Categories
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

The Boss, The Barbarian, The Beast

Sharing a bed with a female boss, and a kid who joins us. It’s quality snuggle time but I have to be a good sport on account there’s an orange-lighted lamp behind us, one I just barely can’t reach while we’re ensconced together.

Female boss and I leave the relative comfort of this bedroom, a place which has the sensation of a single-room ground floor unit of a multi-story underground parking garage. The neighborhood is the dusty, sunny, oldest part of my hometown (although I don’t think of it as Cathedral City at any point, the architecture and streets are no other). We’re leading a class single-file while we roam the near-empty streets, searching for even one business compatible with ours. Finally, in a wider old-west-ish double collonnaded warehouse area, I suggest that the business there — in publishing — is close enough to journalism that it’s worth pursuing.

Unfortunately there’s a brutish barbarian who guards nearby; he manages to kill all of us before we even realize what’s going on. We’re left — not quite dead, but as good as dead — to perish slowly in the sun strung up on a tall post, like a ship’s crow’s nest. But there’s a saving grace — we’ve got a Brock Samson bodyguard just for such an occasion. He hides under a bridge until the hulking brute passes overhead, stabbing his machete through chipped slats and impaling the aggressor in brutal revenge. We’re taken down from our gallows and recover with no ill effects.

Going a little further in the small near-deserted town, there is a wide shallow lake to the right (something like I’ve seen before in dreams, a wistful view with balconies worthy for gazing in reflection) and to the left, what looks like what could be an ornate orthodox church. I’m pleased to go and explore, knowing I’m versed in how to behave in almost any religious building. Turns out it’s a Hindu shrine to Ganesh, one with specific obeisances to enter. My dad advances too quickly through the entryway crowded with votives. I watch him try to balance on two upturned djembe drums, not quite successfully.

Inside the building, I chat with a few close friends as we sit on barstools. Idly we gaze toward the adjacent wall, the only light in the room, adorned with a massive floor-to-ceiling aquarium — and at least one monstrous inhabitant. It looks like a swimming centipede, maybe a polychaete worm, as if from the Ordovician era. My sibling Patrick seems quite concerned — it’s large, aggressive, and very near. Yet I know something about the tank, reassuring him “that glass may look only 10, perhaps 12 inches thick, but it’s not. That’s what we may I’m call ‘arcane glass’, and for that thing it’s actual measure is [literally] infinity inches.” I’m quite serious with this assessment. As if to punctuate my point, the thing winds up to the glass again, bigger, meaner, with a frightening face, and hits it full speed — which makes a satisfyingly tiny donk sound.

Categories
Dream Journal

Mr. Begby’s Slippers

During a babysitting job, I’m called in to put the baby to sleep. Begby is my drug buddy, same guy from the movie Trainspotting. Some whispers over my shoulder as I gab with Begby — the baby? — “you should try some heroin (was it heroin?). Begby is a menace, and I eventually find it simpler to I kill him, putting his flesh leather in a carefully Ziploc, promising to throw it out as soon as convenient.

In a many-roomed hostel, I nibble a bit. My female friend Oz gets in bunk bed, and has a penis. I jump and startle her before she knows it me. I’m sure it’s a dream so I grab the strange girl-dick under the sheets.

As part of my job, I’m being requested to go to market to get only one thing, because it’s Sunday and most things closed. I’m trying to argue my way out it, when someone asks about a bag they found labeled “Mr. Begby’s Slippers”. There’s someone present I told (thankful that I got rid of Begby but worried about the evidence), and they gasp, mortified that I’ve still not thrown the skin out. It would appear I’m caught.

Categories
Dream Journal

Misadventure Locating a Locomotive

I’m driving the Chevy Nova car out around the streets of Palm Desert, California, during a time of day I’m possibly not supposed to. On the right, I drive past a rusted old hulk of a steam locomotive just a little ways off the road. I drive back around and park on the shoulder, leaving the car running for my passenger (either Josh or Naomi, Calvin Chaos’s parents).

There’s a small little community of maybe 8 to 10 houses on a dusty little hill. A gate blocks my way in the middle, close to the road. And there is a bar inside at the top called Adrianople that’s been flouting the law, hosting gatherings and selling weapons. In the course of trying to get to the locomotive I end up in a dead end parking lot overlooking the car, realizing my passenger might want to turn it off and trying to get their attention to throw the keys.

There’s an alarming disturbance and a red-headed, naked feminine monster appears from beyond the rooftops, quickly gaining ground. It’s like a banshee, breasts thrust forward and teeth ragged and mocking in aggression. As it advances I keep my camera pointed at it videotaping, somehow knowing this may be the only way to hold it back or to be one day be believed. It corners me at the edge then morphs / disappears.


I’m chased by a stalker / murderer.
It’s appearance is like my wife, and I save myself by slitting its throat with the black-bladed Winchester knife.

Categories
Dream Journal

Collected Dreams from the Past Week

In the dream I’m blogging — here, on ori.nz — and see that the URL permalink reads 10-2. I have an intense come-up feeling as I become something like lucid.


Pax Imperia, little cute solar systems. I see my homeslice Mickey B. I’d later realize this dream was very close to a ninth-grade fantasy I’d had while first starting to lucid dream, that we’d be able to play realistic space games together while we slept.


Dressed in a pair of tiny cute skivvies, I’m hopping from boat to boat in a crowded harbor marina. I get inside a spacious empty ferryboat filled with rows of low-slung benches, the windows and walls are clear plastic. Jumping from public bathroom to plain basic houseboat, battening the hatches. Off in the distance there’s a massive wave, a wave the size of a mountain. Later, I’d recall another dream of being in that massive wave — no sign of a harbor in that dream. Also, another dream many years ago where I scubaed alongside a whale.


J’aime Andrade, a member of color guard in my high school marching band, showed up in cool convertible with a few of her friends. Post-gothy aesthetic. They were having a blast and lifted my spirits.

(this night I meditated in bed before sleep for an hour…)

  • I’m on the phone, giving my friend Reecy directions while she’s in Germany
  • Lorelei is having a second baby, I’m very happy for her but unfortunately it wasn’t her life plan. Later I’m walking along the outside of a rounded fence near an abandoned area, I accidentally re-dial her and am embarrassed.
  • A biplane crashes just outside the Fartpartment, it’s an excuse for me to leave and wander the streets, and become lucid.
  • I stare at the beautiful horizon, receding infinitely into the distance, lucid but unimpressed with reality and the dream. It’s unimportant to me.

In a darkened apartment I’m with an elegant Greco-Roman topless statue of Sabrina W. Who should wander in, but Sabrina! She makes a show of approving of the work, and I find myself speechless (once again) in her presence.

Last day: I run into my nana under my apartment stairs, she finds me hiding a water bottle. Somehow that bottle is evidence of murder, but not one I had anything to do with — I just don’t want the creepy water bottle anymore. My nana gets me to put it someplace it could be found later, in the basement.