Tag: shower

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Dream Journal

Too Much Waiting, Not Enough Double Dream Cartoons

While the video game WarCraft 2 used flat 2-D sprites, the years-older “Warcraft: Orcs & Humans” (WarCraft 1) used a grab-bag of early 3-D tricks. I’m finally playing it and oddly, though the game is very basic, it’s more intriguing to discern the clever workarounds they came up with long ago. Pleasingly retro, as well. (Standing in front of my fridge yesterday I randomly appreciated the deep lore they were able to produce in those games, simply by creating the series for so long.)

When my Uncle John is frustrated about having to move, I’m able to share an anecdote about how, when the show wrapped, the sets for “Seinfeld” were almost immediately converted for use on the show “Friends” (I learned this yesterday; it was actually Full House)

Waiting on my motorcycle at a left turn signal. I leave, crossing to the sidewalk when I realize how long I’ve waited. Suddenly I realize it’s essentially just abandoned in a traffic lane now. Going back, I see I even left the key in the ignition. The back compartment must be repacked now (of course it does). I rejigger the back case’s mounting plate and straps, all while standing in front of a line of unusually patient cars also still waiting to turn left.

I’ve been fiddling with nose ring intermittently for most of the dream. It finally splits near the tip, coming off in my fingers just as I realize how long I’ve been fiddling. Still, it seems like it should be able to fit again, but the gauge at the break is inconveniently flat instead of round. It won’t fit in the piercing hole, and repairing something that stays in my skin seems like a non-starter.

In a jaunty Nickelodeon-style kids cartoon, one friend has fallen asleep in the shower. As his friend, and sensing an opportunity for mischief, I hide in the shower drain. Since my friend doesn’t wake up I start saying odd things in an affected strange voice, which reverberates through the drain pipe. Zooming into his dream I appear there as a semi-distorted subway announcer — ignored, as most subway train announcements usually are. I notice other characters from our cartoon have been animated in his dream as more realistic adult humans — stylized and shapely enough to evoke sexual lust, innocently but not incidentally. Rule 34 on hot double-dreamt cartoons.

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Dream Journal

Parking Lot Shower & A Car Named Felony

Naked, in a coin-operated shower, in a parking lot, without glasses on. Phone is on the soap tray. I’m alternately wearing a shirt or pants, washing one area at a time. I see a group of plainclothes cops walk by and start preparing arguments in my head, concerning this being private property and the property owner losing money if these showers weren’t here. They pass me by as if the arguments were a forcefield.

I meet Lindsay Ellis who has a new convertible she named Felony (unexplainably). I swing above and around the parked car and we get to friendly conversing. But while sitting at a long wooden outdoor dining table, something I say or do shuts her down. She excuses herself hastily and drives away. My wife and I puzzle over it together; I lament that I didn’t even record the conversation.

I run out the front door after strapping on my paramotor flying machine and I’m airborne in a few seconds, I even see her car make the turn at the end of my street. But I never catch her and the dream ends.

A fancy diamond ring. The appraiser comments “I shouldn’t ask how you got this”. Two large studs sit on either side, with rectangular chunks shifting between them, rotating and moving in and out of alignment. It shifts before my eyes and the big, flat sides take on a tiger’s eye gem-like chattoyance — then its aspect shifts again, altering itself into a large, expensive house, the flat chunky side becomeing a fake 3-car garage. It’s a neat trick which fools buyers into thinking the house is worth more than it is.

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Dream Journal

The House of Inequity

I’m a driver for a lowbrow company/boarding school/cult/orphanage. The roads around our compound are muddy and sometimes motor homes in particular become mired in the muck. After one such workday I come back for a shower (in one of the open, sunlit hexagonal group showers) only to find that it’s under repair yet again.

I’m shunted away to what I’m lead to believe is a reserve bathroom, but which has since been converted to a cramped bedroom barely large enough to contain a single, rumpled bed. The place seems to have been a proper bathroom in the 60s. One slanted wall with grimy oval cutouts once would’ve held stately vanity mirrors. I notice that the dimly-lit, echo-y, white tile walls go up unusually high. In fact they keep going up, narrowing into a disused laundry chute — and sneaky access to the otherwise tightly restricted rest of the house.

I’m spotted and nearly dragged off on the first floor I climb to. But from what I could see, it’s a common room, furnishings covered in felt, wooden bunk beds, a 70s handcrafted summer camp vibe… but with the disjointed quality of a children’s bedroom used by adults. The couple I narrowly escaped from could’ve been in a secret relationship, for all I know. No one felt free in this place, though our — were they teachers, minders, managers? — they certainly seemed to be rich enough.

I make it to the top floor, the attic built as an addition atop our oversized building, with bright panoramic windows that are so-angled as to show puffy blue-and-white skies. The people up here sport schoolmarm hairdos and Marie Curie-like studiousness, but to my great vindication, are also preparing an invasion force to wrest control of the rest of the house. This Gryffindor Army gave the impression of fierce, dark resolve. Surely one day theirs will be a glorious fight.

Exploring the upper floor further, I access a balcony that was used in the past for us to monitor the land around the main house. About 90% of this beautiful outdoor spot has been fenced off and replaced with an automated monitoring station. One rickety telescope off to the side for us, at least. I spy an open field of light brown grass freckled with isolated low trees. A single park bench. Nearer to the house, a gated-off chichi picnic dining area. A long elegant bench for rich people to eat our trendy “sweetie creamies”.

Unfortunately, this is about when I awoke. The Calea Zacatechichi I took about 3 hours ago seemed to have a-stirred up some curious stuff, though.

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Dream Journal

Vixen Hunting, Submarine Escape

Out in a wintry, grey, spread-out urban environment. Spot three vixens (female foxes) of gigantic size, perhaps 6 feet tall. My companion — a woman who’s not quite my partner, but certainly a good friend — takes aim with her hunting rifle and makes a clean shot at the lead fox. It’s then I realize the other two are a detailed mural, trompe l’oeil. Writing this now, I realize it could’ve been painted there as a decoy for exactly this purpose.

Afterwards, my wife’s grandmother shows up and folds herself neatly into a bag for transport.

Aboard a submarine, the captain from Seaquest (Nathan Bridger) and the young tech guy (Lucas Wolenczak) are together in a gym shower having sex. Within the dream I find this surprisingly boring, though I’m not sure who/what my dream persona is. A bit later the submarine is evading capture through rough water and can be seen darting in between the peaks of two waves. This image is particularly memorable as, in a later dream inside a classroom with Mickey and Robby T., I actually take care to draw it in pen.