Tag: youth

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Dream Journal

Big Cult Weekend

Attending a cult weekend in a big, barracks-like compound that still has charming old-world angled streets. After you arrive you’re given an assigned room to stay in the whole time. Your room is your affiliation, like belonging to a noble house.

I drive an old white Buick to and from the location — it’s one of the most faithful cars I have ever driven in dreams (though never real life). I don’t usually drive “vintage” cars, but I get the comforting sense that I happen to have the perfect temperament to take care of a car like this.

I find parking somewhat close to a workshop where Chicken John is working on a big project repairing an old steam train. From an aerial view, I see that only it’s front fits under the roof. The train, as beautiful as it is, might still be rusting.

On the last day of the event I’m wandering the cobblestone streets of the guest houses. From one of the wide and scenic street corners, I peek into Ani and Sarah’s dorm room, everything laid out like a painting. It feels like everything that’s happened has been longer than it actually was; it’s really just been a few days.

Reveal of the great hall with portraits of old leaders papered over, symbolizing their end of power, missing since their time — that’s how leaders end here. Brad Bramishe type (from the movie Brick) as a “Mitred God” getting covered in gold necklaces and jacket, gradually cast as more corrupted, sacrificed when the group wants a new start. Supposed to be a microcosm of society.

I watch from my bed and catch the neck of a stuffed brontosaurus moving as I wake up and conclude it’s sunlight-based. I have a doll of my college girlfriend Jenna M. and realize I could have sex with it, moving her body around — she’s still in there somehow (like a poppet maybe) and I wouldn’t be doing this if anyone were around and I weren’t already feeling uncaring/nihilistic. It’s useful but not something I’m proud about.

Traveling in group of three to find an ascension exit, like a stairway to the next level. A ruined street running parallel on a slope, maybe like Brooklyn. We reach a potential stairway hidden in a graffitied outbuilding and that’s when my companion chooses to accuse my other companion, the cook, of theft during their cooking. It’s a false accusation but she is expelled and in the next area we can fly.

Riding on a bus, perceiving myself as one of the older ones, observing eternal travails and dramas of the new twenty-somethings. I envy them, despite how obvious and stupid their mistakes. Running into two friends as I move toward the front of the bus.

Overhead tram passing through an indoor art installation. The youth are still going. I am sitting down at yellow paper cafe, at a table with a single foreigner, with menus folded like bread paper bags around vinyl records.

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Dream Journal

Chemistry Conference Reunion

I’m attending a reunion of people who attended a now-legendary chemistry conference many years ago. There are only two age groups: very chatty nostalgic 30-somethings (maybe my age or younger) and venerable yet out-of-it elder statesmen types. From conversations and context I work out that what made the event so successful was bringing together old and young chemists to collaborate. Specifically, chemists planning to retire in the next year and chemists going to graduate in the next year. I observed that the younger group was obviously much more excited to recall those experiences, as it was (for many of them) projects which launched their careers. For the older ones, it may have been merely a final-ish achievement after a lifetime of work.

The original organizer is also hosting the reunion. She reminds me of an Odd Salon host, managing a community as well as presenters. Her counterpart from back then makes a show of rehashing some old repartee, and takes the appearance of my elementary school friend Amy Naud. She was just an attendee who chose to publicly play off the organizer and was a big hit. Her clownish efforts created a powerful duo energy between herself and the organizer, and is remembered as one reason for the special feeling of that time. She was young and vivacious, having fiery bleached hair with a reddish tint, looking and acting like Pippi Longstocking.

It’s never clear why the event never happened again…

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Dream Journal

Transferring Recordings

Had to transfer recordings. This one is Swiss, and I’ve recorded it at higher quality. I’m checking multiple times to see if I’ve transferred it correctly now.

The locale feels like the landscape verge of the old youth center in Palm Desert, but it’s a long plain strip of green grass with palm trees against the fence — the kind of liminal space which looks good to wealthy idiots but feels weird to be in.

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Dream Journal

John Waters Stage Show

Reflecting on that time I went to jail for 7 months when I was 19 or 20. As I remember it, the District Attorney needlessly chose to prosecute me for fraud because I received three free college credits. Such a waste… just impulsively interrupting a vulnerable young person’s life at such an important age. I’m remembering it now because in the dream I’m now going back to school later in life. It’s different than it used to be: sometimes I pass classes, sometimes I don’t, but I sense that you just have to accrue the credits over time and not sweat it.

Then again… I recall a different occasion when I was very distraught and held up a LensCrafters at gunpoint. Serving jail for this sort of thing makes more sense, but I no longer have the paperwork. Turns out I can’t even remember what I went to jail for!

A John Waters stage show, hosted by the man himself. He takes a break for the sake of the televised audience and cuts to commercial. But as I’m actually present I get to witness all the wild behind-the-scenes action — performers exploding into rants, random blowjobs on/off stage, many different hijinks. Those of us there in the room are treated to Waters twirling around on stage during a costume change. His look is a stylized foil cutout of a multi-faceted paper doll, framed between two panes of glass, made in the likeness of the musician Prince. I’m very excited for the next portion and want to video-record it for myself. It’ll be a big file as I’m betting it’ll be a long segment, but at this point I’m certain I’ll actually want to watch it again. I try to wedge my phone upright against some bulky theater equipment and hope for the best as the countdown to re-air begins.

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Dream Journal

X-ARDOS

I don’t know why the dream must be named what it is, but it was the strongest word in my head upon waking. Perhaps it has some relation to bardo, the Tibetan spiritual state in between death and rebirth.

Three of us are traveling on a long motorbike, my friend Aislinn, my wife and me. I’m driving from the farthest rear, which proves difficult on the freeway. As I’m about to take an exit, another motorcycle passes me on the right making things just that much more difficult. This exit is somehwere in the state of Iowa. It strikes me how much like every other freeway exit in America it is, yet with subtly apparent differences that make it like Iowa.

Rounding through a parking lot and a few low buildings, I swing around to a gas station (something like a gas station anyway) that’s broken down and is now freezing everything around it. I comment that it’s gonna be some expensive snow, and we decide to park and check it out. That proves somewhat difficult, as I back into a space alongside a cinderblock wall. The car ignition also seems to freely turn with any key I try, which is clearly something else to be concerned with. The vehicle is an SUV now, more like the old Nissan truck I used to drive (and drove from Iowa).

As soon as I park and get out, Aislinn asks if I worry about parking in front of that door, pointing to a barred gate which looks into the courtyard of an African monastery for junior monks. I curse and start to park all over again — though the neighborhood looks shabby, there’s clearly a lot going on. I do more back and forth nudging into a space, now there are even more cars to work around.

When I finally make it out, I’m at a family reunion for my Dad’s side. They’re loud and boisterous, very familiar with each other. The car becomes some white-furred furniture or a stuffed figure. There’s an exchange of gifts, and I must find a place to stack long tentbag-like objects on a similar white-furred bed (not sure if it’s the same, but it’s a different location). I correct my dad and place these objects off the head of the bed, onto the sheet, to minimize dirtiness.

I get invited to follow my uncle Vince on a short tour. I follow him while adjusting a set of recording glasses, falling behind because of them after he exits a set of double doors, then jogging after to keep up. I feel younger and younger in this dream, my role shifting. My uncle and I tour a dark, mostly empty parking garage, a caverous metal warehouse-like space, while he narrates the story of various murals telling stories of our family. (On reflection, this almost sounds like a transplanted version of Aboriginal Australian lore.)

One particular story, high up on a side wall, tells the story of a broken branch hanging high in a pine tree, staying stick even in strong wind (I’m almost certain this story is from another of my dreams a long while ago). Something all my male relations witnessed at the time, some broader story I can’t make out now. I confess how even though I never met my great-grandfather I have a nickname for him.

After a great effort to remember am earlier set of dreams, I can recall being transposed back to Australia in 2006, nostalgic for when I actually visited. I’m physically emobodied in that time again, as I was when I was really there. I stand outside a grand modern airport or mall, manicured fountains outside, the curved steps leading down to a light rail transit line. I carry an iconic backpack I’ve used forever in Australia (not accounted for in waking life) which is like a trailer-like shell which unfolds, revealing pockets within pockets, all labeled with names of politicians or notable Aussie figures.

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Dream Journal

Night After First Time š“‚€

In a forest and see a deep fryer by side of a dirt road. Like a barbecue grill, but red, with what looks like a red gas container connected to the side. My mom and I decide we don’t need to take it. We go over a small tree-lined ridge and down a steep hill. We pause to lie down and take a break, on our way to what looks like a rundown railyard below. Mom is large, maybe six times my size, like when I was young and much smaller. (This dream took much effort to remember.)

During š“‚€ I had a feeling I last felt when I was in my first bedroom, in Santa Rosa, maybe 1-4 years old. Flowing through the bars of a crib perhaps. The trainman clock on the wall, the one from Germany. Indoor lighting, not sunshine, nighttime. The wooden ‘Robert’ blocks, the ones with the rainbow letters. Some of these recollections were seen, others felt.

In a later dream, inside an abandoned train car, the side has a painted-over sign reading ‘FREE AIR’. A couple passes by the end of the narrow hall and I jokingly call out “Ah! Other people! Ah!” Another train car painted orange and green has an ad for a neighborhood Irish radio station/bar, 9.53 FM — I think it’s really 95.3, but the misplaced decimal point is for charm (and to throw off lazy authorities).