Tag: landlord

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Dream Journal

Orange Bike, Moving Mess, Missed Workshop

Cleaning the orange parts of an orange-accented bike with hydrogen peroxide. It’s very orange, with lovely yellow really grips, and I’m surprised how many scuffs actually come off well. I’m reminded of all the orange Nickelodeon bumpers I watched as a kid.

I ride the bike as I prepare to take a trip to the University Center, parking it outside the garage real quick to run upstairs. It’s like four flights up, unlike the childhood bedroom I had when I was seven, which it resembles.It only feels dangerous to leave the bike outside like that while I’m briefly delayed moving things around on top of a mini-fridge — which is silly of course. The way I’ve lived, I’m constantly on courts and cul-de-sacs and other safe places. That’s what I think in the dream anyway. Before I go, I ask my brother Patrick if he wants anything from the school cafeteria.

I moved into a new, smaller place with my family weeks ago, but all the appliances and boxes are still stacked everywhere. It’s strange looking into the kitchen and seeing the blank, high white walls, knowing that’s where the stuff should really go.The space should be full with shelves and organizers, but instead all that stuff is stacked high in front of it, blocking pathways. Eventually, we forced the unpacking issue a little, asking about a specific oven box. That guy isn’t going to be here for months still, so we just moved it.

I’m sad that I won’t get to see the house with a big basement again. I realized that since it belongs to my landlord, he won’t allow me to buy or rent it at this point. We don’t get along. This was actually another dream that I had, one with a house that had lots of kitchens — there was one specific one with a big island in the center, a few fridges, which I fantasized about turning into my workshop.

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Dream Journal

Fantasy of Home Ownership

Sitting alone at home next to a sunny window. I’m drinking a beer and watching sports, unusual for me, but no one is watching, no one sees me. Weirdly affirming to play normal. An isolated snippet of dream, apparently unrelated to the rest of the night’s.

We’ve bought an overly spacious house far in the country from our current landlord. I consider worrying about him, but realize if anything goes wrong I’ll now be dealing with the bank who gave us our loan — an altogether different beast, thankfully. The only landlord foibles I’ll be dealing with now are his shoddy fixes and poor communication / documentation. For instance, I remember spotting a 1950s fridge shoved in the back corner of a tiled shower room.

Often we have multiple rooms of the same kind — four different kitchens! I fantasize about how I can convert them for various specializations. The largest of the kitchens is an extended hexagon with a large central island, already suited for heavy-duty work, a room I’d obviously love to make my workroom and fill with tools (all in their special place).

There’s another thought, though. Now that I’m no longer under as much pressure for space as in the city, will I actually do this? I got the odd sense there are some rooms I’ll probably forget about. Imagine that! We’ve been living here several days already and still haven’t gone back to the upstairs level; the last time was when we did the inspection. Having a real place of our own is different than I might’ve expected.

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Dream Journal

New Neighbor Backyard Boundaries

My wife and I encounter our new neighbor in the shared backyard. We leave some money and supplies in a small pile there, and while we’re climbing upstairs (the building is large and open-air in the back part) the neighbor gives it back. They say that it’d just be too much to manage everyone’s stuff and the landlords stuff without getting confused. I tell them that’s a good idea, and that setting clear boundaries with him is a great idea.

I’m climbing a telephone pole to avoid running into them later — it’d be an awkward social interaction — but then if I go the rest of the way up, I’d then have to tightrope walk across the power lines to get to my home… which I don’t really feel like doing either.

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Dream Journal

Fleeing in Mexico Resort, New Lover at the Piss Tent

Mexico, possibly Oaxaca, but a place which appears more like the Sonoran desert south of New Mexico. Temporarily my wife and I are staying at a complex of buildings (a resort I believe) with many areas: stone gazebo, collonade, buttress balustade wall… One very distinctive moment was when I floated over a pool whose bottom appeared painted, but actually the striped layers of natural sediment giving the appearance of a topographical map — I understood that it was a very rare environment miraculously conserved here, like some kind of placid natural geyser, and I spot wriggling aquatic coral snakes very close as I pass by (I should note this to someone, as these snakes in terrestrial waters are both rare and dangerous).

There’s a smaller property tucked between larger plots which has itself set up as a single attraction theme park, a line of tropical canopied boats on a flume track which performs a circuit underground, similar to Disney’s Pirates of the Caribbean. With somewhat marvelous luck, they’ve managed to compete with the much bigger properties around them in staying relevant.

My wife and I have been storing a trailer full of our stuff here for as long as we can, left in a sandy side area where it ought to go ignored. But it happens that we discover that my wife has to hide for a little bit from government agents looking for her. The plan is for her to immediately flee for a small labyrinth tucked away in an obscure corner of the complex and marked by mean on the map — I will meet her later after casually being found by the agents while lounging amongst a balustrade wall and stalling the agents. The plan becomes less and less viable as my wife continues watching engrossing video with me instead of leaving.

I practically sneak up to an infrequently visited door I at the end of hallway, sometimes regarded as employee-only, but I’m in on the secret today. The setting seems to be a venerable San Francisco institution, a store like Paxton Gate or 826 Valencia or perhaps the Audium. In fact I’m just trying to get to the bathroom.

I find one — but oddly it feels like a bit of the dream is missing here — the scene and setting have changed. I have no entered a tent made into an ersatz public restroom, one set up for so long people almost treated like it’s perfectly normal. Inside I find a folded-over kiddie pool full of old pee, but also gloves? Not as gross as it sounds… no smell simply jarring. Earlier I had seen and interacted with a woman outside just before entering the tent. An slightly older woman, attractive and self-determined, I’m glad to meet with her approval — she pees on my exposed leg over the cesspool of gloves and things get sexy refreshingly fast. It’s nice to be with a woman who knows what she wants, and who happens to want me at the moment. I’m eating her out with lots of enjoyment when I must interrupt the adventure to take a phone call (from my dad, of all people). I have enough reserve and I’m in a good enough mood to listen fairly well… and for a long time. The woman is so patient and appreciative of my patience also. While I listen I gaze at one of my tiny rats there in the room with us, perched in the open (after having been tracked down by me in an earlier dream which I can’t quite place). By the time the proceedings resume my wife has arrived and she too eats out the women, while I move up to suck her nipples. This is a spontaneous and welcome episode of joy.

The three of us are naked in the backyard on picnic benches when our landlord, newly clean shaven, and his wife arrive. He looks like Shepard Book from Firefly or Blameless Marad from Horizon Zero Dawn. The pair of them leave but actually come back in a minute, which I find a worthwhile breach of expectation. He begins to speak, starting with something like “nine years ago you paid the foundation of…” I accidentally interrupt him by complimenting his new look, a bit embarrassing but we have such a mood today it’s hard to break out of. The interruptions happen a few times in this way. I don’t recall exactly how it may have ended, as the tensions recently with our landlord have been high, but there may have been a sour node with his wife specifically, who’s never much talked before.

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Dream Journal

Mall Empty, Different Owners

Over visiting someone else’s place, a rental. I run across the landlord in the downstairs garage, with his tools out, fixing some old Victorian equipment. I quickly get buddy-buddy with Mr. Landlord since I seem to understand what he’s working on. The light in the garage / front room has a gauzy look from being filtered through dusty windows.

An aquarium sits on its side such that I can dip my fingers through where the front glass would be. Working out how to get a filter to work, I flip it back and forth over different surfaces of the water. The water remains cloudy and dirty, despite that I’m confident the filter is now working. It will just take a while to clear.

I walk all the way down the ramp of a mall lined with storefronts. Then back up. During the time I walked down many stores have closed, and the place feels much emptier. Maybe like SF’s Chinatown.

Across a mall parking lot (different from above, I suppose) there’s an abandoned store which is poorly renovated. The owners perception was it just seemed any good buyer would consider it dated. I think it looked fine, warm and nostalgic even, but they insisted on renovating it for whatever fad they imagine business owners want this year.

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Dream Journal

Australia is My Backyard

Where I live, we have a large and expansive backyard. It’s shaped like Australia, split into sections much like the various states, with the back of the house where the Great Australian Bight would be. But also: the backyard is Australia. It has the same features, because it’s the same place — if perhaps not in an explainable way.

A good example is when my family (including my dad and sister) visit. The travel time and distance is great so it’s very kind of them to come all this way. As we’re walking along and I’m showing them around, we all make the same mistake. We get east and west backwards, and soon figure out that’s because the midday sun is actually in the north here, not the south — this is the southern hemisphere after all.

There are portions of the dream where I replay and recall things I already know. The feeling is consistently nostalgic, comfortable, only occasionally bittersweet. I’m fondly reflecting, replaying things I already know. Australia — the island continent — formed 100s of millions of years ago from the agglomeration of several ancient island groups drifting together. They each have their own vibe and color (the memory here almost veering into another dream remembered from long back, navigating the isolated Pacific isles to the north, as if I’m on a catamaran on the colored surface of an old paper map). You can just barely perceive the seams where the land was sintered together. Those sections roughly correspond to the states, in fact.

One large area we have is a mud pond in the east, around where Queensland and New South Wales might be. It’s like a big swimming pool, which I keep accessible for my neighbors. Incidentally, that’s one thing I really like about living here, is that I can keep the space an asset for the whole neighborhood. I’m crossing the mud pond to say hello to some folks on the far side (Great Barrier Reef) when I spot a stuck turtle. I lift it over to the nearest edge and leave it there to recover, but it seems it didn’t need to be rescued. It scrambles away and dives back into the mud. I just live here; I don’t know everything.

Meanwhile I still am renting. I live on the ground floor, and the previously unused space now sometimes has the landlord’s relatives. Could be the above floor, could be an attached building behind ours. They’re having a gathering so it’s a curious time to explore. It’s not exactly sneaking around, but I just blend into their party guests. No one interacts with me. By happenstance, I find my wife’s coffee cup forgotten at a dark corner of their smooth granite bar. She does this sometimes. I know I’ll be reminding my wife to try not to leave it places like that; there’s little chance we would’ve found it otherwise.

The dream is capped off when we throw a crafting party one nice sunny weekend. There are stations all over the large backyard for making arts and crafts, our community socializing together. I squat on the flat, dry Northern Territory assembling a thematic decorative hanging with native materials like wood, arranging it into a naturalistic design that reminds me of some aboriginal styles.

There’s a memory that’s sparked, from when we first moved in more than a decade ago. When we moved in, the landlord (same landlord as in waking life, actually) asked me to break down the former tenant’s greenhouse on the western side of the backyard. (Western Australia is a big and wild place.) It was just some corrugated green plastic balanced on cheap wooden pillars, nothing that ought to be lamented. But it was so much space for plants, plants we would’ve loved. Someone worked to make that space useful and we didn’t even consider that we might’ve used it too. I was in my early 20s and had more energy than forethought. I remember having a nice day working outside, chopping down the supports posts.

There was something else that I hadn’t thought about at all till now, the neighborhood hardware store that the old tenants hosted. Stacks of tires, bins of tools and equipment that you could pop in and borrow. I don’t even know what happened to it, but I know at some point people stopped visiting for it. And there was this badger that visited every week. Big flat docile waddling creature named Mitch. We never set food out and I guess at some point he stopped visiting too.

So there’s this lament, as I realize the my artwork is becoming what I’ll call finished. Seeing how we’ve lost these nice things in the past because we didn’t even know they were things we were losing. But the artwork is done, and it’s actually quite nice.

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Dream Journal

Flowerpot Micturator, Property Lines from Above

I get a sneaking suspicion, a strange feeling to check the backyard. I just catch someone who looks like the landlord’s soon peeing in a potted plant downstairs in the corner. Though I race down, whoever he is has gone into one of the disorganized downstairs storage rooms. Even though I have access to them, I’ve already lost the trail.

From a view high above what might be the English countryside, studying the distribution of settlement. Perceive the compounding of development, long stretches encompassing multiple human lifetimes. Switching to a view the property lines, I notice a spot where the markings are smaller and crowded together, a little lake in the middle distance. The architecture is a bit strange, fitting on to misshapen hexagonal plots, catering to the whims of the wealthy who could build at such location. A modernist concrete barn with few windows cited close to a low point near the lake.

Recently, I was closely examining satellite photos of a sheltered neighborhood in my city whose streets I never knew existed.

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Dream Journal

New Ladders Up to the Roof

Wait in line to climb a new ladder landlord has installed. To watch brand new episode of Voyager on the roof. Finally I spot the new ladder below and to the side from where I expected. A kid lays down near the edge of the roof, getting fit for an eye mask. The mask glue is crunchy around their eyes and they smile. Not everything on the roof is fully done yet. There’s an area of edging of two 45° bends where I try to glue trim, fussing for a long while with a piece that is a little too short and is hard to center.

On the roof I find bag while walking and check it for free stuff. Always check these things, in case there’s something useful.

An unfamiliar homeless guy in front of my wife and I in line. He drops a quarter. Pick it up for him but he doesn’t want to take it back. I set it on the table.

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Dream Journal

Strange Forms of Water in Coves

Observing shapes of water in a bay from cliffside above. A lighthouse or dock sits amidst what seems like turbulent waves, which coalesce into nearly vertical walls of water rising from the estuary floor. They form sophisticated mirrored patterns. An informational picture-in-picture appears in the corner and I scroll around a wider view, examining the next cove over — where the shapes are less grandiose but more distinct. The sharp outlines of the PIP really help discern the unusual forms, which are mesmerizing.

Riding in the backseat with my dad driving down a road in Palm Desert. A tiny bit on edge as I’d normally be driving myself, but I’m handling it ok. We round a slight curve and he has to brake hard and quickly merge out of the left lane as there’s a wicker bench in the road. Briefly I mention how lucky it is he was only going 22 mph, the same speed I choose to go on that particular stretch. I volunteer to get out and move the bench aside if he stops at next place to pull over. But that’s a country club, and instead of just stopping by the side of the road in the little turnout my dad drives around their big complicated parking lot for a bit till I tell him to just pause. I jog along under some lush overhanging foliage along the outside of the road, mindful of cars that could be coming. I realize I’m not fast like I used to be, and the turnout was pretty far from the bench. I finally round the bend and see it’s actually a parked car without even blinkers on. The task now changed, I dash across the road to see if I can find the driver. I do, on the second floor of a weird little ski slope store. Despite much patience on my part they seem disinterested in even listening. I realize, oh, this person just feels entitled — I can’t rationalize the problem to them because they don’t care about other people.

Running airline tubing in a long narrow kink club space where I work/volunteer. I remember the first time I went there, the entry corridor (made up of personal side rooms for storage/changing) seemed to take forever to walk down; now I barely notice. While fixing something in-between the gate and the front door I get locked out. I was half-expecting this so I’m not stressed, I just climb carefully over the old corrugated roof, taking my time. Spot landlord of the building down ina courtyard and pause, not wanting to meet him. Thereafter, examining the tank, I decide we can’t have a keyboard in the aquarium despite that it looks pretty cool.

Special event room with bunch of kids partying. It’s like a home movie night, with pull-out beds in a bleacher stand configuration, popcorn and snacks provided too. But it’s a small space finished in bamboo, smaller than 10′ x 10′, and I consider the COVID air problem. There’s a nitrous dispenser stocked on the bed, but I’m not going to point it out to the kids — one of them seems to know, and calls it a whippet.

Not long after, I’m cleaning up a couch in what is kinda the top floor flop pad of a hostel. It mirrors the previous space, but I can’t say if it’s the same. I manage to dislodge an old plate that’s been wedged into the cushions for a good long while, discovering in the process it was put there by someone I like. Although I’ve done a great job cleaning the couch, if I report this find I know my bearded and newsboy-capped friend might get in trouble.

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Dream Journal

They’re Painting My Home, Badly

Landlord has started painting our apartment building. I discover this sporadically, noticing the sudden changes, and never see his workers. Ugly strange patterns in garish colors, dappled sponges (like in the ’90s). I have to find him and complain, having this lack of control and this poor taste is unlivable. Usually he doesn’t do much work — and usually we don’t even complain about serious stuff. But before I can get him, I peek out into the entrance hallway and it’s transformed by a second coat into a surprisingly acceptable if bland two-tone blue.

A couple teenagers steal a bag of UK Pound coins. They dash haphazardly out into the street and spill it on the pathway of a public park, inviting everyone to grab one.

An advertisement navigates down a scenic but underdeveloped street in San Francisco, a slight slope with scrubby greenbelt on either side. Though the ad substitutes a silly marketing phrase, I eventually imagine looking to a street sign and recognize it as Jones from my time as delivery man. I picture what a single land plot would be, snug perhaps, but the kind of multi-level house that would be built in SF would accommodate several people. And it’s a few long, long rows.

Inspecting my art aquaintence Colin Fahrion’s collection of old banknotes. Ones from Bolivia, Brazil, others. In their pleasant little folios they have a fine canvas texture, yet seem to feel like tragedy, as if they bare the weight of political events long ago that they could’ve changed. Beautiful, cursed money.