Category: Dreams

Oct. 7th, 3:05 AM (a filmic dream)

Men in uniform appear to be making a fake video/film showing someone blowing up. The explosion is real, and the person who dies is not part of the fascist conspiracy.

The scene changes to reveal a small boy looking at public mailings. The brochures and fliers have no text or photos and are just white paper. “It must mean something,” he says, taking them and throwing them on a shiny floor. One of the explosion conspirators picks up a few. He and the boy notice each other, so feeling exposed, the conspirator exits towards the camera. As fills in the camera frame, everything goes white.

Camera zooms out of a white screen and reveals an extreme close up of a man in a suit with no face. He has a white hole there instead. As the camera continues to pull away, the figure stands in the middle of a city street. Another uniformed man runs just in front of the camera, looking behind him as he shoots a cross-bow arrow at the blank-faced man. The arrow disappears in to the white emptiness of his face, so the soldier quickly reloads his crossbow for another try. As the blank-faced man begins to run towards the soldier, the second arrow launches. The blank-faced man runs faster, putting both his hands in together in front of him, and the arrow pierces his hands. Sparks fly in a close up shot of the man’s pierced hands.

A pencil flies away from the camera, revealing Tom Cruise in uniform, standing on a decorated stage in front of a huge, fascist-looking cross symbol. The uniformed man siting in the front row was the main conspirator in the explosion propaganda film. Other faces in the crowd seem familiar.

I am backstage at a Phish concert, which has the stage set up at the top of a ski resort mountain. A large, Atlas-like statue stands about 30 feet above the main stage, with the figure’s arms holding a smaller stage above its head. Trey, Mike, and Page, along with a frightened Stephen Colbert, ascend the platform above Atlas’ head. Four other people are on the stage, and the band and Colbert climb on top of one of them and, in a row, begin to do choreographed movements. As they move, Colbert does not lean over the edges like the others do. He’s too scared. Of the Phish members, Trey has the most courage, looking precarious at times as he reaches over the person he’s on top of and over the edge of the small stage.

They end their movements and then grab notched rope that let’s them descend beyond the stage-level and all the way down to the bottom of the mountain where the ski lodge sits. As they make their Batman-like exit, the audience roars in hilarious approval.

The scene shifts and I am back in time just before the show starts. Still backstage, but at the lodge-level of the mountain, I see an old hippie looking a bit lost. He holds a piece of paper and shuffles up to a door that opens to a stairwell leading up to the stage-level. He mumbles something about the audition being fake, and then opens the door and climbs the stairs.

I walk through a dark, dingy nightclub somewhere in New Orleans. Bad dixieland plays as I find myself quite sober at the exit, trying to avoid tipping the players. I have to step on a series of small sets of squares to get out of the club. and into the parking lot. I see someone from my Alma Mater tailgating in the lot, which makes me want to call J. B. I haven’t spoken to her in years, so we chat and decide to have lunch in NOLA. Making a lunch date leaves me hungry, so I walk over to a shopping center in hopes of finding food. I find a store full of Star Wars toys instead, and end up standing with two people and having a drink with them. The woman makes me feel uneasy, and when I nervously look at her from out of the corner of my eye, she blinks, revealing a third eye. She grins as the third eye, with cat-like slit and off-white color, stares through me.

I wake up groggy and disoriented, not knowing where I am. My vision blurred, and fear hitting me, I start making up jazz scatting to try to ground. I hum fun melodies, not sure if I am singing in my mind or out loud in the now-focusing surroundings. I stand up and try to look around, staggering like a drunk, and begin to see that I am in an empty floor of an office building. Cubicles stand silent in the semi-darkness, and I finally see things clearly. I begin to walk around, picking up a plastic cup and pretending that it is a Star Wars light saber. Pretending that I am Darth Vader, I pretend battle through the office and come to a glassed wall with a door. A security guard exits the door towards me.

“Luke, give in to the Dark Side and we will rule the Empire… together!” I say to the guard.

Laughing, he says “here’s the latest copy of Wizards. You might enjoy it,” and he throws the magazine on the desk in front of me.

Another guard walks towards us from the direction I had walked. The two of them discuss a woman who is not doing too well in another part of this reality.

“Where am I?” I ask. They don’t answer.

“Why am I here?” I ask. “You assaulted a woman with a cup,” the friendly guard tells me.

“I want to leave here,” I tell them.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he replies.

“Can I at least get something to eat? I’m hungry.”

“Yeah. I’ll get you something,” the friendly guard says.

…

I am wide awake in this present reality, with the woman’s third eye haunting me as I try to go back to bed. (This dream woke me at 3:55am; an unusual time for me to dream.)

An accident has caused a young man’s forehead to cave in. It collapsed like a paper bag when he stood up too fast in the woods and hit his head on a woman’s musical instrument case. Other than looking freakishly odd, he seemed fine after the incident. Smitten over the man, a woman showed her desire by going to the Monument, a hill that their community deems sacred, and stripping it of human-made structures. She wonders what the Blue Bottle would say about that, as she feels a strong urge to restore the Monument to a pre-human condition.

After the man’s cave-in incident, friends are strangely moved by his look, so they put a stocking cap on his head to hide the huge dent in his forehead. They all walk through the woods to attend an odd tennis match, and the man stays in the trees as his friends play below. His hat comes off, and while no one is surprised at his looks, he becomes the focus of everyone’s attention. A woman asks him if he has seen the Blue Bottle about his condition, and he says “No.”

The story pauses, and the scene changes to my driving a car in my small hometown. The roads are oddly marked (like I am in a future version of the town) so I miss a left turn. I drive on and make a dangerous u-turn, and eventually arrive to a future/alt version of my father’s business. In the shadowy rooms, I hear music, and go over to turn it off. It is a collapsible frame with speakers, wires, and buttons. The off switch doesn’t turn it off, but another janky switch does.

The man with the crushed forehead finds himself on the Memorial mound. Something drives him to strip away the human additions to the area. While he pulls a large piece of plastic out from under the duft of the trees, a woman shows up. “Have you visited the Blue Bottle yet?” she asks. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?! No.” “Well, I happen to be his house mate and we live just down the trail over there. Do you want to meet him?” “Sure,” the man answers.

While walking to the house, the man asks the woman why he is called the Blue Bottle. “Have you ever tried heroin?” she replies. “Uh, no,” he responds. “Well, it he’s called the Blue Bottle because of that.”

They approach the house, which bustles with activity. They walk through rooms of people preparing things for a feast and ritual, eventually leaving the main house through another door and into a courtyard. A man sits at a table and welcomes them with a smile. He asks the man with the caved-in forehead to sit.

While chatting, the Blue Bottle places a large round piece of leathery-looking bread on the table. He tells the man that he needs to eat the bread, so the man with the caved forehead picks it up. Parts of the loaf flak away, so the man breaks off the thin parts and pushes them into a small pile on the table. A bearded man walks up to the table, saying nothing, grabs a handful of the flakes, and eats them. He walks away, and the Blue Bottle replies “now that it looks like a buffalo, you should eat it.”

The man with the caved forehead breaks off a piece of the bread, laughs, and exclaims “now it’s shaped like a bicycle saddle!” He eats the piece, and then is shown to another outlaying building. He walks through a room that holds a long row of industrial stoves and ovens. A crowd of people work the ovens, while he walks by and exits out a screened-in door.

He exits out into a large field full of people preparing and congregating around bonfires. He looks back at the screened-in door and sees a sousaphone player exiting into the field with other brass band members. That must be the only entrance into this field the man with the caved-in forehead muses.

Whatever the loaf of bread is, the man does not feel any different. He finds himself by a fire, using his depressed cranium to make noises that mimic prehistoric animals. The crowd stops and listens to his sounds and slowly begin to grow weary of these realistic noises. Somewhere deep in their ancient homo sapien brains, a fear and flight trigger switches on. They’ve had enough of these scary sounds, which make them feel hunted.

Just a fragment remembered: A pain hits the skin just near the lower left side of my mouth. Feels like a pimple, with the sharp pains that nerves release when one is forming. I put my left hand to the spot near my mouth and slightly pinch it. Yes, probably a pimple, but what is the deal with these course hairs? Several of them are coming out of the area and it hurts to pull on them.

I then feel a clenching in my throat, like I’m coughing up something that I didn’t swallow correctly. Suddenly, I am coughing up a foreign object, and it appears to NOT want to exit out of my mouth. As I retch, a pointed tip exits through the “pimple” in the side of my mouth. I continue to evacuate the object and a full-length, sharpened, yellow No. 2 pencil comes out of the wound! After it comes out, I feel relief and happiness. I wake from this dream (there was more before the “pimple”) slightly laughing at the image. What a great start for a Thursday.

A prominent female journalist has died. Instead of going to the funeral, I stay outside with J. and help her bake cookies. A circus troupe pulls up and begins a show, so I get distracted with the baking and watch the performance. J. gets upset and cries. An A/V tech person checks on us and wants us to tune in to the journalist’s funeral. “It’s at 12,” he says. The circus troupe perform acrobatics on a prop that looks like a tree. I speak to a woman about to go on with the tree, but she ends up doing a great trick: standing sideways and then doing a back flip off a bench onto the ground. The troupe uses an effect that involves pepper spray, so the audience ends up taking their jackets off. I am not effected.
——-
Earlier, I dreamed that I was at a larger circus with a troupe performing on a suspended platform. One of the performers wanted to take me home with her. I also guessed their finale correctly, chalking it up to my carny experience.
——-
I also dreamed a fragment of an old photo of me walking in a funeral. I have bushy sideburns and a big hoop ring in my right earlobe. I am part of an important funeral procession.

Jan. 22, ’10 Dream

I sit in an empty parking lot in Canada, waiting to get gassed by riot police. Across from me, a sign has been painted to commemorate a 1992 uprising. Strange blue smoke whips in on me well before the police cars show up. I hold my ground in the lot, wondering where the other protesters are. A second person finally comes in to the lot. He is local so wise in the tactics of the local police. He tells me that the march is down the street, getting blasted by riot cops. We continue to dodge the nerve gas, hiding behind and inside a parked car several times. A jet-propelled gust of wind hits us hard as flames streak down the street to the right of where we’re being blown over. The wind pushes us apart towards the back of the parking lot.

As I grab on to a solid piece of concrete at the edge of the lot, dozens of people come into view while they’re running down the street. The police corral them and force them into the lower section of the parking lot. I try to conceal myself in the rafters above them, but they see me and make me come down to be ticketed with the rest of the protesters.

After being released, my new friend and I walk by a huge piece of machinery. I watch as he knocks a large piece over, and then notice unmarked secret service guards on a nearby roof. Two women see our plight and help us escape in to a nearby building. We come out to a balcony and then hope over to another building’s balcony. The women living there are mixed in the uprising’s support, but a few of them know the local guy. We eat and take a break from the police violence. One woman tells me to go to Union Station after I leave. “That train stop has beautiful waterfalls at its entrance.”

I put my loose items in a plastic bag and leave. I do not get noticed or caught by the police. I also do not find Union Station and the waterfalls.

Jan. 14, ’10 Dream

I am visiting a desert-covered planet and am luckily in the privileged class. My class live in exotic, high-rise buildings constructed from red-colored tubes and glass. Floating above the living center, more red-cubed structures house water tanks filled with fish. These two staples sustain the privileged class. Outside theses structures, the people who get by in the harsh climate live in a city that looks like modern-day Cairo.

I spend an evening in the structure with several attractive women who only want to marry the super rich of our class. We go to a club, and bored, I meet a man who seems as disgusted as I am with the follies of our class. We become friends and even practice an intricate, intimate survival drill for the imminent nuclear attack.

In this drill, one puts an object in side one’s throat, which causes gills to form on one’s neck. Once the gills are formed, one can go into a water tank and breath in the water. Somehow this is the developed survival method for a nuclear attack.

Later, I decide to leave the controlled environment of the structure and “slum it” in the dirty streets of the sprawling city. On one visit outside, I try to find a cafe to have some tea. On a second visit outside, I ride an odd-shaped bike with my friend, CC and LRE. LRE needs to sew something, so we stop at a tailoring stand in the market. LRE walks behind the counter and uses the sewing machine for her task. Back on our bikes, we go down a steep hill and find a pub for a drink. I have been to this pub before.

The nuclear attack is finally coming and no one except myself and my friend seem to care. The first mushroom cloud flashes in the distance. I see it reflected in the panes of the floating aquarium structure. As my friend and I prepare for our own mushroom cloud, we place our gill-making device tools out. He tells me to get my tank ready, but I tell him that I want to share a tank with him. “Why?” he asks. “Because I love you,” I say. “I have always loved you.”

Jan. 12, ’10 Dream….

USA as we know it doesn’t exist. Proof comes when a person tries to pay for something with USA dollar bills. Being rare, the man behind the counter takes them with amazement and interest. The person who paid with the obsolete money is part of a group of creative people who have just come back into civilization to get by on the fringes. This group lived in the woods for years and left their seclusion by piloting white gliders out of the hills and into the farmland outside the city.

While visiting their new, urban compound (not sure if I am undercover for the government or not), I walk past three racks of printed t-shirts. All the prints are in red ink, with political images and messages. Inside, each of the artists have sections of the shack (it is made from sheets of metal) to display their items for sale. One member has intricate sculptures made out of paper or paper-mache.

Soon after my visit, the compound is peacefully raided (no stormtrooper/SWAT tactics) and all the underground artists are taken into custody. The money exchange was their tragic mistake!

………. Another Dream Fragment from that Morning …….

A theme park exists in the side of a tree-covered hill or mountain. Fantastical rooms exist in carved out parts of the hill. Houses can be rented, shopping malls stretch out into the earth. Even the bathrooms are elegant and high class. Wandering the maze-like halls and stairwells, I discover a huge, indoor pool.

Before the vivid memory kicked in, I was shifting through random worlds, going in and out of unfamiliar places. I end up at this house in the country, and walk outside. I see E. leaning on a gravestone, and walk over to see what you are up to. The gravestone falls over, revealing a tunnel that goes under the green grass and into the ground. We decide to crawl into the tunnel, and wind our way to a larger area that is bathed in light. On the left of us is a white wall with opaque windows, allowing the light to come into the tunnel. Past that wall, we find a door, and open it.

We walk into the large room, which looks like an indoor greenhouse, complete with skylights and well maintained gardens. We walk through the garden towards another door and open it. It leads us into an exquisite apartment with commanding views of a Germanic downtown (more like Salzburg than Wien). The apartment is immaculate, with sparse, modern decor. We snoop around and end up laying on a large couch or bed. At this part of the dream, subliminal erotic images flash, taking me away from the current “moment” in the apartment.

Back on the couch, I am ready to go back to the other world. The place is empty, and nice, so E. decides to stay. I exit the way we came in, and once I go past the white-lit walls in the tunnel, I look over my shoulder. Another portal has opened just under the window, and a well-dressed middle-aged woman appears. She doesn’t notice me and, after straightening her suit, heads into the garden room. “I hope E. won’t get into too much trouble,” I say. Crawling back out of the grave in the other world, I realize that that apartment belonged to the dead man who was under the felled gravestone.

The hitch on the trailer has broken, leaving Jon and I broken down on a Northern California winter’s evening. Not much around by way of lodging so we go to one of the few buildings for a night’s stay. Jon immediately goes into a deep, exhausted sleep, while I start feeling uneasy about the house. The house seems to want me dead, trying a few times to end my life. Getting through these attempts, one of the house’s spirits apparates. He’s angry and reminds me I belonged to them since L. tried to kill me there in the past. I refuse to be killed, and with Jon as no help, I leave the building looking for a solution.

I walk to a neighboring property that holds spiritual retreat. They’re closed for the winter, so I try to find the caretaker, hoping that he’ll help me not get killed. I wake him up, and ask him to help me with the problem. He doesn’t want too be bothered, so I begin to think hard about how to escape and not freeze to death. That’ll be hard to do in the country.

Confused spirits begin to show up. They’re looking for their lost loved ones. I ask them if they died in the house I’d fled and they all say yes. I ask them to help me end the spirit’s murderous ways. As they indicate that they want to help, I visualize spirits battling spirits as the only way out of this mess. Excited to deal with this, the spirits gather aroud me. We begin to organize and rally the masses for this one-shot assault.

While going for a walk, I stop at a house to pick up some things that I had recently left there. People are in the kitchen setting food on the table for a brunch. I don’t know anyone but manage to find a small inflatable raft and a shirt that belong to me. I walk around some, trying to find a place to stash the items, and annoy the brunch’s host. Still wanting to stash the items so I can continue my walk, I go out onto the patio and then notice two more items that belong to me. I pick up my travel towel bag and a T-shirt with a screaming hand on it, and fold everything up to fit in the bag. I keep looking for a place in the bushes by the road to stash my items, aware that I’m not welcome inside the house anymore.

I have been assigned to duel and kill a gentleman, who has hired me for that reason. He has also hired a second person, a female, to make sure that he dies. In the back of a restaurant, I stand to the left of the man while the woman stands on his right. We’re both pointing rapiers at him, and he half-heartedly holds one as well. I give an advance with my blade and he blocks it with a clank of his own. Distracting him in this manner, the woman easily checks him from behind and puts her rapier’s point onto the back, top-left of his torso. “Finish it,” I demand, but she only guides the man to a booth on the other side of the restaurant. Food is frantically served to the family at the ajoining booth. A child grabs a handful of spaghetti and splats it on his plate. The man at the booth asks us where he can find a realistic wig. I tell him that he can find something in the yellow pages, or maybe go to the high-end dress shops on Montgomery St. “Those who can afford good wigs, go to the Financial District,” I say.