James T Kirk’s house in remote Wyoming log cabin. A hot tub out back with a grand wide view of mountains and nature. I’ve been better before, but I don’t remember from last time the new tenements where the front yard used to be, now facing a more busy road. Maybe this locale will be more of a town now, I could thrift at a little store here. I’m trying to work through how to do laundry there, moving the washer and dryer setup from my dad’s old Kemper Court home. Finally I work out there’s a room on the far side of the Wyoming cabin that already has a washer/dryer.
Trying to drive out of Palm Springs to a place my homeslice Lauren booked called Ibiza Hotel. The map insists we might not be able to get there with the route we’d planned, there’s so much red traffic. It says to turn around and go back the way we came, but there is a road called 982nd Way that cuts down through the rural Coachella Valley that I’ve not seen before. It’s red with traffic too but me and the homepie have to take one route or another.
A little 3-year-old who could talk is with a group of us adults, almost a mini adult. Reminds me of two kids in my life, but also Baby Yoda or Yosemite Sam. It gives me a strong recollection of what I got to experience talking with adults at age 4 (which I evaluate as the minimum age to have explicit memories). I imagine myself again being that small, entertaining adults who I realize now were specifically 1980s adults. There won’t be another time like that.
Being taken to my childhood home in Eureka — though I realize now it was actually completely different from my waking life. I experience powerful waves of nostalgia when I recognize the rain-aged backyard table and seating, the back fence to the neighbors where raccoons played, the trough of a muddy ditch near a creek where I would found animals. Leaning into the ditch, I pull out what looks like my velociraptor puppet, a real childhood artifact I haven’t remembered in many years. Peering from the plant-heavy backyard, there’s an angle of trees I see framing the path to the road which sparks overwhelming recognition, even from other dreams, without me knowing if this is the original location or not.
Proceeding through a long multi-room store, it ends with a collection of vintage sewing machines all in stylish colors, some I’ve never seen before like army green. At some point in the night’s dreams, I find a little vintage fridge on its side flooded with water. I empty it and set upright. It still works but is loud while running. It seems to be from the same era as the sewing machines, and I find myself having affection for it.
I don’t think I lost many dreams writing them down today. But I don’t know how I could express the particular feeling of having visited the places I did… as though this was both overdue, necessary prep work, and indulgent distractions. Such clarity of vision I usually don’t have outside of lucid dreams, either. I don’t have a good guess as to what triggered them.