Dream Journal

Midnight Menagerie, Starfish Swansong

Donald Trump’s existence suggests an axiom: the higher the getting, the bigger the dark side.

Being hosted at some guy’s elaborately-decorated stylish apartment, white walls and expensive décor, a congenial upper-middle class bougie gay dude. He gives up his bedroom per my request. In the middle of the night I’m awoken and think I’m being visited by a group of raccoons, but it turns out to just be a few of his cats.

Later, I think it’s happening again so I stay asleep. Yet slowly I realize that in the bedroom with me are a whole menagerie of apes, macaques, zebra, even a giraffe maybe. This is his personal zoo, something he acts like I should be impressed with, while he himself acts nonchalant. It is (I admit) bizarre and impressive. Doubly so with the apartment’s trendy Instagrammable Pinterest-y surroundings.

(This is midpoint of my night’s dreams, which I remember when I wake up earlier in the night — for real — with some insight into my own progressed technique into the writing of dreams. Yet I still don’t wake up to take notes on it, worried I might not get back to sleep…)

In the classroom of a middle school, which feels near the coastal location of my University. I’m my current age, hanging out in bookshelves behind the rows of desks observing class, but I pop in occasionally, keeping tabs on the teacher and mingling with students.

A class lesson: “what’s wrong with this cream cheese recipe?” I personally think they added lemon juice, or didn’t use real cheese. Moving past, the teacher calls on me, somewhat jokingly. Nose in a textbook, I respond mispronouncing ‘book’ like ‘boooook’. She responds in the same joking tone that we’ll name our next lesson’s monster “Orin”.

I abruptly notice that a green starfish kid in the front row has suddenly developed injuries consistent with exposure to a contagion we studied in class. Teacher has also noticed but is playing it off so as not to alarm the students; I don’t do so well hiding it. We help get the student out. Afterwards I take time reflecting on it in the bookshelves.

I return just a bit later, but class appears to be over for that year. Instead, the room is occupied by a choral group of young kids, 4-6 years old, in flowing robes with hoods, singing what could be a Buddhist funeral dirge. Their parents wait behind them to take them home, some breaking down crying. It’s obvious the starfish kid didn’t make it.

Jolted, reminded of life’s brevity, I set aside time to enjoy hanging out with one particular girl I like who reminds me of a fun redhead I knew in high school — Sam Promenchenkel. She’s quite taller than me; my head reaches just under her armpit. With a group we stroll along a stepped boardwalk away from the school. On the way I’m goaded into doing a scooter trick up some stairs, and manage to leap all the way to the second-to-last step, where I do a little bounce and make it all the way up.

My cousin Betty is with our group, skipping away ahead of us toward her wife. She seems so happy and excited, I’m very happy for her, though I watch her get further and further away.

We get to the ocean and do tricks leaping into the surf on scooters. Someone brings up how left-brain-focused people will typically veer to the left and miss their mark on the waves. We practice crossing our eyes, water streams squirting from our pupils, trying to get the streams to meet where we want.

Music in my head upon waking:

Heartsrevolution – Heart vs The Machine
Architecture in Helsinki – Heart It Races
Dream Journal

Getting Around Thai Temple & Restaurant

I scoot over to the abandoned old Thai Temple brunch on south Valencia st. I learn the story of the five bear-men who were executed by hanging there, huge brutish men all murderers by the dozens. Their ghosts/projections give chase when I speed away on my black scooter.

To get out of this compound part of San Francisco, I need to walk through a Thai restaurant. It’s the third day in a row I’ve been there, but I don’t eat this time so I sneak past the staff, avoiding eye contact –like I’m just around there.

I locate my dad’s overgrown pickup in his workshop, new-ish but already rusted on the inside doorframe, and plants growing through the hard rubber hood. He has an active project he’s working on under lights nearby, but there’s sawdust everywhere. I consider whether I can clean it up.

Dream Journal

University on a Small Island

A university on a small inhabited island, dry and brown and hilly, off the coast of California. The school specializes in drawing and hand-drawn traditional animation. One day, they have us label our materials kits and fill out a multi-page form. There’s a checkbox to support “56% Magazine” at $8.33 monthly. The school subsidizes students, and half of a large duplex (on the low end) is as low as $80 and $9. At some point I’m staying in Lorie Ohlemann’s house and snooping around her bedroom, finding cards and notes. One place is apportioned with a 4-person guest shower with a hosting bar. This keeps the island a lot more lively than one would expect, and I almost don’t miss city life. I ride my scooter around most everywhere and do deliveries. One day, I ditch work without calling in and spend the day carefully hiding out in different buildings. The next day I sneak out during the long afternoon doldrums with the idea to plant a luscious olive I’ve eaten. I find someone I know, Tiff von Biff, sitting on my scooter handlebars. I impressively veer left and right with her still on there, then manage to pop my first wheelie, making her scream.