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Dream Journal

Mad at the Sunset at Mustard Truck Ranch

Throughout these dreams there’s an indescribable water park vibe. No theories why, just imagine there’s a waterpark involved. And: a certain man’s wife features in every scene.


Staying as a guest at a ranch. On an outdoor table with benches I notice that the pepper I planted has grown wildly, sucking all the goodness out of its soil. At its base it’s produced a big wrinkly pepper fruit. An unruly stem of 50 cloned plantlets hangs so long it droops over the table’s edge.

Holed up at the semi-remote ranch I defer going to school all day. Counting the hours, missing one class after another, bargaining with myself the whole time. Step outside and look between the gateposts — just in time to catch the sunset framed between them, just touching the horizon. I yell at the sun in frustration, “I wanted to have a day! Fuck you!” It’s like a picture I saw of a sunset in an old vinyl album — evocative in its plainness somehow.

From behind me, I hear the main front door to the ranch open. I don’t wish to interact with anyone at the moment; there’s a baseball hat dude and his wife that I’m not fond of either. They’ve not done anything actually rude yet but I don’t want to give them the chance to.

Along one of the side streets bordering the big compound a group and I encounter a charming little food truck. It’s an old woody station wagon, green and yellow, called The Mustard Truck. They serve warm pretzels and beer and English bar snacks. Surprised, I observe that it wouldn’t actually be that bad living here if there’s things like this to be found.

From the winding sidewalk of small park near a courthouse, I step into the street. I pass a woman I recognize, the wife of Sam Gamgee from Lord of the Rings. This would be Rosie Cotton as per the books — then again but I might instead be thinking of the actor who played Sam Gamgee. A little down the road I watch a car struggling to pass a lady dragging a cart as they’re all in a tunnel. She shouts “passenger!” as it overtakes her. A roundabout way of claiming her rights to use the road (just as a car) but avoiding shouting “car” because that’d only reinforce a second-class ideology. Car, apparently, being the traditional shout.

I’m sitting across the table with some female YouTuber, someone whose stuff I watch (can’t recall who though). We discover we both know this cart lady. I relate this story of her shouting in the tunnel and we share a good laugh. I list a bunch of other YouTubers who might know her (this is why I can’t pin down who I’m talking to: I mention everyone I might be talking to).

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Dream Journal

Double Vacations

On double-vacation in San Francisco. Pass the Nihil Cafe, might be nice to go before we leave (to return to our first vacation, eventually to return home to SF). Slick marble streets of many colors, on some the water has been blocked off so you have to scramble over them. Mixing cum with radio magnetides to turn it electrically active, andand  last step creates rusty blobs (these blobs result from lack of enough reagent resources, I imagine). Beautiful bathrooms in these SF houses, I wished I had pictures. We shampoo the fancy white carpet in our rental. Maybe I did this in an earlier dream? Then vacuum it up with a toddler’s ball bobble walker.

Seventh grade science classroom home video. Halfway up the walls are ringed with panels of handprinted student messages (MC CHRIS HAHAHA). Big Bird trying to go up on stage wearing someone else’s t-shirt of single yellow feather, is warned then tackled off by tankgirl character. This is when I wet-vacuum. It’s so effective it reveals holes in the wood flooring where planks join at odd angles.

Opening up a chain-link gate to a coastal area for workmate Manny (Manxioc on chat) and hopping in the white interior of his car, they’re probably gonna smoke weed but I’m fast enough I think I can ditch if that happens.

Tall skyscraper in the distance has a loose symbol atop it (glittery purple teeth?); I see it wobble and wonder what kind of job it is to fix.

Frozen forest riverbank, I find my spot under a tree with hardly any ice. But the branches are more brittle from exposure. Looking up, one by one they fall (at an oddly uniform speed, no acceleration) and
the biggest nearly impales my head.

Immediately afterwards, Sir Paul McCartneyis escorted though a toy store having just dodged the tree branches. He’s shaken and a bit angry. The store is packed with shoppers and it’s quite dark, I use the button built into a toy box to see a Millennium Falcon playset, though it’s still too dim. There’s an exhibit off to the side in a 3-room alcove, some singing animatronics. Some cool, trippy florescent stuff in there. I bump into one of the bands (they remind me of Tusken Raiders) and a nice old lady helps me to remember the area by showing me archival “before” pictures from her booth — including a dinner attended by my Uncle John and Uncle Bob. Maybe a week ago, maybe 40 years.

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Dream Journal

Late for the Wagon Wheel Waterpark

Spent a good long time at a waterpark, Christina Olson is there. Somehow we miss a bunch of activities, and so I agree to meet Christina again the next day. She expects me there at 8:30 am for some reason and I’m trying for hours to get motivated out of bed, receiving intermittent texts the whole time, but end up getting there by noon anyway. Yet she seems unexplainably unperturbed when I finally arrive.

I discover, in an area that’s part of an archeological exhibit from before the waterpark was built, a busted-up wagon wheel. It has only four spokes left, in an arrangement that resembles a rhombus. I know it’s a valuable artifact, but I end up putting it inside a large glass of Coca-Cola and the damn thing dissolves like a tooth in a science fair project.