Categories
Dream Journal

Presidential Escort, Bow Break, Ukraine to USA

The President of Turkmenistan hosts me himself for a bit of an athletic tour. He takes me on the continually-upgraded Walk of Health — here taking the form of a paved white path of several switchbacks up a scenic steep hill. In his matching white shorts and running trainers, he discusses health benefits. He notices, after one of the sharp curves, that I have been issued the old shoes which he insists are no longer the standard, and will set me up with the upgraded shoes they now provide their government workers and a towel. I speak with a frumpy officiant at a white marble desk (naturally) who goes about doing just that. I hope I might speak with her more plainly, to actually get context for what things are like in the country. Perhaps that’s because I’m some kind of reporter or distinguished guest, and the kind of person the success show is intended for. Interacting with the President is a very strange experience, but not unimpressive. And I do get the new shoes, formed of white mesh and white foam.


Aboard a large vessel docked in port, I move deeper inside, closer to the bow, closer to a view of the sea. Along the way I’m dropping pennies from a bag. When I’ve finally reached the open balcony at the front of the vessel I toss a final quarter into ocean near the ship. It’s an interesting gesture, one of willful letting go and freedom, but I also know I felt lucid doing it — that it, I knew the material didn’t matter as I was dreaming. Someone has followed me onto the bare metal balcony, a middle school crush and high school friend, Alexx S. I find myself gazing into her face, and understanding that this person is someone else — perhaps not someone who no longer exists, or someone that I no longer know (we lost touch decades ago) but that I’m keeping alive the memory of who she was when I was someone else, too. She is the echo of me, who I was when I was attracted to her. Later, in remembering this dream, I even think of her name as someone else, some even earlier crush perhaps. As we stand on the bow in the brisk seaside breeze, I reflect on how in San Francisco the ocean makes the weather never too hot (like in Los Angeles), but instead sometimes it makes it too cold. That’s the bargain, one I’d still choose.

She and I watch a large shipping vessel coming into port at unusual speed. I almost don’t believe what I’m seeing. It fails to veer and plows into the front of our ship, not far back from where we stand, with tremendous noise and chaos. Immediately before it struck, I remember thinking that I almost have enough time to record it — but of course I didn’t have enough time.


Walking across war-torn Ukraine. Part fact-finding, part direct-support mission that I’ve taken on by myself. The road is long and curved, the sky forever cast in dark grit. I peer into the ground floor of a residence hall of a university. I see only food aid in the grimy kitchen and a few grateful young people skittering to and from their rooms. Somehow I walk quickly enough that I’m halfway across USA. Looking down the slope of a steep levee, an old guy with long hair, beard, and glasses notices me and gives me a nod. I’m amazed he recognized me from long ago and at such distance, but I can’t place where we know each other. Reminds me of Tom Hanks, or one of the old men who garden in my neighborhood.

Categories
Dream Journal

Idyllic Small-Town Plum Falls

A custom-designed webpage prototype with four alternate positive opinions for any submitted negative. Creates URLs for its suggestions. Created by a short girl wizard, who’s becoming a bit famous for it. (I’d guess this was Plarvolia, whom I just re-discovered via her online activity after meeting her at a party in March this year.)


My family’s got a new fridge, so big you swing open the door and have to walk up to the inside. I lean over the front shelf and discover rows of of wheeled container stacks that roll, and beyond that a half-size kitchen. Remember that I have PBR in my crappy tiny dorm-size fridge that I could now bring. While inside, a corner with twin stoves, I knock loose one electrical clip plugged into the counter wall outlet. I then try to figure how to let my dad know.

Outside, on a street underneath the highway & close to the doorway, I watch a long car pull up (against advice). From it emerge a color-coordinated pimp-styled group, orange and gold and white everything. I continue off without gawking, heading the direction of a town my wife texted me from, hoping to surprise her — Plum Falls (a semi-inversion of my hometown, Palm Springs). I pass unexpectedly through an underpopulated corner of San Francisco, near the wharf, somewhere called like “Southeast Neighborhood” I’ve visited in dreams before. I cross the street at an oddly shaped intersection at Winston Way downslope of a curvy hill, jogging across as a car abruptly pulls around the bend.

I reach the quaint rural community of Plum Falls, a tiny 3-or-4 street grid town from out of my past in Oregon and/or Australia, cast in foliage of bright autumnal orange. Reminiscent of many other dream locations. I amble into a garage sale inside the house of an elderly, thoroughly-countrified man. But I wear no pants or underwear, shuffling side-to-side hiding my naked lower half. An excuse I use is that I just woke up from dreaming (what!?). As I’m behind the man’s table, I take my chance and finally wrap a black t-shirt to cover myself. The man has a only a few items laid out sparely, each clearly special and treasured, and the one he’s pitching to me is an old hand-bound bible. It’s beautifully crafted, raw-edge leather, highly textured and deckled paper, embossed gold lettering (some of it in Ge’ez script)… but unfortunately the font gives away that it’s much newer than it might seem, especially with its deep modern-styled embossing. I find a way to turn him down gently, especially considering his high asking price, but I’m immediately distracted by another book sitting on the corner of his table. A stubby thick hardcover with glossy dustjacket, I remember thinking I’d glimpsed someone casually drop it there while we spoke. It’s a book by none other than Chicken John. I’m forced to improvise an explanation for how I know him, going into how we “collaborated” and why we “fell out with each other”. The experience is terrible: alienating, frustrating, embarrassing, and ultimately useless. I unwisely make the open claim that he must’ve put that book there himself, just recently. All rapport is gone now, and the countrified old man has lost interest in me.

The next day I’m idling along near (but not on) one of the few sidewalks in the dusky town. I spot a familiar figure from behind, and approach him from the side. Turning his shoulder, I stare into the face of Chicken John, who looks more ginger-haired and solidly mustached (almost like my 4th-grade teacher Roy Suggett — if you’re out there, Mr. Suggett, you’re still my favorite). I lead Chicken back to the house where I was yesterday and allow him to believe there’s no one there. He unlatches a small window and reaches in, only for the old man from the garage sale to poke his head out saying “Excuse me. Hello?” I gesture meaningfully, demonstrating that what I said yesterday was true, and exposing Chicken for whatever scheming he planned against me.

Categories
Dream Journal

Face-to-Sexy-Face with Friend Spy

I’m dropped off directly across from my first elementary school in my hometown (possibly by plane), and find an important but broken piece of… something in the gutter. I round the corner and spot a half-empty vape juice bottle, grape — there’s a store nearby and I spot these a lot. I consider whether it’s a good idea to pick it up. Walking up to my childhood home at the end of the street. My phone helps me walk by showing the rear camera feed behind the text I’m reading. I only notice this once I start earning points by passing over certain objects.


A badass Bruce Willis-type guy is driving/walking down a concrete bridge. My friend Spy and I appear together there. There’s some unusual sexual tension between us, perhaps due to the guy being there too. In typical fashion for us our sexual tension is diffused by amping it up, as I hold my face close to hers — actually touching cheek to cheek. Somehow that usually works.

Categories
Glot

A Walk in the Night

I’ll be damned.
That did solve something.

You never think of walking as being a real prouctive activity. A to B.
Maybe that’s culture. But… allow me to explain.

I’d been dicking around on this damnable website for at least 5 hours. Not doing anything, really, but reading and researching the life out of me. And so I got up. Tried to trim my stache but the razor was dead. Remembered that I needed to move my car from the closer lot to the faaar lot because I’d get another ticket otherwise. So I got my brown blazer on, the one that used to be Emily’s Dad’s, and headed out.

As I started walking I start listening. The first thing I heard is this clack-clack-clack as some kid rides his skateboard across the cracks in the wet pavement behind me. Then my own shoes on the concrete stairs. My car beeping as I unlock it. The engine turning on and the jazz station. Wheels backing over a curb as I, dumbass, went over it. Then the softer sound of tires on wet road. Between the barricades I run over a large metal ring lying there in the crosswalk, which has a sound I enjoy but cannot describe. Then back to the parking lot the new way, the new road they just made way, as I realize there might be available paking spaces. No such luck. As I was about to go back the way I came I heard voices, people walking up the parking entrance whom I didn’t even see. I waited but didn’t want them to hear the silly Santa Cruz reggae that had come on. So, I drove to the BBC parking lot and on the way I HONKed my horn at the police station for a good solid second because I was pissed at the stupid cops for giving me stupid tickets.

This is important,

I think.

So I get out of my car and I’m all kinda mope-y cause I have to park here so faaaar away and I pull out this rope to see if I can rip down that fucking parking sign with my car frame. Verdict: probably, but I’m not that hardcore and/or an anarchist. I walk back. The rain starts again, even though it’s been dripping from the trees all along. I start talking to myself. A monologue of alternating bile and self-chastisement. Mostly about cops, how much I hate them and then me rationalizing why I really don’t. As I get back to the quad what did I see, of course, but an officer doing nightwalk. Nightwalk is this thing where any girl student that calls can get a fully armed polizia to walk them to and from their dorm. I power-walked ahead of these two, the cop and his escortee the Resident Director, trying to get into the elevator before them. Sooo close. They come in just as the door opens and I run inside jamming the close button and as I do, the officer says and I quote,

“I smell pasta.”

I’m sorry. Really. But if one is pissed pisssssed at cops in general and one of them comes into where you live and says something so retort-worthy and inane as “I smell pasta,” or “I smell anything,” for that matter well…

I’m sure you can’t blame one for uttering “I smell bacon.”

Thought I got away with it too. Damn. I didn’t. He stuck his flashlight/beatstick in the door and asked what I said. I don’t even remember what the hell I answered at that point. What did I not do? Make some shit up. Get in his face. Stonewall him. I think I probably apologized. Kept his stick in there till the ellelater was buzzing something nasty. Then he let me go up to my room.

I’m beyond irked, at this point. I’m making bestial sounds and my spit is frothing at my lips. I’m not really making words anymore. People used to say you had a sharp tongue if you could curse viciously enough. My tongue was blunt and spiky, like a mace. I didn’t stay long in my dorm.

I took out the trash. Pfft, why not. Was I looking for a fight when I went out? Kinda sorta. Walked by his cruiser. Didn’t spit on it, though I was tempted very tempted. Called myself a pussy a few dozen times. Finally I settled on going back to my dorm and being angry.

When who … do I see … again … but Officer Brown.

Officer Brown was his name. Young guy. Probably on University Police till he gets enough experience. Brown hair efficiently cut, kinda short-ish. I run into him and the RD on the second floor. My first instinct surprisingly enough is not to shout and curse and be pissed off. I say sorry again this time I’m sure. I invite him up to my room. But I was on the wrong floor of course and said it was one of those days. He said he’d had a few of those. Once inside I offered him water and a seat but he said he was fine. I explained where I was coming from and the tickets I’d gotten and why I was so frustrated and he tried to sympathize. I think even he was a little taken aback by some of the tickets I’ve gotten. We had an okay conversation. I kind of unloaded on him, which was alright. He told me he didn’t write the dumb overnight parking tickets and that, yes, there were some ticket-happy guys on the force.

We had a human mutual respect moment. He’s from CSU Fresno. His name’s Matt. He knows now that sometimes I follow foxes on my bike, even after midnight. He had to go and we said goodbye. I accomplished clearing my head. I felt better.

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And I finally had something to write about, thank god.