Dream Journal

Inside the Rock, Aboard Airship, On the Holodeck

In a volcanic hot springs zone, there is a hollowed-out rock that is special access handled by the Finnish Prime Minister. I’m inside on what I realize is a very exclusive visit. It’s very orderly inside, typical high-class Scandinavian clean-line interior with many alcoves for different purposes. It’s delightfully homey, warm. Wish I could come and stay here sometime.

A different setting, though I didn’t leave. I’m flying on a Victorian-era airship, same elegant styling as the Titanic (but nothing to do with sinking). There are many spindly metal catwalks providing grand outdoor views, though I concentrate on getting where I want to go without dallying in the more tourist parts of the craft. There was a special metal sauna-type place that was important — that I had to get back to, or go to an event in, or work at perhaps. But it recurred. Maybe it was the transposed location of the Finnish rock cavity from before.

On the ship, at some point my friend and I are parting. I consciously give him a very long hug, trying to imbue it with meaning by summoning my feelings and putting them in to the hug. While the hug lasts a long time it’s weird difficult to bring forth the imagery of how I feel, making the duration seem somehow awkward — almost a feeling of “am I doing it? how about now? now?” Upon reflection, I’d guess this eyes-closed dream was a lull in my sleep cycle.

Attending a solo musical performance in an oddly-shaped locker room. Still on the airship, though you wouldn’t really know it except for the persistent sensation of eye-level clouds stretching in the distance, whenever you look beyond the edge of a walkway. Someone I knew a long time ago as a kid is here, Dayle Zimmer. I don’t know why I might be remembering her.

Testing out a Mohawk in the mirror using just my already fully-grown hair (patting it down into a shape). Looks surprisingly good! The amount leftover on the sides makes it tempting to do more, but then it wouldn’t be a Mohawk. When my hair comes loose, I’m already teetering on the edge of wild madman hair.

Pulling out into a different context, breaking the narrative, I watch as it’s revealed that Captain Kirk is fixing a holodeck panel. It’s quite dissembled and he’s been at it awhile, you can tell. The holodeck is memorably red, white, and chroma-key green, and the reflections off many surfaces give it a confusing surreal perception.

Can’t help myself breaking out giggling because someone said this holodeck would be too big in this new movie… and it totally is.

Dream Journal

Ritzy Post-Soviet Neighborhood

Visiting a quiet city reminiscent of Eastern Europe. I drive my partner to a small, private neighborhood built around a flat, park-like open space. An older resident, a member of the post-communist bourgeoisie, shows me that you can fly up in the center and view the neighborhood from above. I see what can be described as concrete cubicles many stories tall, containing entire mansions the size of a city block.

I zoom in on the center of the street where stands a very good replica of the Parthenon, exactly as archaeologists found it, with all the ancient debris dutifully and artfully replicated in loving detail. They have at least one performer who re-enacts as a pre-socratic philosopher in daily performances. We drive out of the neighborhood, pulling away from the elegant, curving, grass-lined drive.

Dream Journal

Last Night in New Orleans

Slim invites us to a museum he’s been to before. Not knowing much about it, we end up liking it a lot — a museum named after Abita about New Orleans, and death (death with a little d and big D, Death). The black folks who run it are really into the place, too, and I wish I kept more details. One run-through, many catwalks, like a brewery tour. Death is alive.

Playing outside on the street of my childhood home on Kemper Court, I watch the adults steadily, one-by-one, leave their homes and leave me abandoned. There’s some new requirement for a federal ID (like the new TSA requirement, perhaps). I’m still a kid, but I’m also still me, and I know it’s some flavor of bullshit. In my head, while gazing at the neighbors house, I demand to know how much it costs to raise the neighbor kid Brandon. I haven’t thought about him in decades and I’m almost surprised I recall his name.

Passing the redeveloped portion of my hometown, Cathedral City, the part where Cat City Elementary used to be. Understanding that the absence of a place leaves the memories of that place unmoored, unrelatable. In the dream I can’t remember what it looked like, and all I observe is a line of tamarisk trees. The street has recently been the site of homeless encampments. A new bureaucratically long-named assistance center sits on the site of a former narrow park, battered tents obstruct the street (either in my direct experience or in my recalling of the past). Cranes return to the dark grass on the side of the road.

Spend several hours on a grimy and ghetto-y pedestrian overpass, passing the night in what ought to be an urban hell. Instead, there’s an erotic aspect, a sexual pastime. Who am I there with, am I male or female? — can’t remember. But it’s our secret location, ensconced above the rabble of vagrants, watching as if from a crow’s nest on a ship’s mast.

Inside a dainty house sometime after, I’m in charge of running the place.  I’m female, notably. There’s fancy teacups and luxurious wallpaper, but middle class, somehow unpresumptuous. There’s a stack of electronics that’ve been set up by my partner, stylishly white, antique by only a decade or two. Per someone’s request, I play some music on the DVD player, which is a clear plastic model, revealing the many spinning gears/components and quite fascinating to watch, spinning up, then becoming still.