D or d.


A camping trip up a hill. A tram takes you up in a loop, with the station dropping you off along the length of a tree-dotted ridgetop in a long cycle — if you miss your timing you could be waiting for it to come back for a long while. It’s scenic and sparse up there, reminding me of some places in Arizona. I’ve just completed an outdoor class I was assigned as part of my work (this isn’t entirely a vacation) and now have the unforeseen opportunity to take the next class. The professor, who I know, is going to share an in-depth presentation on love. I have a short time to decide and I’m very tempted…

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Dream Journal

Cabooses on the Next Hill Over

Wearing an elaborate bird-themed costume in my uncle’s basement (it was his birthday the other day), I take a break from a footrace. There’s a panel near my knee with a USB cord. It snakes out robotically, but gets stuck between me and my wife. We’re spooning each other, as we are in bed as I drift out of sleep then back into it.

In a crowded urban landscape with small hand-built homes. In a conversation with several friends from grade school (Robby, Christy) I interrupt when I spot a caboose made into a house on the next hill over. No one seems as excited as me though, but I interrupt again a few moments later when I spot two more.

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Dream Journal

Forgetting the Unforgotten

Flirting with a friend, Naomi Most, asking if she still loves on Blatrero — a silly pet name for her residence. She raises a Puck camping trailer from the ground floor on a circular platform with a spiral winch.

I happen to later visit her while she’s not there to drop off some keys. The door, which is locked, has an open wall right next to it so I just reach around and place them just inside, still feeling oddly like I’ve broke in.


A few crony political leaders are in a pool. They need to plot, but lack a secluded spot to do it. Reminds me of old Chinese court ministers, who had to wear long bars on the back of their hats so they couldn’t whisper in meetings. The only possible place these guys now have is on the top of the hill, where the pool snakes upwards (in defiance of gravity). One scolds the other feebly.


A long sequence intricately weaving around the song “Unforgotten” by Canadian indigenous singer Iskwé occurs, and I wake up with it my head, but ironically I forgot most of the dream.

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Dream Journal

Remembering “Say the Thing”, Parking My Truck in Mexico

An island of scrubby brush and dry dirt. Camp Tipsy-like event of a gathering of friends goofing off in the water on junky boats. Twice someone locates a submerged set of “black eyes”, two large stones one can stand on in deep water off the pier. As he does it the second time, I’m clambering up the pier ladder, thinking about what Chicken yelled at me during a performance, “say the thing!” (reminds me of Varrick in Legend of Korra.) Back then I thought I wasn’t remembering something, but I think I realized it may have been a cue to just say something funny or catchphrase-y. I scoop out three tiny googly eyes floating in the dark water. The sun is dim, sky is twilight, and we’re leaving the pier. Debris of a wooden shelf is sticking out of the dirt near the end of the pier, it’s sharp little carpentry hooks ready to snag. I shove back and forth to dislodge it and one or two friends pause to help.


I go to retrieve my truck from where I parked it. This is Mexico, on a pleasant tree-lined urban residential street running down a diagonal hill. Sliding down the side toward it, I look downhill and notice the name “Billy” written on the slope. The drainage channel there has gone a bit crooked. I scoop out the dirt and straighten it out, but I immediately notice the water now flowing much too fast. I try to correct it, then absentmindedly return to my truck. With the keys in my hand at the door, I notice this is NOT my truck. I turn around and notice that (since I parked) a car has been parked behind and to the side of this truck, unnecessarily blocking any traffic on the street. Indignant, I scoop up a bunch of dirt and spread it all over the hood of the car. I then turn around to get my truck, the only other car on the street, only to find this truck isn’t mine either. I instantly know it’s been towed and I’m in for hours of bullshit, equally instantly am I infallibly certain that I parked it legally. Something has gone very wrong where I parked, and I don’t know where to start with figuring out what.