Tag: theft

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Dream Journal

Mostly Alone, and Muddled Maps

Rubbing the house of Peter Thiel — twice. It’s a long building laid out like a lodge and I find it easy to come and go. The location feels like it could be the old Pacific Supermarket in SF, but if it is, the neighborhood is barren and empty now. I don’t remember even taking anything. I just fuck around with his rich people stuff in between his infrequent visits. I’m never caught despite noticing overhead cameras pointed right at eye level. I end up hiding near the elevators around back which are used by workers. This transitions to an outdoor sequence.

The curved patio-like area outside the large house is on a vast plain. I think of it as Burning Man, despite that the vastness itself is a color. I’m awake during the day at the unlikely hour of 10:00 am, when no one else is up either — this is one reason I’ve been able to sneak around so well. My sleep schedule is difficult to alter, so for the moment I know I’m stuck with the strange feeling of being awake when no one is around.

I seem to wake up a bit, a hypnogogic interstitial, and imagine a soundproof and insulated large tent at Burning Man which is kept cold. It appears exactly like a snowy landscape, offering camping as well. The tents at the tree line give it an immersive look and it really does feel like being somewhere it snows. It’s still empty in here too.

I overhear my fourth grade teacher Mr. Suggett out a window talking about a sponsorship for his class. I repeat something he says at the right moment to humorous effect, “you’re going to be playing volleyball for weeks!”, which gets a good laugh.

Problem with several world maps. I examine at least two, both lacking detail in countries, with blurry boundaries or poor print quality. It’s as if the borders weren’t finalized in the maps themselves. My fourth grade teacher was very important for my understanding of maps.

Problem with GPS directions, causing me to take a god-awful long time to turn across an intersection on my motorcycle. Finally I get to a destination marked as Busch Gardens (I’ve never been to the actual Busch Gardens, I don’t think this location had anything to do with it). It’s a ramshackle toilet paper stall at the end of a dead end street. There’s a sign at the empty end, “no obtuse cancers here”, which I guess is intended as funny. I take a picture, or try to, unable to confirm if my phone actually took it.

I negotiate with the stall attendant and understand I have to pick out which toilet paper I will choose. Arbitrarily, I feel a roll with teapots on, which is very soft. Yet I don’t understand whether I have to buy it in bulk (by length) or if she sells rolls of it. Peeking around the corner of her stall assembled of wooden sticks, I see that it’s a bustling flea market day. I try to ask her if it would be better for me to go around to shop on the other side, accessing her stall walking through the flea market. She answers me in a broken Russian accent and I can’t understand her, and don’t know how to get around to the other street.

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Dream Journal

Pulque Heist Scammer Man

Dream revolving around a central character, a young man with a mustache whose name I don’t think I ever learned. I’m working at an adult school when I’m first introduced to him. A slightly older female coworker asks me if I can work the projector for some event he’s putting together. I assume it must be someone she knows, but actually he asked her to ask around — essentially just for free labor.

He puts together a heist based on the connections he made from the successful event. I think of it as a pulque heist (I’m in Guadalajara and have been enjoying the stuff a lot) but I don’t remember much, to be honest. I do know that after we pull it off, he stiffs the rest of us on divvying the spoils.

I incidentally find out that he’s a Swift truck driver, of course — drivers for the road shipping company Swift are known for being the cockiest, and worst.

I run into him again some time after he doesn’t pay. When I go to confront him, he needs help again for an even bigger job where I’m even more necessary. I could exploit my position to ask for my original share plus even more, but the other people we did the heist with aren’t here and I can’t effectively bargain for them. I’m drawn between what to do as there aren’t any good options, and I really don’t like the arrogant guy anyways.

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Dream Journal

Planet of the Bird People (Last Page is in the Middle)

Outside my house (my Kemper court house), two of my cars are waiting with people inside. We’re trying to leave and I can’t find the right car key. Eventually I realize we actually have a key sitting on the car’s floor; it looks identical but its untried. And of course, that finally works! Josh insists on driving my convertible Beetle since I made them wait so long. By now everyone’s eager to leave quickly, so both cars are driving in reverse at speed out of the court — I hesitate to ask to slow down since I made them wait. Half-heartedly, I ask if he’ll attempt a fast 180-turn, which I watch the other car do. Unexpectedly, he pulls it off and we merge into busy school-hours traffic — a familiar scene since the court is across from an elementary school.

My friend (S. of P&S) has died unexpectedly young… 32 years old? After realizing what it actually means, I feel the gap of his loss deeply. It’s only later that I also realize he has a kid, which makes it even worse.

A sprawling hostel, where an older lady has stayed so long that her shared dorm room is entirely colonized by bookshelves and stacks of books. The hostel itself is a long building with many stacked rooms in rows overlooking the downslope of a hill — a place that feels familiar from previous dreams.

The setting: a human planet that’s been administratively taken over by harpy-like bird aliens. I’m part of a team robbing a store and things go sideways (though apparently not too badly). Our escape route traverses security-activated bean geysers — most of which erupt chaotically around us during the escape. During the getaway, with authorities obviously observing us, one of the team (who reminds me of Cypher from The Matrix) says into our radio, “Can we blame this on anyone innocent?”

After other dreamss, the setting returns to the planet run by bird-people, where I’m flying in a cathedral-like room with columns and buttresses. It’s filled with redwoods, creating a humid atmosphere reminiscent of a cool redwood forest. There are elegant Asian-style stacked wooden shelves with narrow beams for plants. I fly outside through the large opening in the wall. Beyond, everything seems larger than normal (or I’m smaller than usual). As I fly towards a row of cypress trees (evoking a feeling of Northern Californian natural places), I land on an unoccupied bird-people nest I find. I don’t mess with their eggs for whatever reason. Perhaps I realize I don’t feel the need to indulge, even though I could crush them if I wanted to. I continue flying and swoop over a BBQ picnic, where I impulsively steal the big cooked fish just being brought out for everyone.

For a while now, I’ve had a disorganized stack of papers that I use as study material, flipping over the pages as I go to track of what I’ve read. It’s actually a fictional document but a worthy background reference (perhaps on our avian overlords). I realize suddenly upon flipping a page that I’ve read through the whole thing: it seemed like I was in the middle, but no, the last page I flipped is indeed the final page. I rememeber that, oh yes, I started in the middle, once upon a time.

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Dream Journal

Alt Wolverine Steals my Papasan

Mom didn’t listen (My mom? A mom). Mom left my papasan chair on a street in my neighborhood. The street might be different than where I live now, more north/south than east/west. But it’s certainly my neighborhood. Even though I almost immediately notice the chair was mistakenly put out, a guy still insists on trying to take it. Says he claimed it first or something, while ignoring that I just ran out of the same house. Round-faced large guy with glasses, young and entitled but fit. Bothersome in a deeper way than mere inconvenience. I drag the chair back through a maze-like thicket of brambles surrounding a friend’s home with him still clinging to it. The brambles seem designed for such purpose. I make it all the way to the communal home at the center. The spirit seems to have ebbed from whatever consensus-based group project once powered it, in the heights of 1970s communalism perhaps. Folks in the rooms there seem sleepy — the rooms that are even occupied. To my great chagrin, the round-faced thief runs for community mayor of the home. Despite my efforts I can’t stop him from being elected. The community is too apathetic. I know it’s still just about the chair.

Later, I discover that this man is an aberrant clone from an alternate universe. He should be Wolverine in that universe, but instead he took the role of Jean Grey. It’s quite clear when I see the color palettes swapped. Here, he’s a thief of X-Men genetic material. This dream much seems like a justification for my feelings in the one before, a dream created just to make peace with my own attitude toward him.

Discussing with my wife when I should really leave Gathering. Doing the math that every extra day I stay, it’s equivalent to an extra $100+. This feels tied in to other parts of the night’s dreams, but mostly the later ones.

I observe rolling hills in a long line, evaluating their land usage. These hills are outside Phoenix, Arizona supposedly. Most have a particularly, perfectly smooth pasture land that gives the impression tight clothing. Delineated thickly are occasional nature preserves with hiking trails, the natural state of the land. It’s bizarre that they chose to convert most of it to plain boringness, when it seems so obviously more valuable in it’s diversified and self-managing state. But that’s a lot more complicated, especially for the simple-minded.

In a warehouse thrift store. In the front section there’s a record store. I mention to the guy running it that he has several records my friend and I both have. I exaggerate a little, mentioning a record that I claim only had a hundred copies made but which we both have. I inquire about a certain record my friend showed me last time I was over. I’m only half interested in buying it, I suppose I want to test his knowledge. The guy answers that he has it and hands me a the record sleeve. He seems to expect I’m buying it. As politely as I can, I let him know that this is just the paper sleeve and there’s no record inside it.

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Dream Journal

Hang Gliding in the Dark

Someone has stolen the truckbed, the entire back half of my pickup, from where it was parked on the street outside my apartment. I set up a rainbow umbrella while I’m attempting to deal with it but it partially blocks the sidewalk.

I’m part of a kink community event. Rich takes on a dog persona. Parked nearby is a car with two vanity plates, but in reversed order, should read something like PSU-DO 640,000.

I’m sitting on a large flat rock, outside a compound built into massive stone. Perhaps this is where the event is. I’m under this big rock overhang, kind of has a feel like the forest from a cartoon (like the Smurfs or David the Gnome).

Hang gliding in the dark from the perch of a promontory, despite that I’ve been told I shouldn’t because it’s dangerous. I don’t think it’s dangerous for me. The silhouetted treelines are gorgeous. While flying overhead avoiding it’s dark streets, I think about the problem of a town which is in this beautiful natural area, but which was allowed to be built crowded and ugly. I make a certain bird sound as I fly up toward a ridge. Learning of an old growth giant sequoia which was cut down here, then tracing it through history from the late 1800s. It seems it was never fully processed and was allowed to rot in place. The tree possibly grew back from that remnant, which I’ve never encountered before. A woman talks about the appearance of the tree from behind newsdesk cut out in the base of another tree, comparing the regrown tree to “cum, a kind of spirit”.

Records of what happened to it are very scant though.

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Dream Journal

Hawaiian Accidental Theft, Groundskeeper Accomplice

Stealing stuff from Hawaii by accident because I’m think I’m going to come back. Bored with dates for November and student activities.

A mafioso guido-type guy significantly under ranks me… by several bosses. To teach him a lesson I pawn him off on the old groundskeeper. He rambles on a tour all day long, finally grasping the importance of the orange liquid on display in its original vial. This is the actual vial of stuff that helped discover something way back in the ’50s. The old groundskeeper passes by and I throw a small hex nut pliers at him to assist in something. At sunset he allows a Thanos-looking guy to touch it. Who promptly goes mad and has visions of his brain dissolving into orbs.

Talking on the street, I admit to my dad that I have to pay to mail back the Hawaiian stuff I accidentally stole, lamenting that I wasn’t thinking when I packed and really thought I’d be coming back sooner.

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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

Bookended Startling Rat Dreams

As I lay on the living room couch, I hear an odd rat-like noise from our back room — but not identifiable as one of our pets. I’m a bit playful when I go to investigate but creeped out by a bunch of our pillows that’ve been slashed almost in half. In an instant I realize no rat or other pet could’ve done this, and a malicious someone in likely still in the house.

I bolt awake, heart pounding, from sleep on the couch… remembering that I couldn’t fall asleep there; I had to give one of our rattie boys his medication.

I’ve been tricked into “checking out” some sort of vacation retreat with a very culty vibe. I try to leave but quickly find myself mobbed by a crush of people who aren’t allowing me to go. I think one even delivers the “it’s for my own good” line; bone-chilling in these circumstances. One bespectacled man grabs my keys and puts them in his pocket. Struggling against the huddle of bodies I manage to retrieve the keys — though I’m almost alarmed they let me have them back. They’re reluctant to do anything resembling an unambiguous assault. I escape climbing through a bathroom window when I think no one’s watching, though at this point… I wonder if they are.

I’m assigned a new group at Burning Man while it’s halfway through (not much like Burning Man — more like a week-long summer camp in an elaborate multi-story wooden atrium). I’m paired with three affable Asian kids younger than me. We’re moved to a different bunk room (a frequent occurrence) and shortly afterwards my first group, of which I’m still kind of a part, gets assigned a room that’s closer. I sleep there as it’s a bit easier, especially moving all my stuff, but I feel disappointed and conflicted for abandoning my cool new friends.

While lying asleep in bed, I hear one of our pet rats crawl up onto my wife’s side. It makes its way across our pillows, feeling oddly familiar. It crawls under the blankets right in front of me and I peek one eye open. It’s a grey rat, but we haven’t had any grey rats since… I bolt awake, realizing that one of our babies that went missing two months ago, Silveroo, has returned.

But he’s not there. There’s no rat at all. I was, for the second time in a night, having dreams of rats, set in the very place I was actually sleeping.

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Dream Journal

Stalker’s Ridge, Tabernacle Airship

Driving in a rented sleeper van southward from San Francisco with my family group, a brother and sister. We pull off at twilight onto a barren peninsula jutting into ocean. While the campfire we make is pleasant enough, the van becomes trapped and our dark environs become distinctly spooky. We clamber up the side of a sharp rocky ridge. From the chipped line of its knife-edge peak, I spot the shadowed outlines of enemies stalking us, nearly surrounding us. I don’t have an end for this dream… sorry.

As a kid I famously broke into the Mormon Tabernacle Airship. Now, as circumstance would have it, I’m being asked to do so once again. I make my way through a side entrance, timing events so I blend into a large crowd just filing in for a special occasion. For a short while I wait in a winding line, then matter-of-factly jump the square barricade into a reliquary with the appearance of a backgammon arrangement. I deftly pluck a hollow pin hidden in a scepter which grants me the power to skip around short distances. Mischievously I hop from alcove to alcove in the labyrinthine line, confounding the sleepy crowds attending for flat religious duty.

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Dream Journal

Unwieldy Car, Stealing from Church

In the big backseat of car, one practically too big to drive. A big sunroof, which is actually the rear window. From a driveway out, going up a slope onto a ramp, the engine isn’t quite powerful enough. It even takes a long time to brake.

Onward. Stealing from a church gift shop, inside the church itself — an elaborate English Gothic style cathedral. I look out the back window with my wife as we leave, not feeling too bad about it honestly.