Sunday, January 13, 2013
I was probably in an apartment at night. It was dark, and I probably couldn't see anything, but I "saw" everything in the apartment as if it were a dark, dark grey, all the same exact grey, with fuzzy, shaky outlines delineating each thing. I had walked out of some room, possibly a bedroom, and into the kitchen, then from the kitchen into the dining room, to the left of which may have been the living room.
All the time I had been walking I had been thinking about the origins of mankind. The story I had been hearing in my head had been a story which I didn't like. I can't remember it now. It may have had something to do with the evolution of man from animals. But I don't quite think that was it. The story had a more disappointing, almost anticlimactic, feel to it than the normal story of evolution. And every person's conception was similar to, if not exactly the same as, the overall origin of mankind. The story was even more of a letdown to me because of that.
Now I probably asked God, in my head, to tell me the "true" story of the origin of mankind. For the first story, I may now have had in my head the image of a yellow, flaming outline of a man, with some kind of sphere in the center of his chest, and with the man enclosed in a red triangle with a white center.
But I was now acting out the second story of the origin of mankind -- acting it out, apparently, as God was telling it to me. On the dining table was a strange candle. The flame was a sphere -- dark, dark grey, like everything else in the room, and waxy, not flame-like at all. The flame was maybe 18cm in diameter, and it overshadowed the actual candlestick, wherever the candlestick was. The flame was supposed to be the world.
I bent down and stretched my hands toward the "heat" (as nonexistent as the light) of this flame. My hands were fetal: stubby, tinny, and seemingly boneless. I alternately breathed onto my hands and stretched my hands toward the heat of the flame. Both actions were done in order to heat my hands. When I stretched out my hands, I would open and close them. It seemed, as I was opening and closing my hands, that they were, very slowly, expanding and developing into more post-natal-looking hands.
I understood this to be the origin of mankind. This origin seemed to be a lot more satisfying to me. But I may still have been disappointed by this story. After all, I had told myself that God had told me this story. But how did I know he'd told it to me? How did I know I hadn't told myself the story, fooling myself into believing God was telling me, out of a desire to have a less disappointing story about the origins of man?
Saturday, January 12, 2013
I can't quite remember where I was at first. I had been having a conversation with a group of people, probably including my mother. Those people then went away. We had all been together at one location. But now we were split apart.
I may have been trying to figure out how to get back to some of the people, at least my mother. But the people were all so far away. It was like I was in the mountains and they were somewhere else, maybe in a completely different mountain range, and that my only means of getting to that other place would imply a lot of trudging and tediousness.
I was probably still in the mountains -- a sunny slope of copper pine-needle-strewn, dusty soil, with thin-trunked trees here and there around me. Before me were two women who I may have thought of as being from India. They were mother and daughter, both skinny, wearing shirts like modern t-shirts and skirts like colorful, traditional Indian skirts.
The women had explained to me either how the daughter or the daughter's lover, a beautiful, strong, young man, was going away to school in Mexico. Either the mother or both women were now trying to figure out where to live in order to be closer to the school, so that a visit to the school could be made on a somewhat frequent basis, like once a month or once a week.
I explained to the women that if they lived in India, they could take a sailing passage down straight through to Mexico. This didn't quite make sense to me (even in my dream, where usually anything makes sense!).
I was now floating over either a map of the world or the world itself. I was only getting very tight views, which were never quite in alignment with exactly what I wanted to see. But I did get the idea from everything that there was a channel of water that connected, through India, around Eastern Europe, then down under Southern Europe, then alongside the northeastern edge of South America, which was apparently where Mexico was located. Some parts of the map blinked colors like a bruisy red, indicating key locations along the journey. One of these points was the location of the university in Mexico.
One land mass struck me as very interesting. It was a large island. I thought it should have been a country itself, it was so large. But I couldn't think of what country it could be. Somehow I made my view flash the names of all the countries I was seeing. This large island still had no name over it.
But something, some words flashing over it, made me realize that the island was either the property of a number of nations or a neutral zone that was the property of no nation. But either one or a number of nations were using this island as a place for military tests, or else it struck me personally that this island would be a good place for military tests.
As I tried to figure out more about this island, to figure out exactly where it was, the mother began speaking again. She told me that the daughter's father (?) had gone abroad for university as well. I imagined the father in a black and white photo, with kind of pale skin, a broad, square jaw, wavy hair combed back a bit, and thin, pudgy eyes. The mother spoke about the father not as if he'd ever been her husband, but as if he'd been a fairy tale male figure in the life of some other, fairy-tale-like woman the mother had known, possibly a woman very much like the mother saw the daughter as being.
The mother told me that the father had gone to the XXXXX School for Electrical Engineering. She said it almost apologetically, like there was some stigma of a lower level of education or lower cultural class from a school devoted only to electrical engineering. The school had, actually, struck me at first as not being a great school. But I wanted to defend the mother's emotions and let her think that the school was good.
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that the school was probably a very good school. It was the school, I now reflected, of electrical engineering for the entire nation of XXXXX. In the United States, I knew, we had schools for electrical engineering for entire states, such as, I told myself, the XXXXX School for Electrical Engineering.
My view was now of the mountain slope and the two women again. I tried to tell the mother about the XXXXX School for Electrical Engineering in the United States. But I didn't express very well what a prestigious school it was. The mother said there was another school like it. I thought of MIT, though I couldn't remember what the acronym stood for. I told the mother that MIT was a good school, and that the people from there were known for being highly cultured as well as very proficient at electrical engineering.
The mother now told me a story about the father -- now, possibly, as if the father actually had been the mother's husband. But the mother now looked a lot different. She was square-framed, possibly overweight, with baggy, turtle-like skin, saggy, pale eyes, and pale red-brown hair. She wore a pink-tan or orange-tan t-shirt that somehow didn't fit her very well, like it was skewed or crooked on her body.
The mother told a story about postcards, and possibly letters, the father would send back home. The letters were apparently diligent and romantic. But they may also have had some comic, eccentric element to them. The father's method of sending the postcards may also have been eccentric somehow.
The mother kept using the word "she" when she spoke about the father. It was like she wasn't very good at English. She would say "she" when using the pronoun in the nominative sense. But when using a possessive pronoun referring to the father, she'd said "his." Occasionally she may have mixed things up even further by switching up and saying "he" and "her."
The mother may have been slightly aware of her mistake. She may even have tried to apologize for it at some point. But it became clear that she was moving through her story as quickly as she could, and struggling hard to state everything else as clearly as she could in English, and still only achieving a halting relation of her story. So she simply couldn't take the time to get every pronoun's gender correct. I did my best to listen to the mother without showing any sign that I was even aware of her mistakes.
I was laying on a couch in a big living room. The couch was all done up as a bed, with sheets, blankets, etc. My head lay on one of the arms of the couch. The couch was probably near a window, through which moonlight probably shone.
A cat was now on the couch with me. And instead of laying with my head on the arm of the couch, I was curled up in some strange position, so that my head was near the center of the couch, but my arms and legs were both pointed toward the same arm of the couch. I was probably also leaning against the back of the couch.
The cat had been sitting on my legs and arms. It now stood up and defecated on my hands. It just kept crapping and crapping. Before long, a few long, warm pieces of crap were piled on my hands. The cat then jumped off the couch and walked away.
I either stood up or figured I would have to stand up soon. I knew I'd need to clean the crap off my hands and the couch. But I also had to do something to the cat itself. I may have needed to clean the cat, so as, somehow retroactively, to clean the feces that had come out of the cat. I may also have thought I'd need to teach the cat to use a litter box. This also would have some kind of retroactive effect on the feces already on the couch. I may also have thought I'd need (or want?) to punish the cat by hitting it hard.
I was in a room that was like a living room or a bedroom in a suburban house. The room was probably unfurnished. The walls were white. The floor was white carpet. There were some windows high up on the wall letting in stark, white sunlight -- though the light may somehow have been blocked by gauzy curtains or by some kind of fabric around my own head. I sat all wrapped up in blankets on the floor. I was leaning against something like the bottom of an overturned armchair, pressing myself against a black, mesh-like fabric.
I was listening to a conversation in a conference room. BS, my old boss from a few years ago, was speaking with some other person. The other person was telling BS how some young man had done a really good job on some project. The young man had put a lot of effort into the project, and the project had, apparently, made a lot of money for the company. So the other person felt it was only right to give the young man a raise.
But BS -- who may not even have worked for the same company as the young man and the other man! -- didn't feel that was right. BS was obviously feeling greedy for money and glory, and didn't want to portion any of it out to any other person -- especially a young man. This was all obvious in some initial, non-verbal, grunts and moans BS gave in reaction to what the other man had said. Then BS started trying to give an intelligent-sounding reasoning for why the young man deserved neither a raise, a promotion, nor recognition.
This all sounded horribly characteristic of BS to me. I felt like I needed to call BS on his creepy demeanor this time around -- if not to defend myself against what I felt he had done to me, then at least to defend another person from being victim to the same thing that had been done to me. But I may have realized, at some point, that BS and the other man had been speaking about me.
I now saw that behind the black, mesh-like fabric against which I was pressing myself (which was now at the bottom of something more like a kitchen chair than an armchair) was a Polycom conference call phone unit. I had been hearing the conversation via this unit. I also realized that my line wasn't muted. So I could speak into the room and be heard.
So, right in the middle of BS' speech on why the young man shouldn't be granted anything, I simply called out, "Ah... Old BS!" I pronounced his whole name, slowly, like an old radio announcer.
BS immediately recognized my voice. He was angry that an eavesdropper had caught him in a conversation. But he was infuriated that I personally was the eavesdropper. He shouted in rage, his shout increasing sharply in intensity.
I was in a room like a basement living room. There were some other people, probably young men and women, in the room. But the room was mostly dark, and I really couldn't see the other people. The other people sat close to each other. But I was kind of separated from them. We may all have been sitting on the floor, under blankets, though I may have been standing at first. The only light coming into the room was from the top of a stairwell. It was natural light, but only a few slivers of light came down into the room.
This room may have been "my office." But it may also have been some place where I and the rest of the group -- probably my co-workers -- were having some get-together or party, maybe even a slumber party. But I was still working, even though we were at this party. It may have been that we were all just waking up after the night of the slumber party, and that I was now trying to catch up on a little bit of work.
I was on an iPhone, speaking to a person in some company. I was trying to locate the head of the company, so I could make a sales pitch to that person. I was speaking with a woman who was, at first, something like the receptionist for the company.
But as I continued speaking with the woman she became something more like the daughter of the head person in the company, or possibly even one of the head people in the company herself, though she was probably still devoted to the head person as if the head person were her father. The woman, I knew was a young, black, pretty, but very stable, solid-bodied, and professional woman.
The woman at first began by acting as if she didn't have time for me and didn't want to pass me along to anybody else within the company. But as I continued my pitch and continued asking for a higher-level person within the organization, the woman got more upset. It was like I was somehow playing with her emotions in a bad way.
Somehow the family relations within this company were in disarray. It became apparent that the woman couldn't discuss the higher-level person because it made her unbearably sad. She was now so dazed by her sadness that she couldn't even carry on a coherent conversation. She told me that she had to get off the phone and that, if she felt the need to do so, she'd get back to me.
I hung up the phone. The iPhone's face was full of icons and had a lava-red background. I now stood closer to the rest of the people in the basement. I felt a little ashamed. They'd obviously just heard my whole conversation. I was a little ashamed, first of all, that I'd been caught working at a time like this, when everybody else was either sleeping or having fun. But I also felt a little ashamed that I'd been caught putting the woman on the phone into such a bad emotional state.
Now the woman called back. She was still audibly rattled by whatever emotions my sales pitch had drawn up in her. But she had put a mask of order and professional retaliation over her distress. She was speaking to me about something -- perhaps about how nobody in her company would be interested in speaking to me. But something about what she was saying also made it sound like the woman had actually gotten in contact with her lawyers, in order to press charges against me for the emotional turmoil I'd put her through.
I may have tried to justify my actions to myself, to prove to myself that there was no way the woman could bring any charges against me. But I may not have been able to do so. I may have thought that, in my carelessness, I had done something, some little thing that was now slipping my mind, that would prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was guilty of wrongly injuring this woman emotionally.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Good morning, everybody.
It was probably a sunny day. I was out with a group of people in front of some tall, steel-framed structure. There was an instructor who was telling us about the structure, which was something like a radio tower.
The instructor was now going to take us up into the tower. I had been the most enthusiastic person in the group to go up to the top of the tower. But the instructor took the rest of the group up first. I was left below, possibly because there wasn't enough room for me. Iwaited down below, possibly resting in the shade of the tower, sitting and with my back leaned against the tower, like one might rest in the shade of a tree.
At some point the instructor may have called to me, via walkie-talkie, that it was now okay to come up. But now I thought how dizzyingly high the tower actually was. I was afraid to come up. I may even have had some excuse, like a technical justification, for not going up the tower.
But now there was a huge storm brewing on the horizon. The storm moved quicly. Soon the sky was filled with dark grey clouds. But the real brunt of the storm was still in the distance. A grey-black cylinder of clouds was spinning around, revealing violent, white flashes of lightning between the clouds.
I knew it wasn't safe to be up on the top of the tower in the middle of a storm like this. I thought I'd radio the instructor and tell him that I definitely wasn't coming up now.
I may have imagined myself being caught up in that lightning cylinder and lifted up to the top of the tower. But, really, I was looking around, near the base of the tower, for a place where I could hide from all the lightning.
It was now really dark and rainy. I found some place under the base of the tower that was like a ledge of concrete with some blankets underneath. I thought it was pretty silly to hide under a metal tower during a lightning storm. I thought the concrete shelter might be a slightly better hiding place. But it still didn't seem too secure.
Without my really noticing it, the shelter changed into a large room in a house. I was still laying in the huge pile of blankets, like I was in the shelter, but now the blankets were all piled up against a wall. The room was dark and calm, with the only light coming from some incandescent outdoor light for a backyard garden.
My mother may also have been in this room. She may have been recovering from some illness or operation. She was probably laying on a couch. But then she was gone. It was like she wasn't actually in the house yet, like she was still heading here from the hospital.
I lay on the couch my mom had (probably) been laying on. It was red, upholstered with some thin, fake-leather material. It was narrow but long. I lay back on the couch.
I suddenly felt sexually aroused. I may have wanted to masturbate. But I may have felt like the ghost of my great-grandmother was in the room. I didn't want my great-grandmother to see me masturbating and be disappointed in me.
I also may have felt like I'd like to wear some women's underwear, maybe even my great-grandmother's underwear to masturbate in. I stood up and walked out into the hallway. I may have wandered around the house a bit.
When I got back to the room my mom and brother may have been in there. My brother was taking care of my mom while she was recuperating. I felt like I was no longer welcome in the room. I may even have felt afraid to enter the room. I felt like something about me, probably my weird sexuality, had made my brother feel like I was not a fit person to be around my mom.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
I was in a small room, like some kind of backstage area, or maybe like a small makeup room inside a wagon car. A tall, big, fat man was with me. He was like my boss in whatever we were doing, possibly some kind of show. But he was also evil. I may have discovered this only recently. My boss became increasingly harsh toward me, approaching violence. I finally realized that I'd need to kill him.
My boss got angry with me for some reason or another and acted violently against me. He had some item that gave him strength. I took that item from him and managed to wrestle him to the ground. There was a cord, like an oxygen tube, attached to the man somehow. I probably used this cord to strangle the man to death.
I ended up in another dimension. It was like the evil man, having been killed, gained some new powers. He used one of his new powers to send me to another dimension. I don't remember what happened in that other dimension.
Now I was back in the normal world. A young man was in the small room with me. He informed me, somehow, possibly not by speaking, that if I killed my boss it would only make things worse for me, and possibly for the whole world. If my boss were killed, he would gain powers. We weren't trying to give my boss more power: we were trying to disable him.
I was again alone with my boss in the small room. My boss became violent and attacked me. I easily obtained the object that gave my boss strength. My boss fell down and knelt on the floor. He was in perfect position fro being strangled to death.
I knew I wasn't supposed to kill my boss. I knew that he wanted it -- it gave him more power. It was almost like he'd arranged for everything to happen just so I could kill him. It was too easy. I shouldn't do it. But I was so angry with my boss that I really couldn't help myself.
I grabbed the cord and twisted it around my boss' neck, squeezing tighter and tighter, never quite certain that I was totally cutting off the man's windpipe and securing the man's death. My boss didn't even struggle very much as I continued to strangle him.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
A dream about Super Mario, in the style of the original Super Mario Bros. Mario slid down some slope, probably of green grass before a yellow sky. He then slung forward, out around a long row of bricks or coins. He then slung back, as quick as a chameleon's tongue, either through the coins or up over the bricks and through a row of coins, and then headed back up the slope. There may have been another scene after this one.
I was sitting out with my mother (or perhaps my great-grandmother?) on a lawn on a sunny day. We were sitting out on a couple of lawn chairs, the long kind, with the reclining legs. The chairs were all white, with thick bands of plastic making up the backing. The lawn and the day felt a little damp, as if this were a warm day in early spring. There were probably other people out on the lawn, enjoying the day, but I wasn't really aware of them.
My mother (regardless of who was really beside me) was speaking about some condition that was kind of considered an illness that lesbians were considered to have. It had to do with either trying to seduce women who didn't like lesbians, or with trying to seduce women who were involved with men who didn't like lesbians. They didn't really like the women they were seducing. They were just compelled to seduce the women. This was considered a real, medical condition, either physical or psychological. My mom was actually worried that a group of lesbians was, right now, trying to seduce my great-grandmother in this way.
I now turned to my mother/great-grandmother, who sat to my right. If the person sitting next to me was my great-grandmother, she was probably wearing a big, round-brimmed, floppy hat and big sunglasses. I started complaining about some girl who was trying to seduce my (now ex-)girlfriend H away from me. In fact, she may already have seduced H away from me, and the two may have come out to me as lovers. H was still my friend. But the other girl just took every chance she could get to annoy me.
If the person sitting next to me was my great-grandma, she may have given me some advice. But I think that now the person sitting next to me was my mother. I really didn't want to complain about this kind of stuff to my mother. I was afraid she'd actually try to do something about it. And I really didn't want my mom involved in any of my business -- especially my romantic affairs. I felt like having my mom involved in my romantic affairs would make them like "kid stuff." And I felt like having my mom involved in my romantic affairs would let her on to my fetishes. And if she were aware of my fetishes, I would feel really creepy.
So I sat forward right away and told my mom that I already had things taken care of. I had a plan in my mind for how I would take care of the whole thing. I would just act friendly to the girl, no matter what, if I had to, and ignore the girl as completely as possible the whole rest of the time. And if I needed to confront the girl about anything else that would come up between us in day-to-day life, I'd confront her like I'd confront anybody else.
As I was saying this, the girl walked up from the far right, from far out on the lawn. She walked up behind me and pushed against the soft back of my lawn chair, nudging me up. She meant to be annoying and mean. But it felt kind of nice, especially on my back, like when a cat rubs up against you or walks on you.
The girl then sat next to me on the lawn chair. We sat rather close. I was determined to ignore the girl at all costs. But I suddenly got the idea that the girl wanted to be friendly with me now. I felt like H was coming soon. Usually the girl would take this opportunity to upset me while H wasn't around. But it seemed like this time she was just trying to be nice. There was a feeling that H wasn't going to be around, anyway, like she would eventually let us know she wouldn't be able to meet us.
I may have been reading a small, hardcover book, like an early-twentieth-century book of philosophy or science. The girl may have been reading a similar book. At some point the girl may have been the only one holding the book, while I may have been looking on. The girl may have rested her head on my shoulder. I remember seeing the girl's knee bent up. The girl was probably wearing shorts. Her leg was really skinny. The girl may have had blankets crumpled around her shins at one point, too.
The girl seemed to cuddle closer and closer to me. It seemed like she really liked me now. I kept my distance emotionally. But I was happy that the girl wasn't being mean and annoying as usual. I thought that if this was the way she'd be in general from now on, I could be pretty happy. The girl and I may have spoken about something in a happy, chatty sort of way.
I was in a bedroom. The bedroom seemed enormous somehow, but it was stark and empty. Everything about the room may have been grey. A door may have been opened to a short hallway, across which was an open door to a bathroom with bright incandescent light and yellow and tan-orange walls. Dim, grey, natural light may have filled the bedroom. The only furniture in the bedroom was one bed (or two beds?) -- really tall and really wide, but probably not soft and comfortable at all, and all grey.
I sat half on the bed with my right leg hanging off the edge. My left leg may have been hanging off a little, too: I was sitting in a strange, sideways, half-reclining/leaning position.
I was probably waiting for a phone call from my mother. There was some event I was going to go to with my mom. It was for either a few of my nephews or just my youngest nephew. I had the imagery of this event half-playing in my head throughout the rest of the dream -- as if I were already at the event I was waiting to head to, participating in the event in real time, simultaneously with my waiting in the bedroom.
The event took place in an equally stark room. The room was huge, with yellow-painted plaster walls. The event was apparently very big. But the only people visible were my little nephew and a tall, kind of old-style, butlery-looking man with oiled hair and mustache and dress clothes -- maybe a red suit jacket (?). My nephew stood before a plastic toy stove. There was no other furnishing in the room.
My mom may also have been in the room. But she may have been at such a remove, even in shadow, that her position was almost exactly the same as my point of view would have been had I been physically in the room.
Sitting on the bed in the bedroom, I started eating some weird kind of food. It was probably a breakfast food. It seemed to be fried. The coating was like lightly fried breading. The inside may have been meat, or it may have been something like eggs or eggs and meat combined, with other stuff mixed in, like vegetables. The plate I ate off of had two of these things on it: each thing about the size of a scone or a piece of fried chicken breast.
I was kind of hungry. But I had really only planned on taking a little bite out of the thing. But one bite was so good that I just wanted more. Before I knew it I had eaten almost an entire piece. The only part left of the piece I'd eaten was a little corner, which I held kind of wrinkled up in my left hand, the piece folded like a towel, like it was nothing more, really, than the fried skin.
I felt a little ashamed. Watching the scene in which my little nephew participated, I knew that what was happening there was some kind of cooking or eating event, and that I would be expected to eat there. I hadn't really understood that before. But I should have known it. But now that I'd eaten the food here in the bedroom, I knew my stomach probably wouldn't be able to handle the food at the event as well.
I had a choice -- either eat at the event, anyway, and make my body miserable, or not eat at the event and look like a snobby jerk in front of my nephew. I knew I'd probably just eat. So I did my best, even though I was really hungry now, to stop myself from eating the second piece of food. But even while I told myself to resist eating the rest of the food, I was trying to justify eating it to myself.
At the event, I now saw my little nephew's toy stove top. Something was actually frying in a blue, plastic pan. It was probably two little pieces of meat in some grease. I had actually made this meat start cooking somehow. But it wasn't actually supposed to have started cooking yet. There was a whole process to the cooking event. Now that the meat had started cooking, the whole process was ruined. Most likely, the process could also not be started over.
I felt horrible about this. I felt like there had to be a way to reverse the process I'd started. Even if there weren't a way to reverse the process, perhaps there was a way to stop the damage at its current point. Besides, I told myself, this was a play stove, anyway. Did real rules apply to play stoves? Even for cooking? Wouldn't there be a way a play stove could reverse the play cooking?
I looked all over the stove (I may have been no taller than my little nephew -- or I may actually have had no body at all!) for some button or set of buttons that would reverse the process. Eventually I found something that seemed helpful, either under the pale blue, plastic pan itself or under some edge of the stove top. There was a little square of buttons, maybe pink, plastic buttons. One of the buttons said "BACK SPACE." I knew this button, like the backspace button of a keyboard, would "erase" the mistake I had made.
In the bedroom, I now received a text message from my aunt. (Recently, in waking life, my aunt had caused a bit of a commotion in my family while my mom was recovering from a pretty serious hospital visit.) The text message was terribly emotional, written in all caps, and just crying out stuff like, "I APOLOGIZE! I APOLOGIZE!" over and over again.
I had a feeling I was going to see my aunt soon. It was like she had also been planning to attend this event with my little nephew. She may even have been planning to come pick me up so that we could both go to the event together. But I may have decided, after my aunt had caused a commotion, that I would keep a little bit of a distance from her. So now she may have been apologizing to me in order to get me to come with her to the event. Or she may have been apologizing in order to smooth things over so that, when we went to the event together as planned, there wouldn't be any tension between us.
I didn't feel like my aunt needed to be so intense about her apology, though. I wondered whether it had been my own severe personality that had made her feel like she needed to be so intense. I told myself that in the future, even starting right now, I needed to project a more relaxed, less severe attitude to people.
At this point I may also have gotten a text message from my aunt's youngest daughter, with whom I haven't spoken in a number of years.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Good morning, everybody.
I may have been having some kind of joking conversation with a kind of gentle-looking, white-haired man in glasses, a business suit, and a trench coat.
The white-haired man then walked in through the front door of a tall building while I stood out on the sidealk. It was a bright, sunny day. The doorway the man walked into was really dim.
I wondered something about Warren Buffett, or possibly something about my brother. I felt like somehow the white-haired man had been related to one or both of them. But I couldn't figure out how. And something about the sight of both of them made me feel bad about how I've neglected my brother or treated him badly all my life.
I was in the living room of my family's house. It was a sunny day, and the living room was bright with natural light. None of the windows may have had any curtains. The windows, though, may have been grimy, as if kids had rubbed their sticky fingers against the panes.
My mom was sitting at a side table with my second youngest nephew. I was sitting on the floor. My other nephews were running around somewhere nearby, maybe back and forth between the living room and the backyard.
My second youngest nephew coul tell that I was getting frustrated. I may have been hoping that I could have a second or two to speak to my mom about something. But my nephews, it seemed to me, kept getting in my way. I couldn't pay attention to anything my mom was saying.
My nephew, sensing this, got up and walked away. He also came up to me before he left and said, "You know what? I'm going to be done with arcade games for the rest of the day!" I knew my nephew said this to impress me. He meant to say that he was going to do his homework instead of playing video games.
My nephew may have left on the table a few sheets of papers that had some colorful scribblings on them and a mini-arcade game toy, like an old mini-Pac Man game from the late 1970s or early 1980s.
It was a sunny day. I was outside with a few people, including my mother. We may have been waiting for something.
A recreational vehicle may have pulled up before my mom and I. The RV looked a little bit strange. Even though the RV towered over us like a three-story building, it didn't look as big as a usual trailer, and the bottom end seemed a bit too high and flat. But I knew it was probably my brother's, that my brother had been really enthusiastic about getting one, and so I tried to think as positively about the RV as I could.
The RV had somehow separated my mother and me from the other people we'd been with. So we walked back under the RV to get to them. Now, it seemed, the RV actually did feel gigantic to me.
I looked over to the left. There were seats like in a movie theater. Before I even knew what the seats were for, I called to my mom, "Look! See? That's a small movie theater. Inside an RV!" There were a few people in the seats now. And now I could just barely make out where the movie screen was.
I told my mom, "You see? They can watch movies here. But also, there's a way they can see through.. all the way... to the cabin." As I said this, the front windshield became visible, gleaming with the golden light of an afternoon sun.
The view seemed too low, like the driver's cabin was a level or two higher than the movie theater. I thought the angle from which the people in the theater seats saw would prevent them from actually seein anything out the window.
But, to justify this view, I turned away from the theater and toward my mom. I said, "What happens is, there's a hydraulic lift underneath the seats. When the people in the theater seats want to see outside instead of watching the movie, they just -- 'zzzhhhwwweeep!' up to see out the windshield."
I imagined the hydraulic lift, clean and chrome, telescoping upward. I tried to explain this visual to my mom. But the corollary for it seemed -- humorously -- to me to be the arm gesture for "fuck you." I said to my mom, "It just goes 'zzzhhhwwweeep!'" and made the arm gesture, hoping she'd see it as a joke.
As I did this, a clear, plastic partition came down behind my mom, cornering her backside like the square of a stand-in shower stall. Behind and past the clear partition I could now see some of my family members, including my aunt M and probably my uncle M.
I knew my family members were talking about my mother. I thought they may have been talking bad about her, about something she did that they thought was annoying. I also thought they may have been talking about how they thought she was going to die.
I hoped my family didn't think my arm gesture was directed seriously toward my mom. But I also, now hoped, my mom didn't think I'd meant the arm gesture seriously. I had tried to make it as obviously joke-like as possible. But I remembered times my old friend R had disguised serious insults as jokes. I had the thought that, even if I'd meant the arm gesture as a joke, I'd also probably, at least partly, meant it seriously.
I was in a dim living room with my mother and my nephews, and maybe some other kids who were like friends or classmates of my nephews. There were four couches in the living room, two side-by-side, and the other two facing the first two. They took up only half the living room. The other half of the room, apparently, was empty.
Some of my crayon drawings were on the couch to my far right. I was a little worried that they had gotten out here. I knew I had some adult baby fetish drawings in the pile. I didn't want any of the kids to see that stuff.
I walked over to the pile of drawings to pick them up. My second oldest nephew said, "Your mom thinks a lot of your work is really creative. It's really good." I was happy to hear this. I never had much, or any, confidence in my work. Now I had a little.
But then my nephew said, "But your mom doesn't think any of your work is funny. She doesn't think the jokes you make are funny." I knew this was meant to discount all of my work, like none of it was valid, since none of it was funny.
I didn't know, now, whether my mom had really said it, or whether my nephew had just made it up because he was jealous or he just wanted to hurt me for the fun of it. But I now felt really bad about my work all over again.
I walked into a barber shop or beauty salon. My mom may have walked in with me or she may already have been sitting in a chair inside the salon, waiting to have something done for her.
As I'd been walking into the salon, I'd been having a conversation, maybe in my head, with someone regarding a type of girl I apparently liked. I may have mentioned this girl in connection with onesies, like what kind of girl wears onesies, and why I think that kind of girl is so cute.
I described a girl, kind of like a college girl, with tan skin, a roundish face, sunglasses, brown hair with streaks of red, and wearing a pink, jumpsuit-like hoodie.
Now, coming into the salon, I saw, just past my mother, three girls, like sorority girls, all really pretty, with long legs, and dressed really sexy. The central girl was talking with the other girls, probably about her boss, who was probably a tall, handsome, older man. The girl said, "Yeah, my boss says I'm energetic and greedy enough to make it in City Hall."
I looked down to the floor. Sitting across the salon from my mom was an old woman, like my father's mother. The woman had had heart problems, I knew, like my mom was having. But the problems were also causing problems with the woman's limbs.
The woman's feet, especially her toes, were all swollen. The skin looked like elephant skin. The toes may even have been melting into each other, so that each foot had only a couple of toes. One of the feet may, in fact, have been only one big toe. The toes wriggled about like sluggish worms.
I wondered why I should even be interested in girls, sex, or beauty, when this was all it came to. But I tried to justify sexual interest, and I tried to convince myself that this kind of thing really didn't need to happen to people.
Good morning, everybody.
I may have been a woman. I had been with a group of other women. We had been out in some place like a forest at night. We had been doing something, but I had been sent out to retrieve one of our cars.
I, possibly as myself, was now at the car. I may have been "outside," though the appearance of my surroundings was more like the inside of a gigantic warehouse. There were huge, towering shelves everywhere, filled with supplies.
I drove the car out around some chain-link fence. But as I drove, my vision got worse and worse: hazier and scratchier. Finally my headlights must have gone out. I couldn't see anything. I really didn't think it had anything to do with my headlights being out. I thought I couldn't see because something was wrong with me physically or mentally.
I lost control of my steering and crashed into the chain-link fence. Now that I'd crashed, I could see again. I looked to my left. There was a long corridor, bordered on either side with chain-link fence. I may have seen a police car coming down the corridor, to where my car had crashed.
I was afraid of trouble with the police. I didn't want the police to catch me (as myself or the woman?) in the car. Apparently I'd done something against the law, and I didn't want the police to identify me as the person who'd done it.
So I got out of the car and started walking down the corridor. The police had also gotten out of their cars. There were two officers. I passed the first one without any interaction from him at all. As I approached the second one, though, my vision became hazy and scratchy again. The officer said, "I really like your sweater. What is it? Liz Arden?"
I was, I thought, myself, wearing my own clothes, my dress clothes for work, including a dress sweater. But now I realized I was actually wearing women's clothes that were done in a style traditionally considered to be male. I wondered whether I was actually a woman.
I passed down the corridor, to a point where I'd need to turn right. But at this point there was a German Shepherd, a police dog. It was attached to a leash, which was attached to a wooden, red-painted breakfast table. There was a chair next to the table. I was afraid to pass the dog. I was afraid it would smell guilt on me and attack me.
But I had to keep walking. So I did. The dog sprung at me as I passed it. It obviously had smelled something on me.
My view lifted high up in the air, high out of my body. The person now being attacked by the dog was a different man. I knew his story. He was being sought after by the police. He was suspected of murder and cannibalism.
I was watching some video showing a lot of children playing around, probably in some really colorful, stage-like area, like a stage for a children's television show. One of the children was wearing a really big diaper. The child looked too old to be wearing diapers by at least a couple of years.
The thought of being too old to wear diapers, but wearing a really big diaper nevertheless, turned me on. I wished I could wear a big diaper, too.
I was now in a bed in a dark bedroom. The TV I'd been watching may have been somewhere nearby. I was wearing a diaper. I also had a gigantic diaper wrapped around a blanket. I was rubbing myself against the diaper and the blanket, as if I were having sex with a real person.
But the diaper was so huge that my body was tilted up at a forty-five-degree angle. It was really uncomfortable. I wished I could either have sex with a real person or find a smaller diaper to put on my blanket.