Tag: killer

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Dream Journal

Velociraptor CEO, Star Wars Bumper Cars, Matthew in Charlottesville

The actress Jessica Barden is a velociraptor, locked in a room with a CEO. This is set to happen over 3 days but he’s clawed to death by the second day. A whole day’s headstart to go on the run. I peek inside the chamber early and get to see my old friend Kelly G. naked, in profile, silhouetted against the background. I always did think she had a great body.

I’m rewatching bumper boat scene in Star Wars and it looks startlingly cheap; they should let George Lucas remake it. Certainly looked like a lot of fun they had making it in the 70s. I love the space they filmed in, a massive dusty off-white room with ceilings so high in the middle you can’t see them, but dim areas beyond the colonnades where old machines rust into bits. Maybe it was bumper cars, but then again maybe it changed.

Taking apart RAM from a computer to put back together, but it looks as though it’s been hollowed out. A big chunk in the middle had been removed underneath where the heat dissipator would be. I think this can’t be repaired; don’t know how it could’ve worked in the first place. Maybe it didn’t.

An extended visit to our friend Matthew S. at his home in Charlottesville. Or perhaps at least a place near the Charles River, a long low bridge we cross together with him driving. Is it named after King Charles, that one who the English beheaded? The right colonial time period. Maybe this city is near Baltimore, somewhere on the East Coast at least. I’ve hardly ever been on the East Coast so I can’t really intuit. Driving around I get a strange impression of more noticable cultural differences. Even the stores, the street corners, the taxis give a more conservative impression than I expected — just not in the way I expected. Beyond the car windows things have a grey/brown cast, but bright, like they never had color they could have lost.

Later I’m seated at a lecture next to my wife somewhere during our visit. She asks the first question to the presenter which is uncomfortably something like “what is your position on gay?” I tug her shirt hem, frantically trying to reel her in, recognizing that our “California-ness” is utterly the wrong tone to move any hearts and minds here, knowing how we must look to these dingy generic townsfolk. No effect, but perhaps someone saw me and at least saw that I realized this.

Maybe this was Canada actually? Nah, that doesn’t sound right.

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Dream Journal

Surviving the Apocalypse with the Crab People

Waiting under a tree for the apocalypse to be over. I’m mostly in denial about it, “it won’t be that bad, or that long”. I’ve stockpiled soft drinks. One night, I must I hide inside my neighbors’ converted rest stop bathrooms, plastic panels enclosing it from the wind. I just barely close the doors while a killer cop stalking the neighborhood searches the place. I manage to lock myself behind the supply closet door. He kills everyone else.

After that, I decide living away from [former] civilization is safer. I hole up in a country house in a small coastal community isolated from the damage of society. We’re glad to have no idea what’s going on, we just see the consequences — like a massive locust swarm passing through one day.

Just…doing iceberg things…

Our jungle island becomes an all-male commune. In the center stands a statue of a crab, whose long, colorful, plastic eyebrows I pose into a cartoonish expression of anger. It’s the same place as the restroom, years later. The “Crab People” chant starts up in my head. I show a video to a fellow commune member who reminds me of Vince Saunders or April Arcus, a video I shot just off our shore of a baby crab person. They watch, reflected, in a crevice-shaped mirror embedded into the hillside, scratched into squares. I leave via the narrow café on our northern exposure, eating a lone lost French fry left on a table.

In the backyard of our property, a steep pine-covered hill leads up to the neighbor’s building. It’s somehow the last address on the street, without any street leading to it. They yell down at us trying to get some kind of assistance. We gather around the backyard pond, someone leads us to shout their name all at the same time: “Hot Chocolate!” Thus amplified, we proceed to pack up their deliveries, and I trudge up the sandy slope.

I expect it to find a vineyard-like rich-people estate of stone walls, but it’s more of a spacious modern apartment tower. I carry two deliveries in oversized Munchery bags. Ring the buzzer of apartment 517, just around the corner from the actual door (confusing, a bit). It’s Dav Yagunuma’s place, and he’s pleased to see me as it’s been awhile. My other delivery is for a game design studio, the door covered in hand-scrawled notes. It’s the studio that makes the Myst games. Suitably puzzling, they have a peephole on their door labeled “channel” and a note saying if you wish to “alter the terms of your entranceship” look through the peephole and figure things out.

I never looked, but somehow I know the other side was like a steampunk café/lounge from another dream, 2nd floor catwalks, leather benches, Don Bruce in fine regalia. The riches of old San Francisco, perhaps.