Tag: mental ward

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Dream Journal

Old Bedroom Illusion, Zebra & Giraffe Chase, Mental Patient Rescue

In my old room in Cathedral City I imagine I am wearing my sleep blindfold that I wear every morning. While staring at the window I imagine the room to be a simpler place, with flowers decorating the desk below the window. It’s hallucination within a dream. Most of the room is taken up by books left there by Patrick when it was his room — sometimes two bookcases deep. There are a few old posters on the wall, which I’ve left up as I’m simply too apathetic to remove them

Several giraffes have randomly joined a herd of antelope in a sloped desert canyon outside Las Vegas. Following them on motorcycle, I see a tall head peak from behind an electrical substation. I’m off my bike temporarily and the giraffes summoned zebra which would kick me to death. but I rush and to get back on my motorcycle, speeding off just in time.

On the edge of the open plain where the zebra chased me down I ride past a refueling station for bio-fuel cars. It’s weird to think that driving such a car during my lifetime I’ve used fresh green leaves as fuel from a station like this. Now we have much more compressed versions available.

I walk down the hall of a mental hospital prison, perceiving the intricate infrastructure built into such a place, intentionally concealed behind dirty rough slabs forming the walls. I find a mother-daughter pair housed in a blocky suite of rooms. I realize the two are only sick because they’re being kept here. Part of my plan and coming here was to break people like them out. I just have to wait for the end of the day shift and the nurses to complete a headcount before locking the door for the evening. One of them stares right at me as I perch on a low bed against the interior wall, though I manage to still go unseen — I practice invisibility like the witch Seraphina Peccola.

At the last minute before I do the breakout, Sarek from Star Trek shows up from the hall. The dream itself and my ability to maintain immersion breaks up as I break through the glass window victoriously, smashing it with my wallet tool like a pair of brass knuckles. My female co-conspirator is waiting outside to help us with a quick getaway across the wide parking lot and dry summer grass plains.

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Dream Journal

A Spillway of Colonnades

Sliding down a long wide slope of water, riding a boogie board attached by rope to a remote-controlled motor. Meet my brother at the bottom of this spillway and we talk about how fun yet frightening it is. The water is startlingly deep and dark for a pool despite civilized touches, like the pleasant collonade at water’s edge.

I’m with a subby girl who might be a satanist. She has a distinct, plump shape and is usually seen intently talking with her boyfriend (also a satanist). It’s clear she has a keen interest in murder, perhaps even a fetish for being murdered. (Probably derived from the Silicon Valley characters Gilfoyle and his girlfriend Tara, who I just learned were also satanists.) There is an acknowledged creepiness to this, and I do worry about being drawn into it or even blamed somehow.

Off to the side of the vast slide area is an anteroom, part of a museum. The cases have a display of California coins you can leaf through. I knew that before the Federal Reserve Bank, states used to mint their own currency. But I never thought to check before.

My tenth grade English teacher Mrs. Roos assigns homework: the paperwork they give you to fill out when checking in to the mental ward. The forms are oversized to be able to read it, copied from real materials but structured like every other generic homework assignment. Supposedly this is too help us understand what a character in our book I going through when she goes to the mental ward. I approach Mrs. Roos in what can only be described as a sanctum; darkened archways, candles, burnt offerings. I explain playfully but confidingly that I might skip the exercise, even deserve extra credit — you see, I once filled out these forms myself at the mental ward. How better to relate to the character than to have had to same experience?

Categories
Dream Journal

A Dream with a Lotta Stuff

[Stefon meme] This dream has everything: spearfishing Ewoks, the greater city of Baltimore, urban renewal, a passport control office, class trips to a death spire, a mental ward with random small animals, and Lil Nas X performing a cover of a version of a David Bowie song with his dick out.

Ewoks hunting with spears by the shore of a straight, marshy river, perhaps a canal. Secretive. Traditional. Trying to return to my Ewok brethren, but floating somewhere in the greater Baltimore region — called Mellopotron (pronounced in a Greek manner). City is having a blue-collar revolution, replacing ugly cheap infrastructure (for example chain-link fencing with signs zip-tied on) with permanent works of concrete, making it look less mean but somehow more irredeemably urban, decided.

I go through a passport control office during a school field trip, a group with a field trip vibe anyway, even knowing my passport is missing. Somehow, maybe I get rapport with the guards, I get through and begin the climb with the rest of the class up a bony, jagged “death spire” at nighttime. When it’s time to go down, I break out my wings (a wingsuit? appendages?) and glide over the heads of my companions — even knowing I’d probably pay a price for the experience.

And I do. I’m interned in a mental ward, one that I’ve been in once before. Comparatively this time is a breeze, since I knew in advance what I was choosing. Still, I hide the fact from my companions. Every now and again I’ll throw out the odd mention of, for instance, how weird it was when the nurse’s station used to have its counter open to the patient’s room when no nurse was there. A small scurrying animal, maybe a rat or a lizard, creeps from one room to another undetected — perhaps a transmogrified companion? We are assembled for a special guest. Much to our surprise, rapper Lil Nas X drops from the ceiling and performs an amazing cover of Major Tom (Coming Home), in a long flowing trench-coat… with his dick out.

Flying up to what was supposed to be our lodging, a dilapidated but beautiful hand-restored floating bus house in someone’s backyard. 30 feet above the ground — which I don’t even look at — it rocks back and forth, left abandoned for what I discern is some lamentable procedural reason. I note how even in its aged state, it could still drive around the side of the multi-story house, where cargo containers are stacked up nearly to the roof.