two years of my dream log

A little over two years recording nearly all of my remembered dreams here. I'm suprised at how many MORE there were in 2006 than in 2005. I'd say about 3/4 of entries were from the second year. And I feel like I have a lot to work with now, to look back at. There's a huge amount of raw data, frankly, that I can sift through and pull apart. Certainly I think I can draw some strong lines between my diet (particularly high acid foods, dairy, and booze) and general ferocity of dreams. And I would like to chart out some calendric details, too. What days of the week do I tend to have dreams (that I remember, anyhow)? Of course, that will fold back into my diet, too, since we, for instance, almost ALWAYS have pizza on Wed, and I almost ALWAYS drink alcohol on Thursday evenings, and so forth. Can my dreams that I record on Monday mornings be textured against whether we ate at our house or at MarJar's?

And I'd like to chart out themes in general, too. A recent comment on the log here (cheers, Austin) hit the nail on several: transportation, movement away from danger toward safety, and violence. "Lots of death," I believe the actual comment was, but I would suggest "Lots of violence" would be more precise, although there are instances of death, too: my murder of the girl in the market and the guy taking a face full of steel rail on the rooftop spring to mind as rather strong images right off the bat.

But I think that over time my dreams have shifted and probably nowadays it is me committing more violence than being the victim of it, as was the case in years past. But I think that this is a good thing, in all reality; my facile memory suggests that most of the violence I commit in my dreams is reactive, and even righteous in many cases, rather than sadistic. Whereas when I dreamt constantly of being hunted, it was usually malign beings pursuing me with "reckless hate" and I was helpless to stop them. With a few exceptions, I'm thrilled to death to be the one messing the other guy up-- they're MY dreams, after all.

And I'm glad to look back and see a lot of dreams with far more noble themes, too. I dream about my friends a lot; I dream about trying to do my job well (even if all of those dreams seem to be hugely frustrating! but I'm always really trying, and that's a very real-life dream for me); I dream about nobility and loyalty in my dogs.

And I dream about combating fascism. Praise Allah.

Of course, I also dreamed about a deific avatar raping a catatonic old woman.

two years of my dream log

A little over two years recording nearly all of my remembered dreams here. I'm suprised at how many MORE there were in 2006 than in 2005. I'd say about 3/4 of entries were from the second year. And I feel like I have a lot to work with now, to look back at. There's a huge amount of raw data, frankly, that I can sift through and pull apart. Certainly I think I can draw some strong lines between my diet (particularly high acid foods, dairy, and booze) and general ferocity of dreams. And I would like to chart out some calendric details, too. What days of the week do I tend to have dreams (that I remember, anyhow)? Of course, that will fold back into my diet, too, since we, for instance, almost ALWAYS have pizza on Wed, and I almost ALWAYS drink alcohol on Thursday evenings, and so forth. Can my dreams that I record on Monday mornings be textured against whether we ate at our house or at MarJar's?

And I'd like to chart out themes in general, too. A recent comment on the log here (cheers, Austin) hit the nail on several: transportation, movement away from danger toward safety, and violence. "Lots of death," I believe the actual comment was, but I would suggest "Lots of violence" would be more precise, although there are instances of death, too: my murder of the girl in the market and the guy taking a face full of steel rail on the rooftop spring to mind as rather strong images right off the bat.

But I think that over time my dreams have shifted and probably nowadays it is me committing more violence than being the victim of it, as was the case in years past. But I think that this is a good thing, in all reality; my facile memory suggests that most of the violence I commit in my dreams is reactive, and even righteous in many cases, rather than sadistic. Whereas when I dreamt constantly of being hunted, it was usually malign beings pursuing me with "reckless hate" and I was helpless to stop them. With a few exceptions, I'm thrilled to death to be the one messing the other guy up-- they're MY dreams, after all.

And I'm glad to look back and see a lot of dreams with far more noble themes, too. I dream about my friends a lot; I dream about trying to do my job well (even if all of those dreams seem to be hugely frustrating! but I'm always really trying, and that's a very real-life dream for me); I dream about nobility and loyalty in my dogs.

And I dream about combating fascism. Praise Allah.

Of course, I also dreamed about a deific avatar raping a catatonic old woman.

three dreams in one night. (#1 sexually explicit)

pot pie, PB cookies, water


I remembered three dreams from this night, probably because I woke up several times in the night and either couldn't get back to sleep right off, or because I purposely went through them in my head to store them for later.

first dream. (sexually explicit.)
Talking with 1, 2 and 3 about how they get along without having anybody to screw. They're all rather aggravated about it. 1 tells me that he catches 3 jerking off every morning, and he says that 2 gives him (1) head a lot, (he does the fist at the mouth/tounge in the cheek motion as a visual aide) which I find pretty shocking, frankly. As he says each of these things, I get just a visual flash of the experiences. Highly voyeuristic.

second dream.
At an airport in London. We're getting ready to take off, but I realize that we never searched lost & found at the airport for our stuff and I charge back off the plane to go have a look. I sprint through the airport to the lost and found room, which really resembes the jumble of a junk & collectables shop more than anything. Red carpet. In a pile in the center of the room I find our missing stuff, sure enough. A bag for each of us (is it mom, dad and me?), and coats for all but myself. The coats are all these giant fur numbers like the kids nick from the wardrobe in (the 2006 version) _Lion, Witch & the Wardrobe._ I also find my fez box, which is a real releif. The fezzes are still intact and fine. Another fez box is stacked there and I peek inside. There are a couple of white fezzes with heavy jewelling that I've seen before, maybe on the internet. They have pricetags on them; one says $85, which is really way too much for this fez, even so ornate. I consider stealing them-- it's unlikely they they'd ever be claimed, and I'd kind of like to stick it to someone who tries to pull down $85 for this thing. But I decide against it.

In the meantime, I'd better be getting back to the plane-- yikes, time is short. But I'm all sweaty from the sprint across the airport. Well, I have fresh clothes again, now that I've found the bags. I strip down to my undies, to pull on a fresh pair of levis and a plaid button-down. Of course, two young women come tripping in as I'm in my undies. Fuck. I try to cover up, but what's the need, my body looks a lot more pumped up than I remembered. I start heading back with all this stuff, but I realize that I left my tickets/boarding pass on the plane. I'm screwed. I know they won't let me through security without. I go to a guy in a uniform and start pleading my case, explaining what's happened. He's reticent, and I understand, but can't he help me? He puts me in a line to have my situation addressed. I'm too late. I know it.


third dream
I'm working at a Blockbuster video, but it's a huge warehouse space, like a Best Buy. And Lane is still my manager here. I'm trying to organize some stock, but I'm sort of lost and useless. I realize there's a woman at the register and I hop over, apologize for not being there. She wants to buy some lawn furniture, but she wants to use a competitor's coupon. I'm pretty sure we can do that, but I'm not certain how to enter it properly. Where's Lane when I need him, anyhow? I try to use the scanner on the coupon bar code, but it won't take, and I try to type it in, which takes a long time. The woman is not very understanding; I try to explain that I've only been back on this job for a couple of days after several years away.

[by my reckoning, they probably at the hospital having their baby when I had this dream]

work exchange

green chile "chicken" cassarole, water, some candy lady fudge

fragmentary

There is a managers exchange between the Il Vicinos. I think that ours are only going there, but when I get to work, I'm confronted with strangers-- a big bellied guy in a t-shirt that looks like a truck driver and another guy. And I don't recognize the restaurant, either. It actually looks like elements of our the Spoleto spaces, but in colors from our house, especially the blue room. Then I realize that they have just moved all the tables over to one wall and they're taking the legs off or something, and that's why it looks strange. The incoming managers all seem terse and humorless and I have no confidence. This was definitely a waste of time and a mistake.

I'm in a hotel room, typing a form or a letter. We're expecting the guys from the wedding party. The mother of the groom is with me, I think. There's a knock. I don't know what to expect. Some wierd, dumpy guy comes in. He's followed shortly by the groom, an also wierd, also dumpy guy with hair long on top and shaved on the sides. Khakis and a white button down. I humor his excitement. We do a little dance, a little dip. This guy is a flamer. Is he marrying a girl? Am I supposed to perform this ceremony?

I guess I'm George Orwell or something

taco tote papota, quesadilla, y tostadas, todos con salsas, agua

I've gone to this (Spanish?) city. I'm supposed to meet up with Stephanie there. I don't know if we've gone knowing that the war is back on, or if the fresh violence has caught us off guard, but here we are and I'm glad to be in the thick of it. I feel I'm keeping just one step ahead of one faction or other, and I know that we are in danger here, not only from the caprices of war, but from the politics of the situation, too.

There's some trudging about in this dream, but I don't remember, some geographical references to the area around the Ventura gate by my parents' house. But then I am making my way through the city to the hotel where we will meet up. It is cold, there is some old sludgy snow on the ground though most is gone. There are bodies here and there. I'm walking past a fence covered in mesh cloth, like around a construction site, I can catch glimpses through and there is the body of a man face down in the winter-white grass just beyond. Maybe a uniform. You don't stop to look. You keep moving with the rest of the people around you.

I spend the night at my hotel. The flattened remains of "St. Bartholomew's" is across the street, recently largely torn down, not bombed. I can see the ruin of it from a window. There are people moving around in it, in the surrounding yard.

The next morning, I know that they are coming for me. It will be tricky; I have to meet Stephanie here, but I have to time it so that they don't arrest me while I'm waiting. I slip out of my room and around a corner moments before they come and kick the door in. I make my way downstairs. Stephanie should be here any moment. Through cracks between the planks that cover the windows, I can see that what was left of St. Bartholomew's is gone, eliminated. The very earth has been set in drifts like snow around the old churchyard. There is a buxom blonde woman in a black dress with tiny polka dots reclining on a sort of stool set againt a pillar, smoking a cigarette through a long holder. She doesn't acknowledge me, but I speak to her anyway, not even certain if I can trust her, she may turn me over to the men.

"It was bombed last night?"

"Uh huh."

"I don't know why, it was already just a ruin."

"Yep."

Stephanie is there, we have to go. We get out of the building. As we trudge along in a crowded street. She tells me about the man who helped her find me there, about about his flamboyant boyfriend who wore heels. There are more bodies today, lots more. Walking across a park, I look to one side, a low space between two hills, there are several bodies on the ground, people there apparently to claim them. I want badly to take a picture but I'm afraid that people will see and I'll be beaten for being callous, or worse. We walk past the cloth covered fence, I spy the body there again, the grass has seemed to crawl up over it. It's as dead as the corpse, so I know it hasn't grown, I wonder if wind-- or the bombs?-- has somehow moved the grass up over the side of the body.

Another body, but this one is different. It is face up, its arms out and flexed, almost in a state of surrender. The wrists are secured to the ground with heavy cords or tubing. It's been left as a warning, as a desecration. No one dares to try to move it. It's a young man with short, sandy blonde hair. Not more than 18 or 19, in an olive drab wool uniform coat with red and yellow patches or decorations at the shoulder.

We keep moving, getting toward our goal of a market and train station.

everybody's drunk here

peppers stuffed with cheesy rice, broccoli, breadsticks, water, one piece of fudge

I'm out and about at night with Ross from work. We stop by a Circle K sort of place, probably up around Morningside Park, but it's not the one that's there. It's all white, inside and out, there aren't really shelves of products, though there are some stacks of stuff on the floor, like bags of charcoal maybe, with red and black packaging;, and there's candy & such at the counter, magazines. [I've dreamed of this place before...] There's a line, maybe two lines to two registers. All guys my own age. As I finally get up to the register, I find that impatient guys behind me are actually reaching around me to set down & pay for their stuff. I'm completely flabbergasted. I finally get there and Vangie from Smith's is the cashier. I ask for a pack of cigarettes (she gives me Marlboro-- white and red), and a drink. I pay, but then a tabloid-format magazine down and to my right catches my eye, and before I know it, I've read a good portion of the front page. I come back to my senses, people behind me are very frustrated that I'm just standing at the register. Embarrassed, I buy the magazine and leave.

I get out into the parking lot and I hear Vangie come out the door behind me, calling after us. I forgot my smokes & drink, and she insists that I'm obviously too drunk to drive. I don't disagree with her, though I'm not certain how I got so drunk, or why I chose to drive to this place in my apparent condition. She suggests that we could go get something to eat, leave the car here, and come back for it when we're sober. Good idea. In fact, she recommends a Mexican restaurant over on Central, she'll take us there, and she starts hoofing it down the street, heading off NW toward Central. I trot to keep up.

We work our way through the residential neighborhoods and it turns to day. We three round a corner and there stands a huge apartment or corporate office complex, easily 20 stories high. I remark how weird it is when you think you know the streets in an area but then it turns out you find such places you didn't even know existed. Somehow it is decided that we should get inside this building, probably Ross' idea. Vangie knows a way in, and we follow her. We get up on a section of roof only a couple of stories up and get through a window that is high up in an atrium-like space, lined on the inside with windows, all set back into the wall to give maybe a 6 inch ledge I can barely stand on. And yet Vangie walks down the wall like it's a staircase, simply striding down by stepping on these tiny ledges. I feel stuck, though, uncertain how I can follow her. To complicate things, I have a cigarette in my mough, the smoke in my eye. I start to haltingly step down, I drop the cigarette onto the tile floor below. I make it down, but not without attracting the attention of a man in shirt and tie sitting in an office, the window of which I have just climbed past. He's coming, we book it.

Down down down, through the flourescent-lit halls. Lost and no idea how to get out or away. We all realize we're coming to a dead end tangle of halls, but then we round a corner and there's a "pizza party" set up on folding tables, and we get an idea. Vangie and Ross disguise themselves as business boy yuppie types in their 30's, I do the same. We're all blonde, we're all cookie cutter. We start stuffing our faces with the pizza and fuschia-frosted cupcakes. The guy chasing us comes around the corner, but doesn't recognize us. This is a welcome party for the new associates. This building is the corporate offices, and the tower is the dormitory for all the guys that work here. The guys start showing up, they're all blonde 30-something cookie cutters, too. And they're all drunk. Vangie and Ross are really uncomfortable, but I throw myself into my role, chatting up these assholes. Fuck.

i steal a weapon of great power

saggios: broccoli & mushroom and pineapple & onion, water

I'm part of a caravan that is escorting two very powerful weapons to a safe hiding place. Anachronism reigns. The vehicles are motorized, but most look like idealized museum specimen old west coaches, all dark wood and carved and red velvet. Myself, I'm dressed (and look) like Mr. Dark from _Something Wicked This Way Comes._ The pace is hurried across the region, there is some urgency to get these two things to their destination, lest other powers descend upon us and take them. Little does everyone know that there is a cabal of us within the caravan set to take the weapons for ourselves.

The first step is to take a mantle-like piece of clothing, and with the power it will afford us we can steal the shining globe. The first task is up to me. There are 5 of us in our coach, three of us are in the know, the other are wary and watchful, as well as dangerous. I feign sickness as we speed across the desert, I claim that I need to go above for some fresh air. A woman, in full Victorian age frontier lady dress, inquires if some crackers might help. I tell her no, that I had too much wheat with breakfast and that it is upsetting my stomach. I climb out the window and clamber carefully up onto the roof. From here, I will have to jump to the larger vehicle behind us, where the first weapon is carried. The vehicles aren't lined up well, I have to wait for the two drivers, both of whom are acting in the conspiracy, to pull closer, and then I throw myself off the roof of the stagecoach and catch onto the roof of the other.

Flash to our evening stop. It is known throughout the camp that I have taken the mantle. But no one can challenge me about it. We have stopped at a campsite with simple, small, clean buildings, drywall and concrete floors, some plumbing. I am in a small room under a shower. I am naked except for the mantle, which is like a very thick kuffiyeh scarf which I wear around my neck in a large loop. Other young men are coming in to glare at me, I am unconcerned. I will show them , and those who cannot be convinced of the rightness of our actions are unimportant, they an be discarded. The sun is setting, I walk outside into a yard full of people, all in period dress. (Not certain if I've dressed or not.) As I emerge into the last rays of the sun, suddenly the gleaming edge of the sun jumps back up into the sky, the sun itself greets me. The people are amazed. I move back out of the sun and it drops again. And then I run forward again, and again the sun leaps back up most of the way over the horizon. I try for a third time, but I let the sun go too far down and it doesn't catch on me again. Still, people applaud. The fear I have aroused in many is put to rest. We still have some way to go, though.

a hole in the floor and some nutty christians

spicy chik'n sandwiches & (garlic) fries, water

First part is lost.

We're around the neighborhood, around the house. I think I'm on the roof. A regular joe with a bag full of tools comes up and says that he knew "Brian," the guy who sold us the house. Mind you, the house isn't actually 411, it's more like the white house at Sil and P'ton, but that's where we live. I can't recall the name of the man who sold it to us; "Brian" sounds maybe right, but I have misgivings. But this guy says he helped Brian re-do the floors, and just needs to check up on them. I let him come on the roof-- or do we go inide? It's not clear. But he takes out his tools and deftly removes a section of floor (roof? we ARE inside, though...) about 3x2 feet. It sawtooths together with the rest of the wood floor, and I see that they laid it so that instead of planks butting against each other, they're cut back at a long angle, so that about a foot of the one plant overlays a foot of the other, which makes for a much thicker and sturdier floor. Beneath the wood is a mass of newspaper, some crunched and bunched up, other left in piles. Insulation. I think of what a fire trap it is. I step down into the paper and the surface beneath it rolls like the deck of a ship. The guy leaves, and I still have misgivings-- did I just give away part of our floor to a con man?

I go out on the porch, looking down the street. When I turn back around, a group of mother/daughter missionary pairs has gaggled up at the door. The moms seem to be in simple blouses and mom jeans, the daughters-- all a little husky-- are all in these long flowered dresses, Warren Jeffs style. Josh has written "PREACH OFF" in block letters with a sharpie on a yellow sticky note, posted it on the storm door, and is pulling it shut in their faces. They are undaunted. I squirm my way past them, letting it be known that we want no part in their process. They refuse to give up. One or two of the daughters keep trying to worm past me into the house, getting on hands and knees and crawling under my legs, trying to force the door and step past. I am not amused. I start screaming obscenities at them and forcing them physically away from my door. One of the daughters looks absolutely devastated. I start screaming at them, "Now YOU know what it's like being persecuted in this country! How do you think it is being a fucking MUSLIM in this country?" I drag up my right sleeve, intending to flash my ghazi star, but it's different, and I can't get my sleeve easily past it. But it looks like a cog graphic with an Olde English "A" in the middle.

working at a new restaurant

spicy chik’n sandwiches, fries, water, candy lady fudge


Various elements of _Scanner Darkly_ creep into this dream at the front end, including me being Bobby Hill and I eat one of the bugs from the beginning of the movie.

I am working a night at the “other restaurant” in the business. I have refused to work here before, but I am doing so as a favor to Meg. The evening is just getting started. The restaurant is a rather large space, all one big room, with a bar (or something) in the middle and a bar over at one wall. It’s a white walls, dark wood concoction, wait staff in white shirts & long aprons & ties. The action is starting and everyone is hustling. But I’m not certain what to do, and I don’t know where I’m supposed to be working. I approach some ladies stuck in line and offer to get them a drink while they wait. They select cocktails with some sort of pink liquor in a low brandy-shaped bottle.

I go to make the drinks for them. I can’t find any of the liquor, though; I open a reach-in and dive in there up to the waist, and find one last bottle, but it only has enough for one drink, if that, not three. Fuck. I’m flailing around trying to get more of this stuff, but I don’t even know my co-workers’ names to ask anyone for help. What do I do? I feel like I should have been back by now with the drinks. I finally go back, and show them the bottle, but now it really does have enough for three drinks. Fuck it. Fine, I’ll get the drinks together.

I go over to the bar by the wall and hop up on the bar top & lay over to reach some glasses. Someone grabs my legs and thrusts me over the bar and I crash over on the floor. I am incredibly pissed off. I go to a girl that was facing whoever it was, across the bar, and ask who did it. She won’t talk to me or make eye contact. I finally get her to say, “If he sees me tell you, he’ll be pissed. But he’s eyeing you right now.” I swing around and some fratboy dick in a trendy blue striped shirt yanks his eyes off of me. I charge around the bar. Here goes.

I push him off his stool and try to fight him, but true dream-style, I can’t get any power in my swings, we’re both moving too slow to really be fighting. AAAAAAAAARRRRRGH! I let it go, but I’m out of here. I storm through the restaurant, taking off this stupid gear. Meg stops me, asks me what’s wrong. I tell her I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know the system, I can’t function, I don’t even know where my section is, and since the restaurant is FULL, that means that people have been sitting without even a glance of service for a long time. (My alarm really rises at this realization.) She protests, that maybe I don’t even HAVE a section. I don’t understand how this can be.

I’m walking home, through a neighborhood that looks like Pill Hill/MLK Jr. Something alerts me. The fratboy is here. And this time I’m not dream-weak or slow. I drop him and smash his face into the pavement. In a very scramble-suit-style, his body is morphing, various cartoon elements and characters. At some point he is a cartoon skeleton.

lost student or secret agent?

green chile turkey enchiladas, beans & rice, water, choco cake

I'm moving through the old high school. (The dream version, not my real one.) I think I'm wearing a tweed jacket. I'm lurking around, the halls are largely empty. It's off season, probably a week or something before classes start. Am I looking for evidence? I have a digital camera with me, and I'm snapping pics. I find something on the floor-- is it hard candy? Or is it the ruined carcass of a small bird? I take a picture. People begin staring, what am I doing, anyhow? Do I have blood around my mouth? And I suddenly realize that I have a German test in only a short time, and I'm unprepared.

I attempt to put that aside and continue. I go up into the office area. Dianne Anderson from the news is one of the secretaries. I step up to her and in my best socialite divorcee falsetto voice: "DiiiiiAAAAAANNNNEE! How AAAARRREEE you?" But I don't give her a chance to respond, she knows I have no real interest. She glares up at me. She's nothing to me and I dont' care.

driving with the mistress

Olympia cafe, PBR

I'm in the back seat of M's squareback, I think C is driving, and M is in the passenger seat. We're winding up mountain roads. I'm stretched out in the seat, looking up and across at M and out the passenger side windows. I can see the blasted rock faces of the road cut in to the mountain passing by. Very much the light sandstone and limestone of the Sandias. She's going on and on. She had to spend an afternoon with D for some reason and apparently D was, of course, a real bitch to her. But M is still keeping up the game, going on and on about she doesn't know why D would be a bitch to her, and on and on. I keep my trap shut and an eyebrow raised. I feel real fatigue at the charade and feel like knocking their heads together and shouting "Everyone knows! Why keep pretending?!?!?" M keeps going on about it.