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Dream Journal

Missed the Bus; Mother Zerg

On an overnight group bus trip. We crowd into a wood-panelled roadside tchochke store filled with various odd objects. Happening to know the purpose behind many of them, I regale my companions (classmates? friends?) about one item after another. I know at some point that I’m oversharing and being annoying, yet I’m so enjoying being an expert on something — I get carried away with it. I recall this as “acting enlightened” (whatever that means). As a result I miss the group bus when it departs, leaving me stranded after the store closes. I loiter and pace outside in the parking lot, wondering what to do, trying to reason out where I might get a ride. Across a long distance of strip mall emptiness, I make out what might be the bus, my bus, with all my people that left me here. But that could be simply wishful thinking. By the time I could walk all the way over there, they might very well be gone.


I’m part of an alien hive-mind-ish force, zerg-like, bred in great numbers like insects. As one of the exceptional males who survived, today I’m tasked with re-fertilizing the zerg mother. This is regarded as somewhat of an honor for a zerg drone — it’s rare for us to have sex. The actual experience is unpleasant though. The zerg mother stares at me with gazeless eyes, her exaggeratedly big hips meant for storing vast quantities of genetic material to make whatever brood is needed. But I am a brood — could this be my mother? Not that it matters really; we’re all so genetically alike anyway. But since that’s the case, why does it even matter if I contribute my material to future broods? I find myself wondering if I’m allowed to simply stop having sex with the empty-eyed queen. Eventually I do — and nothing bad happens. But what now is my purpose as a drone?

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Dream Journal

First to Arrive in India, Drip Basket in Back Room

Travel to India. I’m the first to arrive and start figuring out the Airbnb, which is like a drained indoor pool with a shallow ceiling. The feeling of being outside, looking at the totally different architecture and streetscape, thinking about all the humans who made it (and it being a whole different society) is memorable. Trippy even. We are asked for our passports and realize we didn’t even have them on the packing list. Luckily, I find mine — and two more I didn’t intend to pack — in the sunglasses pocket of my wife’s backpack.

Laying in bed with my wife and suddenly get the urge to have sex. Somehow know what to do with the right timing to get it really nice.

I lay out a receipt for my friend Dara to sign. Some kind of reimbursement from 2017, in the period we were broken up and didn’t talk to each other. It’s next to another similar receipt for my neighbor friends the Goldies.

At the same time, the mother/daughter pair are sleeping in the back room of my apartment. Birds are playing outside the back window. A water dripper designed to be calming streams down into a wicker basket above their heads. It’s a bit too fast and I keep trying to figure how to slow it down, with no success.

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Dream Journal

Family Schemes, Good Date/Bad Date

My extended family has been sending me on a series of themed errands all day. Eventually, I arrive in a private back room to find them in a circle talking intensely and in a suspiciously evasive way. My Aunt Carol (my mom’s brother’s wife), by way of informing me and bringing me into the conversation, tells me this involves an elderly uncle with the last name Kilit. She quizzes me, expecting me to know it was her maiden name — he’s her brother. He’s unexpectedly fighting the stipulations of an inheritance, which somehow threatens money for the whole family. The whole thing seems purposefully overcomplicated.

I take leave of my family and wander into an adjacent closed restaurant. The bar is riveted metal, the lighting dimmed, a liminal space. I find I get along well with several staff who are there preparing for evening diners. I feel comfortable among the relative poverty of the employees who sleep in hammocks slung in backrooms.

Moving onward, I go on a date with a girl walking together down the street. While she’s behind me and I can’t see her she lifts me into the air — surprising me with her ability to take me flying. We survey the countryside. I observe a timelapse of how plots of land are drawn, then grouped together, such that there’s always a house. Some houses grow as grand mansions while others remain farmsteads. It depends on the land, and less on who lived there.

On my second date with the girl I’m kept waiting in her room for some time. She wasting my time (and hers, in my opinion) railing a less attractive dude just because he’s newer. Many random visitors drop by. One pops in and says “is that what I think it is”, gesturing toward the closet. Turns out he’s here to acquire heroin. I nope outta there ASAP.

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Dream Journal

Special Train, Bobsled Cousins

A bobsled track (like from the movie Cool Runnings, which I last saw when I was 8?!) with still pictures viewed overhead, relating a story. A process which helps my New York cousins Betty, Diana, and Miriam. We ask Miriam if she has that little vial we gave her, we think it may help with success. It’s noted that Diana has done well in love, though, more than the others.


I approach a rail crossing blocked by a train. My attempt to go between wheels underneath carriage is suddenly aborted when I realize the train is still slowly moving. From the train itself, a friend yells that they’ve brought it as a surprise — it’s actually the train I had as a kid: engine #5721 with two cars from the Pennsylvania Railroad. The caboose is there too, and I have an odd feeling that I’ve rode this train before without it being this particular set.


In a theater I receive an unanticipated blowjob during a parallel sex show on stage. Semi-acknowledgment from the stage when they’re done, so we play it off as nothing and I cover my erection with my forearm. Turning to talk to the girl — Lynae? Lauren? Someone else? — as it is announced that now we’re doing the mandatory switching-seats ritual. I have a bunch of my travel stuff under mine so have a difficult time moving to a new seat, and difficulty picking a new seat partner. I don’t feel like sitting next to Dayle Zimmer (whom I knew when I was 11?!). My wife has already delved into conversation with two people in the front row, is clearly having an easier time with the ritual.

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Dream Journal

Civic-Minded Unusual Dilemmas

A voting station is located at a sunny plant-lined street corner in my neighborhood, near the Five Markets grocery. A older mom is setting a bad example by parking herself in her camping chair too close to where voting is happening, advocating her causes, believing she’s not breaking the law because as an experienced mom she only has good intentions.


I’m volunteered/recruited to serve in an official capacity on a committee fulfilling the protocols of French justice. We’re brought into a long narrow indoor space with all manner of investigatory equipment stowed away in compartments. One such instrument activates a reenactment of the perpetrator’s statement. It’s a gray-haired Jewish lady, older but not elderly, who appears very evidently happier locked away and isolated in her own boxed-in world. Inconveniently, the transgression she is accused of committing seems both 1) intended to have gotten her locked away, and 2) not serious enough to merit such “punishment”. An ethical conundrum thus results for we judicial volunteers.


Inhabiting an odd communal outdoor space comprised of a large wave pool interspersed with metal tool lockers as tall as a man. Periodically other men and I rummage around in the wire-walled lockers to fetch tools for one job or another. I’m less experienced than most of them and might be doing an apprenticeship. One of the friendlier and artier guys demonstrates his solution to moving audio between distant parts of the wave pool, crossfading between top speakers and bottom speakers, creating an illusion of living sound.

I’m assigned a certain one of the locker-tops close to the wave machine, where sea creatures like starfish and barnacles crust heaviest. I am to use the roof for lounging and my home base. A teenage girl named Megan is randomly paired with me to share it. She’s lanky and skimpily dressed, stylishly suntanned, with a breathy unpolished voice. On first meeting she’s immediately suspicious of my maleness, giving a speech about how we’ll never sleep together and don’t get any ideas, et cetera. She says this to me while laying on her stomach in a bikini, sunglasses pushed down her nose, gazing at my shirtless torso. We’ll be sharing this intimate little room-sized island for several months… and this is the first thing she says to me. Whether Megan realizes it or not, the two of us having sex has become an immediately apparent eventuality. I respond to her haughty pronouncements with only a wolfish grin.

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Dream Journal

Yellow Shirt for Fun Blonde

Somewhere in Germany during a festival, the streets crowded with people milling about. I notice several black Germans pass by in traditional lederhosen, fully German culturally now — yet I can’t help but wonder what their ancestors put up with, knowing how other European countries treated their African subjects. Soon I’m with a mixed group, sitting to watch an indoor performance in the last two rows. A special request is made of me: get a blonde girl (whom I don’t know personally) a special yellow t-shirt to wear as a top. She slouches cooly in the back row with arms crossed, breasts out, but I can halfway imagine her wearing the yellow top already.

I saunter into an alcove where a meek group of bland-seeming workers is watching a training video, though it ends just as I sit down. Mechanical automatic lockers then open in front of them, though not for me, and we mill into a narrow back area. From these lockers they’ve received tokens (which I of course don’t have) so these back rooms with token-operated machines — arcade games or sewing classes etc — aren’t a practical way to earn the yellow top for the blonde girl.

Which seems like it doesn’t matter, since at the end of this back area is a love den, where she and I engage in another one of our rendezvouses (despite being introduced to her secondhand just earlier, now we’ve been casual lovers for awhile). She’s a sexual athlete and a freak in bed — she actually has stackable bins she carries with compartments for nitrous, whipped cream, amyls, toys, even a case of Greek fireworks (what are those? I don’t know). We’re lounging in bed afterwards, and one of our rules is that we don’t tell personal stories so there’s no chance we could get too attached or bored with each other (her rule, mostly). But I’m reading this newspaper article and it’s a bit shocking actually, so I read it aloud to her — some recent racist government exposé that’s almost too outrageous to believe.

At a desk window back down the hall, on the opposite side from the token rooms is a detective’s office. An ethnic family (older, wearing glasses, perhaps Indian) is trying to file a report. Observing the scene, my blonde girl comments about a stodgy white man visible at the back of the room: “doesn’t he just have that ‘I’ll jam your cell phone’ look to him?” Though I think her comment facetious at first, I watch as the family’s phone signal drops… after which they’re unable to report the crime they’ve been victim of.


A big salt gritter truck parked on a small residential court during the wee hours of the night. I climb into the big cabin and get everything ready for my first drive (fairly sure I’m the yellow-shirt blonde girl now). It appears that in the night someone has stolen much of the trucks tank through the front tank port. However, I confirm the integrity of the single spike guard in front of the port that’s supposed to serve as barricade against a stranger’s siphon hose.

Then there I am, a relatively small blonde girl, driving my new massive beast of a vehicle away at night for the first time. The driver’s view appears as a bright grainy grayscale fisheye lens, a bit disorienting at first but proving very useful. I round the corner out of the short dead-end street, swinging much wider than intended, yet the vehicle’s turning radius is very powerful despite being slow and ungainly.

I drive up a freeway ramp, struggling against the sandy ripples, when I remember I have the option to use the gritter tank to stabilize the slope. There’s a pink effect as I do so, one girl saving the day for all the drivers to follow.


I’m one of two younger girls fighting under table, the other an imposter trying to reach the other side of the room on some nefarious mission. I call “dad, dad!” while holding the imposter down. But the dad is on his computer looking at the email reply of one of his recent online ‘your post has been hidden’ appeals, glancing briefly and perfunctory at our desperate tussle.


In some random rest stop store, I’m looking through the aisles and come across two pieces of a gun hanging from display hooks. It’s wrapped in some kind of sports team graphic, and though they sell other guns from within locked cases, this one is priced so outlandishly that somehow the shopkeepers think it’s ok not to lock it up since it’s in two parts? Ugh.


In a pocket universe, a shabby run-down concrete park is closed during the pandemic. Oddly kids can’t seem to understand this. But adults immediately can spot a certain cracked rear wall, with an exposed adjacent building leaking in foreign universe, among other dangerous problems.

The scene zooms out to the broader area map, revealing the 2-symmetric lobes of this flat bubble universe, and the further 4-petaled algorithmic fractal pattern rotated out from the same central origin. I wish I knew more about this particular place, it seems quite unusual.

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Dream Journal

No Privacy for Sexytime at Cozy Hostel

I’m staying for a while in a hostel, a very long narrow two-story building that’s like a lodge. It’s not swanky, but it’s scenic and has lovely aged wooden construction and friendly common areas, where strangers gather and sit around chatting and drinking. I have a cozy spare private room there I’m sharing with my brother Patrick. It’s a special place, a beautiful relic — viewed from above, I see a version where a fan artfully redid it in a magical cartoony Warcraft style.

At some point I run into a friend of my cousin, a skinny blonde girl, someone who’s stayed at my house before. We hit it off enjoying the outdoors near the hostel, some flower garden or botanical hall for guests. We decide to head up to the main lodge, waiting in a grubby loading dock for the oddly cited elevator.

We start to make out on a couch once upstairs. I’m hoping to move things to my room — where at least we’d only have to keep out my brother — but she’s insistent and we start to have sex there in one of the common areas. Inevitably someone interrupts us and we hurriedly stop. I’m a bit frustrated with her at this predictable outcome.

A bit later and we’re socializing in a room decorated with curiosities, curved couches along the wall, and a big picture window. And she starts going at it again (though I can’t even remember if it with was me or another guy across from where we sat before). I remember the reactions of the group being mixed, from conflicted fascination to willful ignorance. It’s not uncomfortable for me, but I do have a feeling of exasperation; it seems this is just how she is. She had no specific interest in me, and I passingly consider whether we should’ve used a condom. But in the end, the situation does come out rather well — it seems once the ice has been broken those assembled are pretty ok with an friendly. impromptu, afternoon orgy. Though whether she could’ve expected this or not is another thing entirely.


Visiting an oddly mom-n-pop country Apple store (to be clear: Apple the company, not the fruit). There, on a display of shoeboxes, is a display model for the new iPhone mini. It looks much like an iPod mini, the one from 2004, with the chunky last-century grey buttons of an old Nokia phone. An unexpectedly easy pass.


Awake in the pre-dawn light of my workroom. Building a campfire, carefully piecing out kindling into a blackened metal ring right there on the rug. As the fire burns down and the sun comes up, I fiercely whip the edge of carpet, making that edge briefly glow with every strike. When I’m done and put out the fire, I find that the rug is barely warm underneath.

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Dream Journal

Boat, Bus, (Another Bus), and a Pretty Good Date

On a boat, minding my own business reading. Three lavatory cabins sit on the left of the boat, bobbing widely up and down in the spray. I’m friendly with the boatman, and we take a 15 minute break on a shoreline so I can get up and stretch my legs, and take a pee break outside those challenging lavatories. I watch as a water pressure rocket shoots into the sky.


Asking a girl I know out on a date. (As it happens, this girl will later become my crush.) We’re at a college, riding around on student buses, among huge institutional buildings with wide lawns laid out on a grid. I point out to her the many little groups of animal sculptures placed on balconies of an incomplete building, supposedly a tradition in Arabia and the Emirates. One group of wolves, though, is alive, and we watch enthralled as they stalk across the empty road outside our bus windows.

We go somewhere inside a big university building, a place with high-ceilinged two-story elevators. A maintenance man actually points out how they’ve recently made them nicer. There’s somewhere I think would be nice to take her for a date, but when we get there it’s a student mental health clinic (maybe we mis-navigated, maybe they moved the location). I figure this out looking through forms over the light of a desk lamp, politely decline their services, and take her somewhere nicer.

We find a plain rectangular room with a bed. I ask her directly if she’d like to have sex. Her reaction is everything: she ponders with her finger pressed to her lips, eyes cast upwards, gently scratching her now bald head. It’s a subtly amusing overacted display of thoughtfulness, and I take the time to evaluate her unique beauty. Finally she turns to me and pronounces a simple, conclusive “yes”. I smile, but realizing we haven’t actually had any regular fun yet I change tack. We snuggle up back-to-front and proceed through a card I have, a written series of jokes and responses, and she quickly picks up on it. We start to form a bond.


Again I’m a young kid, reading on a bus this time. Keep my tiny fuzzy rat Pierre under my fuzzy sweater, with the waist tucked in. My reading is interrupted by a bus guard (seem like a lot of rules on this bus) who scans me with handheld detector. But I feel uncharacteristically fine about it, and don’t worry about Pierre. My dad sits in the seat next to me. While I’m reading, the left lens of my glasses comes loose and blows out the window. I quickly try to remember the street, 45th I think, so we can go back and get it. However, the next street is 11th and the street after that is labelled 11:11.

I attempt to improvise, putting a grid of various colored glitter-water into a cat-eye-shaped lens and frame. Remarkably, the lens is the correct size, yet has a crunchy ice texture that makes it useless for reading through — but fascinating to look at. I study it intently and wonder what I could use it for, my reading forgotten.

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Dream Journal

Borrowed Lambo, Twin Mistake, Prime Distraction

My wife is on the phone. While I happen to be listening in, I hear a family member on the other side say very specifically “hey, your dad has lost his life”. I have an instantaneous reaction of FUCK, followed by (embarrassingly) a feeling that at least now things are closed. Maybe we can inherit something now, even. I bolt awake at 3:21 am.


I park a borrowed Lamborghini on the street outside a hotel on the waterfront of the bay. Perhaps I used to work there. It’s fancy and expensive, but the neighborhood next to it isn’t. I spend a good long time exploring inside during the uncrowded early morning golden hour — traversing interior suspended walkways, decorating for Christmas, and discovering a second-floor gender-neutral bathroom labeled “Theirs”. One curiosity I come across in this mall-like atrium-like space is a very amusing bird sculpture/toy, finding one cleverly hidden mechanism after another to press with my fingers.

In the back row of a wedding, in an upstairs conference room overlooking the bay, I run into my friend Meredith. I show her the nifty bird sculpture (now transformed into an owl) and offer it to her. I also mention that someone trusted me with the Lamborghini out front. But when I go outside again it’s not there. I orient with the nearby landmarks and the saved location on my phone, inspect around and find a note in hard-to-read scrawl — something about average monthly insurance for it being $1200, about “only 12 inches of cocaine” — the obvious implication being that the car will be returned if I pay them what they erroneously believe I actually pay.


Walking up an indeterminate slope, behind my college girlfriend Jenna & my actual wife, others, but for a moment I can’t remember who it was I married. Finally I do remember, and am thankful. I lay down next to my sleeping wife (now more like a long-ago redhead classmate of mine Lauren Wycoff, or the cartoon redhead hottie Jessica Rabbit) and as fond surprise snuggle behind her in bed, and we have sex. The dream actually proceeds through the whole experience: I lube up, it’s quiet and intimate, I finish inside. But for some reason my wife has never told me before that she has a twin! This is very embarrassing (for all of us) yet no one seems upset. Just a never-talk-about-it thing I suppose, although the twin seems… less upset than you’d expect. Perhaps a happy mistake.


A former British prime minister (like Theresa May), exchanging questions with a circle of Americans about things we’ve done. Tangential to her question — something she almost certainly didn’t bargain for — I tell a bizarre rambling story both fascinating and true (within the dream) of a town I visited in Oregon. Not finding our way in despite detailed instructions; driving past a graveyard to get in; discovering the winding dirt roadway between two other roads along a grassy and forested flat area. Picturesque clouds, children’s book sun, mountains in the distance; a rustic cabin near a pixie-haunted broadleaf tree; the wilderness beyond like a dewy lawn.

The next day I text the Prime Minister, having remembered the name of the place: Rasp, Oregon. While it does bear some resemblance to the town of Sisters, Oregon (which I visited this summer), I’m almost sure this was a place I’ve been before. It all may have come from another dream another night, one unwritten, remembered only in other dreams.

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Dream Journal

That Hot Pokémon Girl

A stone bird submerged just below the surface of a pond. Jumping on the stone and seeing the profile. Meant to be a cue for a longer dream, now forgotten.


Last day of school. The ebullient kids from Mrs. Plescia’s 5th grade, with the boxy confined aesthetic of middle school. After hours of games and getting up/sitting down from a desk, we have quiet time at end. My childhood friend Robby T. and I are part of the group who cleans up during it, stuff from microwaves to chipped commemorative mugs. I peek over the wooden-post fence to the road beyond, as in another dream set in a mountain prison where I planted mushrooms in a garden bed. I see boxes a boxes of supplies I’ve brought during the year, all of which I need to bring home. There is, in fact, what Robbie (it’s spelled Robbie for some reason) points out what he calls a mushroom tray, but which looks to me like a colonized mushroom tray.

An art event sponsored by Cameo W., a darkened central room with grand, open rooms branching from it. Avoidant of typical San Francisco tech themes, despite that she made most of her money from cashing out in tech. There’s a girl I don’t know, Erin Collins, who gives out loads of her self-made business cards to everyone at the event. I’m not interested in calling her on account of seeming desperate for… whatever it is she wants.

Later, though, I’m back within the setting of the last day of class. There’s a jumping contest to leap from the last railing of a stairway leading to the beach. I make impressive distance, but realize I may have not followed the rules by stepping further beyond my sandy landing imprints. The girl, Erin, makes a similar impressive showing and I realize she’s a Pokémon (!). And she looks, very, very good naked. We make out and then begin to fuck. Her vulva does this weird thing where it bulges forward, almost as if her vagina was just below her skin. When I’m fully inside, a small bump appears at her pubis. I realize that although it’s amazing to fuck someone this pretty (and a Pokémon!) I won’t be getting off as she’s missing something, somehow. She’s not getting as much pleasure as she’s giving and we can’t fix it for now. We gaze at a sick battleship docked nearby, being eroded by the waves.


Riding my motorcycle, turning onto a street like Mission in SF. Behind a group of riders on what look like scooter versions of my motorcycle, the Honda CTX. I pull off and park near Willows, labelled on the awning as “A CTX Bar”. I remember thinking how I have to be on my best behavior so as to give a good impression to the young ones.