Good morning, everybody.
Dream #1
I was at "my family's house," sitting right in a doorway between a bedroom and the living room. My mom and my brother also sat in the doorway: my mom to my right and my brother to my left. The doorway was wide, with a folding door that would run across it. The bedroom was dark, and the living room was lit.
My mom and my brother were having an argument, possibly about my brother borrowing money. Both my mom and my brother were smoking cigarettes. The argument reached a level of intensity where my mom stood up and left, not wanting to listen to anymore. She also may have had somewhere to go.
My brother was mad that my mom had just stood up and left. He blew smoke in my face and stood up to follow my mother -- maybe she was taking him somewhere. But I had gotten so frustrated over the arguing, and I was so mad that my brother had blown smoke in my face, that I stood up and got right into my brother's face, telling him, "Stop doing this kind of crap, man!"
My brother acted mad at first. Then his face got really sad. He just said, "Come on, just leave me alone," and walked out the door. I felt really bad for having gotten angry with my brother. I knew he was emotionally unstable, delicate, and insecure. I didn't want to make him feel even worse about himself. I was also afraid that, now that he was mad at me, too, he might pull some kind of bad prank on me.
I was now sitting on the floor in the living room. My nephews and niece may have been running around the living room and playing. My brother was now in the living room. It was like he had come back from wherever my mom had taken him. I stood up to talk to him.
He was wearing some weird items of clothing. One item was like a tie. The other was like suspenders on his left shoulder. But the material then ran around his waist at a right angle to the "suspender." The material was black and dotted with little, green frogs and some other design I can't remember.
I wanted to apologize to my brother for my behavior before. But my brother could sense that I was sorry. He acted like it was no big deal.
My brother pointed to the ceiling and said, "I get so frustrated with these kids sometimes. My dress pants were hanging on a hanger up there. They were a really nice brand. They were grey slacks, made of really nice fabric, and they had pinstripes running down them. Then one day I came home, and the kids had torn the pants in half. You know how? They were swinging off of them -- using my pants as a swing -- until they got torn from the hanger."
In my mind's eye I could see the pants being split up the crotch, as if the slacks, instead of being folded over the hanger, were "straddling" the hanger.
Dream #2
I had just moved into a new apartment. My mom's ex-boyfriend was there with me. I think he was there because he'd known about the place -- like he'd owned or rented it before -- and he wanted to check it out to make sure it was okay before I moved into it. It all seemed to be okay. Everything was really dusty. But other than that, it was good.
My mom's ex-boyfriend was gone. I was walking around the apartment by myself. I walked into the next room, the kitchen. There was a broom there. I think I thought my mom had left the broom for me. When she'd seen this place, she'd noticed how dusty it was. She'd thought it was neglectful of me not to have swept. So she'd left this broom for me.
I took the broom with me and entered the next room. I walked into another room. Suddenly I realized -- both the rooms I'd walked through after the kitchen were huge! They were both tall and spacious, with the back walls being beautiful, wood-framed window-walls. And they were both well-furnished and decorated: almost as well as a room in a mansion-like museum, like the Morgan Library or the Frick Collection in New York.
The next room was to the left of this room. Now the rooms came one after another in the opposite direction. I walked through one huge room into another huge room. A massive, wooden table in this room had a small, bronze sculpture of a buffalo atop it.
I began to feel extremely lucky. I was trying to remember how I'd actually managed to get into this place. I was paying rent for it, but barely anything -- $650 a month -- for something of this size and beauty. I wondered if the upstairs neighbors would be noisy. But with this much space, and these high ceilings, I doubted it.
I couldn't figure how I was being allowed to live here. The only thing I could guess was that I'd promised to keep the place clean -- which was something I thought I would have no problem doing. I was so excited and happy about getting to live here!
I walked into the next room, which may have been the living room, and which also served as the entry to the apartment. The daylight had been blue, cool, and crisp in the other rooms, but here it was golden and warm, like a sunny morning after snow.
I could see out the window that people were coming up to the door. It looked like one or two wealthy, white families. They walked into the house with no problem, like they had a key of their own. I didn't know who they were. But I think they were talking about buying the apartment.
There were two older men and two older women. I don't know if they were present, but a young man and young woman were also being spoken of, as if they were the son of one family and the daughter of another, getting married. The men may have been joking about how irresolute the son often was, even though he was really handsome and really smart, and may already have had a really good job.
Nobody was paying any attention to me. I still didn't quite know what they were here for, even though I think the families were buying this apartment for the couple-to-be. I wondered whether I was going to have to leave this place soon. I'd just gotten settled in, and already I was being forced out. But I resolved that, until I knew for sure what was going on, I'd just get to work on cleaning the house and act like this was where I was going to be living for a while.
I didn't want to leave the living room while the family was here. I had a bad feeling that if I left while they were here, they'd make some kind of nasty plans against me. So I sat down on the couch, broom still in hand, and acted like I was just taking a rest.
The older men started talking about other stuff, maybe business in general. They decided that they'd like to have some coffee and maybe muffins while they were here. So one of the men sat down on the opposite end of the couch from me. The other man may have tried to sit in the middle section of the couch.
But suddenly I found myself getting very tired. I stretched out over my section and the middle section of the couch, maybe even knocking into the man sitting at the opposite end of the couch. At this point my dream faded into waking life, and I was stretching out in the same weird way in my bed.
Showing posts with label homelessness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label homelessness. Show all posts
Friday, August 10, 2012
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
"weird al loves this place"; modular homeless; golden field; blocked images
Good morning, everybody.
Dream #1
I was in a grocery store. I was possibly near the back end of the store, on the left side of the store (as a person would face the store from front to back). The aisles near me seemed to be in disarray, like they were being rearranged, or like new stock had come in and was being added to the shelves.
There were a few workers in the area that was disorganized. One of them was a tall, white man, probably young, even though his face looked a little worn-out. This man was probably the manager. I had probably been afraid of interacting with the workers. They seemed really boisterous, and I was afraid that they'd start making fun of me if I got too close to them.
But the manager walked up to me. He said, not as if he was saying it to me, but as if he were saying it to his friends, but loud enough that I could hear, "Weird Al loves this place." I knew that the manager meant the comedy singer "Weird Al" Yankovic. I didn't think it could be true that Weird Al even came to this grocery store, let alone that he could love the store. So I thought that somehow the manager had found out that I liked Weird Al, and that he was just saying this to impress me.
But the manager motioned me to come along with him to the back room. The back room was really small, for a grocery store. The man told me that he seriously meant that Weird Al came to this store a lot, and that he really loved the place.
I was now a worker for the store. Perhaps I had been this whole time. The manager brought me back out into the main area. We were all alone in the side aisle now. The place was still cluttered up. There were even big boxes running across the aisles, slanted diagonally from the floor of one side of the aisle to the top of the other side of the aisle. The boxes were thin, like they might have carried poles or fluorescent bulbs in them.
The manager was walking backward as I walked forward. He was speaking to me excitedly. He said, "In fact, Weird Al is just now coming back from a concert tour. He'll be coming in here one of these nights. We already have a cake made for him."
In my mind's eye I could see a round, white cake with red words on the top. I had to walk either under or over one of the tall, slanting boxes that took up the aisle. As I did so, a bright flash of light probably filled my view.
The man continued, asking me, "What else do you think Weird Al would like? What do you think he would like to hear from us?"
We were now at the front of the store. The window walls of the store probably showed that it was dark outside. The store was basically empty of customers. There was a long expanse of checkout lines. The manager stopped at the registers nearest us. A couple of blonde girls had a couple of registers, and the manager needed to check in on the girls.
I walked down a few registers. There was another blonde girl. But her hair was shorter, and she looked less girly, more tomboyish, than the other two girls. I was a little attracted to her. She seemed to be wearing a kind of dumpy uniform, more like the 1980s style of uniform for Burger King than a modern uniform for a grocery store.
I don't know whether we talked, but we seemed to have some kind of interaction. I may have stood into the register beside her, as if I were going to start working that register. But then I walked away again. I had a big, fat book in my hand. I lay it down, probably on the woman's register, but possibly on my own.
I turned around and walked back toward the registers where the manager had been seeing to the other girls. Apparently a shift change was occurring. Some girls were counting the money in their registers, while other girls were putting their own new cash tills into the cash registers.
One of the blonde girls ran up from behind me to tell the manager that she was only sixty-five cents off on her register. She seemed really happy about this, as if, for all the time she'd been working here, she'd never been able to balance her register so well.
I had been -- at some point! -- carrying a paper coffee cup, like from a coffee shop. But now all I was holding was the heat-protector sleeve. I wanted to get rid of it. So I tore it up into tiny pieces. I walked past a thin column in the store. There was a small, white, plastic garbage can, like for use at an office desk. I tossed the shreds of paper in there. But when I looked, the garbage bag was empty, other than my shreds of paper and a ten dollar bill!
I thought that one of the cashier girls must have dropped ten dollars out of their register. I thought that somebody's register would come up really short. I thought that somebody would definitely get in trouble for that. But I didn't call attention to the ten dollars. I'm not sure why. I just noted it, looked up, and kept walking.
I walked back up the aisle I had come from. But now the aisle was clear, with no clutter or boxes. I walked all the way to the back of the store, then turned to walk toward the right side of the store. But as I walked, I realized I probably needed to head back to the registers. I have left my book -- which I now knew was Jim Marrs' Trillion Dollar Conspiracy -- laying on the woman's cash register conveyor belt. I couldn't just leave my book sitting there. I needed to go back for it before I could continue walking around the store.
Dream #2
I was in an apartment. The apartment unit was on the ground floor, but it may actually have been two stories tall. But the apartment was also something more like a hotel. It was obtained only for short periods of time. Either I had gotten the hotel, or some other person had gotten it and was having me watch the place, since I had nowhere to live.
It was night. The photo and video artist Laurel Nakadate had just entered the apartment. We stood just in front of the door, in a space between the living room and a dining area. I was probably holding blankets and a pillow. Nakadate was kind of tall. She was wearing a tight, black tank top and tight, brown pants, maybe of some kind of suede-like material. Her hair was a little bit disheveled.
Nakadate had probably come here for the night. She knew I had this place, and I'd probably told her she could use it. But I was trying to keep the details of the place, and of my life overall, secret from her. I didn't have a job anymore, and this place was only temporary. In fact, I didn't know what I would do once I had to leave this place. I didn't want Nakadate to know any of this about me. I felt like, if she knew, she'd reject me as a worthless person.
Nakadate and I had a conversation about something I can't remember. It was a very calm and natural conversation, but I can't remember what it was about. But all through the conversation, I did my best to conceal my situation and to act like everything was just fine.
We agreed that Nakadate would go take care of something, maybe taking a shower?, and that we'd then meet in the bedroom just past the living room. I could see the light on in the bedroom. I walked through the living room and into the bedroom.
My ex-girlfriend H, who had taken the place of Nakadate, was sitting on the bed, waiting for me. The bed was set along the back wall. H was watching a TV, which was set along the opposite wall. The bed H sat on was like a bed that had a second, pull-out bed in its underside. The lower bed was pulled out just enough so that H could use it either as a seat cushion, like the bed was a couch, or like a footrest, with the top mattress being used as a seat cushion. The rest of the room was completely empty.
I sat down beside H. She may have been eating a cup of ramen. I "watched TV" with H, even though I'm not sure I actually saw a TV at all. I may just have been staring at a blank wall. H and I began having some conversation, which may also have had to do with my living arrangements.
My thoughts drifted into a woman talking about the living arrangements she and her husband had. The woman seemed to be a 1950s kind of woman, even though I'm not sure what time period she really lived in. The woman and her husband both had very similar professions. And whatever the man and woman did, they liked to travel while doing it. They especially liked living in the mountains.
So, the woman explained, the man and the woman opted to get a kind of extremely modular house. The houses were cheaper than normal houses. They were also much smaller than normal houses. But the man and woman didn't like having a lot of space. They preferred having freedom. The houses were good for this. They could be picked up or dropped off by the buyers very easily, wherever they needed to go.
However, the woman had lately found that the couple's finances weren't stable enough for the couple to afford the modular houses. So the woman was having to take her modular house back to the modular house store. All she did, actually, was get on a bicycle, to the front of which was attached the modular house, and pedal it down a mountain road. The house was so light that the woman could just pedal it away.
The woman rode along a beautiful, undulating mountain road that was lined with pine trees and fields of yellow flowers. The sky was blue, marbled with wisps of white cirrus clouds. The woman was pale, and she wore a pale, rusty-tan dress, in the 1950s style, very understated, with thin buttons running down the blouse, and the skirt belling out just a bit, going down all the way to the ankles. The woman's red-brown hair was done in a short, elegant style.
The woman was "narrating" over this view. She said that this wasn't unusual for her and her husband. They would often take their modular houses back to the store when they felt they couldn't afford them. (I'm not sure what they did when they didn't have houses. Did they camp?) But, eventually, the husband would start to feel good about his life and finances again. Then the couple would go out and get another modular home. After a while, the woman would see that the couple's finances could no longer support their having a modular home. And the couple would take the modular home back to the shop.
The woman looked very cheerful. And her narration had a cheerful tone. But it was evident that the woman was distressed about the couple's financial situation. The woman probably wished that the husband would find some way of being more responsible.
I now got a better view of the modular home. It didn't look like much of a home at all. It was a wooden structure, like it was made out of old shipping pallets, or out of rough-hewn, wooden boards. I don't think I could make out much of a house-like structure to the construction. And it looked really small, maybe not more than three meters long and wide, and not more than a meter or a meter and a half tall.
Nevertheless, it still looked really heavy. I wondered how the woman could just bike it all the way down to town, especially on a mountain road like this. The woman, in "narration," cheerfully answered that most of the ride was downhill anyway, that the modular home was small and light, and that the modular home actually was even lighter than it already looked.
I watched the woman from the crest of a hill. As the woman seemed to be coming round a bend, something happened. I could tell ahead of time that the woman was going to crash. She did. The bike and the modular home wound off onto the shoulder of the road. The woman flew off the bike and landed face down in a patch of pink flowers. I thought the woman was dead. But apparently she was alive. I probably heard the woman, in narration, explaining why the crash hadn't hurt so much. But she hadn't stood up yet.
My view panned up the slope. I drifted along the road, back up to the spot where the modular home used to be. But the modular home was still there. I now heard the husband's voice in narration. But it was like the husband's voice was my voice as well, or, actually, more like my thoughts and feelings were controlling the husband's voice, which was a lot more dignified than my voice. I could also see an image of the husband in my mind's eye: a 1940s style photo of a handsome young man in military dress uniform.
The husband/I was explaining how he/I wasn't planning on getting rid of the modular home. The wife had always been anxious about finances. But the husband/I had a feeling that the couple's finances would be fine soon enough. The husband/I felt like everything was going to be okay, so there was no reason to get rid of the modular home.
The modular home was built on a square deck of wood. At each corner of the square stood a wooden pillar, kind of like a tower. In the center of the wooden deck stood the house itself. The house was rather small, almost like a child's playhouse. Its walls were square, but its roof may have been rounded, or teardrop-shaped. The whole thing was made out of rough-hewn wood. The design may have reminded me of a miniature version of the Taj Mahal.
I may have thought that this little place was definitely not big enough for me an H (or for me and Laurel Nakadate?). I thought that I would definitely want to keep the modular house. But I would probably want to change the model for one that used the space of the plot a little bit better, i.e. one that incorporated more of the deck space into the interior of the house.
I may have heard the woman's narration again, or I may have heard some other woman's voice in narration. It was like the woman was acting as a real estate agent, or a modular home sales agent. She was supporting all of my feelings regarding keeping the modular home and possibly trading into a new home.
Dream #3
I stood out in some mountain landscape, in a valley full of golden grass. The golden grass was filled in places with pockets of white snow. I had apparently journeyed a long way to get here. I still had a great deal of journeying left to do. I may have remembered a conversation I'd had with an old man before I'd started this journey. The man may have been tall, slim, bald, dressed in an old-fashioned pinstripe suit of very dark material.
Dream #4
I had been discussing a number of images with an old man. It was like I was in a dream, trying to rehearse all the elements of the dreams I'd had over the course of the night. I reached the end of the sequence of images, and I was kind of surprised by them. There was some sort of unity to them I hadn't expected. I think this unity had to do with celebrities.
But the dream images all clouded over -- like they had been drawn over with heavy amounts of crayon! It was like a succession of images piled over the images I'd just organized in my head. A chain-link fence clouded over everything: the chain-link fence being shaded all through with opaque browns, greys and greens. Then a man's head, also colored with heavy, dark colors, appeared before the chain-link fence. Then another chain-link fence. Then another man's head.
***
UPDATE: A discussion of some of the images in these dreams can be found at this entry of my dreamday journal.
UPDATE 2: Added two drawings to second dream, July 25, 2012, 3:18 PM, Mountain Standard Time.
Dream #1
I was in a grocery store. I was possibly near the back end of the store, on the left side of the store (as a person would face the store from front to back). The aisles near me seemed to be in disarray, like they were being rearranged, or like new stock had come in and was being added to the shelves.
There were a few workers in the area that was disorganized. One of them was a tall, white man, probably young, even though his face looked a little worn-out. This man was probably the manager. I had probably been afraid of interacting with the workers. They seemed really boisterous, and I was afraid that they'd start making fun of me if I got too close to them.
But the manager walked up to me. He said, not as if he was saying it to me, but as if he were saying it to his friends, but loud enough that I could hear, "Weird Al loves this place." I knew that the manager meant the comedy singer "Weird Al" Yankovic. I didn't think it could be true that Weird Al even came to this grocery store, let alone that he could love the store. So I thought that somehow the manager had found out that I liked Weird Al, and that he was just saying this to impress me.
But the manager motioned me to come along with him to the back room. The back room was really small, for a grocery store. The man told me that he seriously meant that Weird Al came to this store a lot, and that he really loved the place.
I was now a worker for the store. Perhaps I had been this whole time. The manager brought me back out into the main area. We were all alone in the side aisle now. The place was still cluttered up. There were even big boxes running across the aisles, slanted diagonally from the floor of one side of the aisle to the top of the other side of the aisle. The boxes were thin, like they might have carried poles or fluorescent bulbs in them.
The manager was walking backward as I walked forward. He was speaking to me excitedly. He said, "In fact, Weird Al is just now coming back from a concert tour. He'll be coming in here one of these nights. We already have a cake made for him."
In my mind's eye I could see a round, white cake with red words on the top. I had to walk either under or over one of the tall, slanting boxes that took up the aisle. As I did so, a bright flash of light probably filled my view.
The man continued, asking me, "What else do you think Weird Al would like? What do you think he would like to hear from us?"
We were now at the front of the store. The window walls of the store probably showed that it was dark outside. The store was basically empty of customers. There was a long expanse of checkout lines. The manager stopped at the registers nearest us. A couple of blonde girls had a couple of registers, and the manager needed to check in on the girls.
I walked down a few registers. There was another blonde girl. But her hair was shorter, and she looked less girly, more tomboyish, than the other two girls. I was a little attracted to her. She seemed to be wearing a kind of dumpy uniform, more like the 1980s style of uniform for Burger King than a modern uniform for a grocery store.
I don't know whether we talked, but we seemed to have some kind of interaction. I may have stood into the register beside her, as if I were going to start working that register. But then I walked away again. I had a big, fat book in my hand. I lay it down, probably on the woman's register, but possibly on my own.
I turned around and walked back toward the registers where the manager had been seeing to the other girls. Apparently a shift change was occurring. Some girls were counting the money in their registers, while other girls were putting their own new cash tills into the cash registers.
One of the blonde girls ran up from behind me to tell the manager that she was only sixty-five cents off on her register. She seemed really happy about this, as if, for all the time she'd been working here, she'd never been able to balance her register so well.
I had been -- at some point! -- carrying a paper coffee cup, like from a coffee shop. But now all I was holding was the heat-protector sleeve. I wanted to get rid of it. So I tore it up into tiny pieces. I walked past a thin column in the store. There was a small, white, plastic garbage can, like for use at an office desk. I tossed the shreds of paper in there. But when I looked, the garbage bag was empty, other than my shreds of paper and a ten dollar bill!
I thought that one of the cashier girls must have dropped ten dollars out of their register. I thought that somebody's register would come up really short. I thought that somebody would definitely get in trouble for that. But I didn't call attention to the ten dollars. I'm not sure why. I just noted it, looked up, and kept walking.
I walked back up the aisle I had come from. But now the aisle was clear, with no clutter or boxes. I walked all the way to the back of the store, then turned to walk toward the right side of the store. But as I walked, I realized I probably needed to head back to the registers. I have left my book -- which I now knew was Jim Marrs' Trillion Dollar Conspiracy -- laying on the woman's cash register conveyor belt. I couldn't just leave my book sitting there. I needed to go back for it before I could continue walking around the store.
Dream #2
I was in an apartment. The apartment unit was on the ground floor, but it may actually have been two stories tall. But the apartment was also something more like a hotel. It was obtained only for short periods of time. Either I had gotten the hotel, or some other person had gotten it and was having me watch the place, since I had nowhere to live.
It was night. The photo and video artist Laurel Nakadate had just entered the apartment. We stood just in front of the door, in a space between the living room and a dining area. I was probably holding blankets and a pillow. Nakadate was kind of tall. She was wearing a tight, black tank top and tight, brown pants, maybe of some kind of suede-like material. Her hair was a little bit disheveled.
Nakadate had probably come here for the night. She knew I had this place, and I'd probably told her she could use it. But I was trying to keep the details of the place, and of my life overall, secret from her. I didn't have a job anymore, and this place was only temporary. In fact, I didn't know what I would do once I had to leave this place. I didn't want Nakadate to know any of this about me. I felt like, if she knew, she'd reject me as a worthless person.
Nakadate and I had a conversation about something I can't remember. It was a very calm and natural conversation, but I can't remember what it was about. But all through the conversation, I did my best to conceal my situation and to act like everything was just fine.
We agreed that Nakadate would go take care of something, maybe taking a shower?, and that we'd then meet in the bedroom just past the living room. I could see the light on in the bedroom. I walked through the living room and into the bedroom.
My ex-girlfriend H, who had taken the place of Nakadate, was sitting on the bed, waiting for me. The bed was set along the back wall. H was watching a TV, which was set along the opposite wall. The bed H sat on was like a bed that had a second, pull-out bed in its underside. The lower bed was pulled out just enough so that H could use it either as a seat cushion, like the bed was a couch, or like a footrest, with the top mattress being used as a seat cushion. The rest of the room was completely empty.
I sat down beside H. She may have been eating a cup of ramen. I "watched TV" with H, even though I'm not sure I actually saw a TV at all. I may just have been staring at a blank wall. H and I began having some conversation, which may also have had to do with my living arrangements.
My thoughts drifted into a woman talking about the living arrangements she and her husband had. The woman seemed to be a 1950s kind of woman, even though I'm not sure what time period she really lived in. The woman and her husband both had very similar professions. And whatever the man and woman did, they liked to travel while doing it. They especially liked living in the mountains.
So, the woman explained, the man and the woman opted to get a kind of extremely modular house. The houses were cheaper than normal houses. They were also much smaller than normal houses. But the man and woman didn't like having a lot of space. They preferred having freedom. The houses were good for this. They could be picked up or dropped off by the buyers very easily, wherever they needed to go.
However, the woman had lately found that the couple's finances weren't stable enough for the couple to afford the modular houses. So the woman was having to take her modular house back to the modular house store. All she did, actually, was get on a bicycle, to the front of which was attached the modular house, and pedal it down a mountain road. The house was so light that the woman could just pedal it away.
The woman rode along a beautiful, undulating mountain road that was lined with pine trees and fields of yellow flowers. The sky was blue, marbled with wisps of white cirrus clouds. The woman was pale, and she wore a pale, rusty-tan dress, in the 1950s style, very understated, with thin buttons running down the blouse, and the skirt belling out just a bit, going down all the way to the ankles. The woman's red-brown hair was done in a short, elegant style.
The woman was "narrating" over this view. She said that this wasn't unusual for her and her husband. They would often take their modular houses back to the store when they felt they couldn't afford them. (I'm not sure what they did when they didn't have houses. Did they camp?) But, eventually, the husband would start to feel good about his life and finances again. Then the couple would go out and get another modular home. After a while, the woman would see that the couple's finances could no longer support their having a modular home. And the couple would take the modular home back to the shop.
The woman looked very cheerful. And her narration had a cheerful tone. But it was evident that the woman was distressed about the couple's financial situation. The woman probably wished that the husband would find some way of being more responsible.
I now got a better view of the modular home. It didn't look like much of a home at all. It was a wooden structure, like it was made out of old shipping pallets, or out of rough-hewn, wooden boards. I don't think I could make out much of a house-like structure to the construction. And it looked really small, maybe not more than three meters long and wide, and not more than a meter or a meter and a half tall.
Nevertheless, it still looked really heavy. I wondered how the woman could just bike it all the way down to town, especially on a mountain road like this. The woman, in "narration," cheerfully answered that most of the ride was downhill anyway, that the modular home was small and light, and that the modular home actually was even lighter than it already looked.
I watched the woman from the crest of a hill. As the woman seemed to be coming round a bend, something happened. I could tell ahead of time that the woman was going to crash. She did. The bike and the modular home wound off onto the shoulder of the road. The woman flew off the bike and landed face down in a patch of pink flowers. I thought the woman was dead. But apparently she was alive. I probably heard the woman, in narration, explaining why the crash hadn't hurt so much. But she hadn't stood up yet.
My view panned up the slope. I drifted along the road, back up to the spot where the modular home used to be. But the modular home was still there. I now heard the husband's voice in narration. But it was like the husband's voice was my voice as well, or, actually, more like my thoughts and feelings were controlling the husband's voice, which was a lot more dignified than my voice. I could also see an image of the husband in my mind's eye: a 1940s style photo of a handsome young man in military dress uniform.
The husband/I was explaining how he/I wasn't planning on getting rid of the modular home. The wife had always been anxious about finances. But the husband/I had a feeling that the couple's finances would be fine soon enough. The husband/I felt like everything was going to be okay, so there was no reason to get rid of the modular home.
The modular home was built on a square deck of wood. At each corner of the square stood a wooden pillar, kind of like a tower. In the center of the wooden deck stood the house itself. The house was rather small, almost like a child's playhouse. Its walls were square, but its roof may have been rounded, or teardrop-shaped. The whole thing was made out of rough-hewn wood. The design may have reminded me of a miniature version of the Taj Mahal.
I may have thought that this little place was definitely not big enough for me an H (or for me and Laurel Nakadate?). I thought that I would definitely want to keep the modular house. But I would probably want to change the model for one that used the space of the plot a little bit better, i.e. one that incorporated more of the deck space into the interior of the house.
I may have heard the woman's narration again, or I may have heard some other woman's voice in narration. It was like the woman was acting as a real estate agent, or a modular home sales agent. She was supporting all of my feelings regarding keeping the modular home and possibly trading into a new home.
Dream #3
I stood out in some mountain landscape, in a valley full of golden grass. The golden grass was filled in places with pockets of white snow. I had apparently journeyed a long way to get here. I still had a great deal of journeying left to do. I may have remembered a conversation I'd had with an old man before I'd started this journey. The man may have been tall, slim, bald, dressed in an old-fashioned pinstripe suit of very dark material.
Dream #4
I had been discussing a number of images with an old man. It was like I was in a dream, trying to rehearse all the elements of the dreams I'd had over the course of the night. I reached the end of the sequence of images, and I was kind of surprised by them. There was some sort of unity to them I hadn't expected. I think this unity had to do with celebrities.
But the dream images all clouded over -- like they had been drawn over with heavy amounts of crayon! It was like a succession of images piled over the images I'd just organized in my head. A chain-link fence clouded over everything: the chain-link fence being shaded all through with opaque browns, greys and greens. Then a man's head, also colored with heavy, dark colors, appeared before the chain-link fence. Then another chain-link fence. Then another man's head.
***
UPDATE: A discussion of some of the images in these dreams can be found at this entry of my dreamday journal.
UPDATE 2: Added two drawings to second dream, July 25, 2012, 3:18 PM, Mountain Standard Time.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
sleeping on a mansion porch; cartel paramours
Good morning, everybody.
Dream #1
I may have had either a girlfriend or a girl who was interested in me, who lived in a big mansion with her family. It was night, and the girl, another person or some other people, and I all came up to the mansion. The girl wanted me to sleep here. But she knew her father wouldn't approve of me. So her idea was that I should sleep on the porch of the mansion.
I stood out on the porch while everybody else walked into the mansion. The porch of the mansion was huge, made of massive stone. The doors of the mansion were also big, made of black iron and glass.
The girl checked with the cook of the mansion to see if anybody else was home at the moment. I could see the cook from the right side of the porch, apparently through a dark hallway that led into the incandescent-lit kitchen. The cook said nobody was home. But she also may have said that she still didn't think it was a good idea for me to sleep at the mansion.
I went to sleep on the mansion porch. I slept near the back, right corner of the porch. I think I was using some kind of blankets as a mattress, and a sleeping bag as a blanket.
I now woke. The morning light was grey. A group of people (in a number of cars, including a limousine and a van?) pulled up to the mansion. The girl's father walked up the steps, closely followed by a retinue of people, possibly associates and bodyguards. The father was a black man who still looked kind of young. His hair was maybe about 5cm long. He wore a black suit with a white shirt and some kind of striped tie (maybe green and yellow?). He wore dark but mirror-like sunglasses.
I jumped out of my bedding. I was trying to think of some excuse for why I was sleeping here. Thankfully, I was wearing a business suit -- brown slacks and jacket, not sure about the rest. I was still trying to think of what to say as I approached the father.
But the father directly asked me something like, "Aren't you the tour guide?"
Shocked that I had been given an excuse directly, I said, "Yes."
The father said something like, "Well, why didn't you come here with us? Are you even ready to give the tour? You're cutting it close with time as it is. The group should be here any minute. They'll be waiting in that room."
I looked over to the left wall of the porch. There were iron-barred glass doors leading into what looked like an opulent hotel lobby. The father had walked away. I walked over into the new room. There were three or four short steps leading down into the area.
The area was much wider than it was deep. There were huge chandeliers with incandescent bulbs. The walls were mostly wood. The carpets were all very nice, with kind of Persian designs, in maybe a tan and blue color scheme. There were little circular seating areas throughout the room, nicely upholstered and padded. A couple of big desks dotted the room. And at the far end of the room was a big, wooden staircase.
There were a lot of people bustling about in the room. But right as I walked down to the bottom of the steps I was confronted by a tightly packed group of well-dressed people. This was, I knew, the tour group the father had spoken about.
The father had supposed I was the group's guide. I knew this wasn't the case. But I suspected the guide would be along soon enough. If I could just stall the group until the guide got here, perhaps I could make a seamless transition, so that nobody would report me to the father as having been either a terrible tour guide or a fraud.
I was worried about my hairstyle. I could "see" my hairstyle. My dark brown hair was heavily gelled (!) and swept into something halfway between a squarish professional cut and a trendy, spiky-mohawk-type cut. I also really needed to urinate. So I wanted to get into the bathroom before I really got focused on performing for this crowd.
But the bathroom doors were right in front of me, along the wall to my left -- and the crowd were all standing in front of the doors. So I did a little bit of performing for the crowd. I didn't even really know what they were here to tour for. So, trying to act like I knew what I was doing, I also threw out some questions and statements that I hoped would lead the crowd to tell me what they were here for.
I still needed to urinate really bad. So I walked through the crowd, probably telling them that we'd start in just a moment, but that I needed to go to the bathroom first. I may have been worried, though, that while I was in the bathroom, the real tour guide would come along. I wouldn't be able to explain myself to him, and somebody might report me to the father. But I may also have mentioned something to the crowd about how the other tour guide, or even the real tour guide?, might be coming along soon.
The crowd seemed to clear some kind of space to the bathroom for me, or else, even though the crowd hadn't cleared a space, I may have seen how I could have gotten to the bathroom. But the bathroom I now had a clear path to was the women's, not the men's. I could see, on the wood door, a shiny, brass plate in the standard shape of a man, on the door of the bathroom I needed to get into. But it seemed like I was going to have a hard time convincing anybody to let me in there.
Dream #2
A view of something like a road in the desert -- flat, with sandy soil and clumps of grass everywhere. My view floated maybe 3 meters above the road and was moving along over the road at the speed of a car.
In the back of my mind I was feeling a story of a girl who was working through the boyfriend options she had on the internet. There were at least three boys the girl was interested in. The first and the third boy had the last name "Cartel." These two boys each had three names. The third boy's first name began with "Ph." The first boy's first name may have been William. I don't remember anything about the second boy's name.
The girl liked the third boy, Ph. The other Cartel boy was a big troublemaker. But Ph was a really nice boy. And the girl really wanted to be with him.
The girl's father did not want to have his daughter involved with anybody in the Cartel family. But the girl was trying to figure out a way of explaining to the father what kind of a good boy Ph was.
The girl's father came driving down the road, in the direction opposite the one in which I was moving, as part of a big group of vehicles. A lot of the vehicles were dark and shiny, like limousines. But there may also have been some motorcycles and other vehicles. They all seemed to be driving so that they made something like a triangle formation.
The girl's father, who was the leader of this group, may possibly have been driving the lead motorcycle. But even if he was in one of the limousines, I could see him, or sense him, as if he were at the very front of this pack.
Somehow it was now like I was this Cartel boy that the girl liked. I felt like I myself should somehow confront the father and let him know about myself. I knew the daughter would also probably still talk to her father. And I knew that the father would listen to the daughter more than to me. I doubted, though, that the father would really listen to either of us. But I figured I might as well try, anyway.
***
UPDATE: A discussion of the images in this dream can be found in this entry in my dreamday journal.
Dream #1
I may have had either a girlfriend or a girl who was interested in me, who lived in a big mansion with her family. It was night, and the girl, another person or some other people, and I all came up to the mansion. The girl wanted me to sleep here. But she knew her father wouldn't approve of me. So her idea was that I should sleep on the porch of the mansion.
I stood out on the porch while everybody else walked into the mansion. The porch of the mansion was huge, made of massive stone. The doors of the mansion were also big, made of black iron and glass.
The girl checked with the cook of the mansion to see if anybody else was home at the moment. I could see the cook from the right side of the porch, apparently through a dark hallway that led into the incandescent-lit kitchen. The cook said nobody was home. But she also may have said that she still didn't think it was a good idea for me to sleep at the mansion.
I went to sleep on the mansion porch. I slept near the back, right corner of the porch. I think I was using some kind of blankets as a mattress, and a sleeping bag as a blanket.
I now woke. The morning light was grey. A group of people (in a number of cars, including a limousine and a van?) pulled up to the mansion. The girl's father walked up the steps, closely followed by a retinue of people, possibly associates and bodyguards. The father was a black man who still looked kind of young. His hair was maybe about 5cm long. He wore a black suit with a white shirt and some kind of striped tie (maybe green and yellow?). He wore dark but mirror-like sunglasses.
I jumped out of my bedding. I was trying to think of some excuse for why I was sleeping here. Thankfully, I was wearing a business suit -- brown slacks and jacket, not sure about the rest. I was still trying to think of what to say as I approached the father.
But the father directly asked me something like, "Aren't you the tour guide?"
Shocked that I had been given an excuse directly, I said, "Yes."
The father said something like, "Well, why didn't you come here with us? Are you even ready to give the tour? You're cutting it close with time as it is. The group should be here any minute. They'll be waiting in that room."
I looked over to the left wall of the porch. There were iron-barred glass doors leading into what looked like an opulent hotel lobby. The father had walked away. I walked over into the new room. There were three or four short steps leading down into the area.
The area was much wider than it was deep. There were huge chandeliers with incandescent bulbs. The walls were mostly wood. The carpets were all very nice, with kind of Persian designs, in maybe a tan and blue color scheme. There were little circular seating areas throughout the room, nicely upholstered and padded. A couple of big desks dotted the room. And at the far end of the room was a big, wooden staircase.
There were a lot of people bustling about in the room. But right as I walked down to the bottom of the steps I was confronted by a tightly packed group of well-dressed people. This was, I knew, the tour group the father had spoken about.
The father had supposed I was the group's guide. I knew this wasn't the case. But I suspected the guide would be along soon enough. If I could just stall the group until the guide got here, perhaps I could make a seamless transition, so that nobody would report me to the father as having been either a terrible tour guide or a fraud.
I was worried about my hairstyle. I could "see" my hairstyle. My dark brown hair was heavily gelled (!) and swept into something halfway between a squarish professional cut and a trendy, spiky-mohawk-type cut. I also really needed to urinate. So I wanted to get into the bathroom before I really got focused on performing for this crowd.
But the bathroom doors were right in front of me, along the wall to my left -- and the crowd were all standing in front of the doors. So I did a little bit of performing for the crowd. I didn't even really know what they were here to tour for. So, trying to act like I knew what I was doing, I also threw out some questions and statements that I hoped would lead the crowd to tell me what they were here for.
I still needed to urinate really bad. So I walked through the crowd, probably telling them that we'd start in just a moment, but that I needed to go to the bathroom first. I may have been worried, though, that while I was in the bathroom, the real tour guide would come along. I wouldn't be able to explain myself to him, and somebody might report me to the father. But I may also have mentioned something to the crowd about how the other tour guide, or even the real tour guide?, might be coming along soon.
The crowd seemed to clear some kind of space to the bathroom for me, or else, even though the crowd hadn't cleared a space, I may have seen how I could have gotten to the bathroom. But the bathroom I now had a clear path to was the women's, not the men's. I could see, on the wood door, a shiny, brass plate in the standard shape of a man, on the door of the bathroom I needed to get into. But it seemed like I was going to have a hard time convincing anybody to let me in there.
Dream #2
A view of something like a road in the desert -- flat, with sandy soil and clumps of grass everywhere. My view floated maybe 3 meters above the road and was moving along over the road at the speed of a car.
In the back of my mind I was feeling a story of a girl who was working through the boyfriend options she had on the internet. There were at least three boys the girl was interested in. The first and the third boy had the last name "Cartel." These two boys each had three names. The third boy's first name began with "Ph." The first boy's first name may have been William. I don't remember anything about the second boy's name.
The girl liked the third boy, Ph. The other Cartel boy was a big troublemaker. But Ph was a really nice boy. And the girl really wanted to be with him.
The girl's father did not want to have his daughter involved with anybody in the Cartel family. But the girl was trying to figure out a way of explaining to the father what kind of a good boy Ph was.
The girl's father came driving down the road, in the direction opposite the one in which I was moving, as part of a big group of vehicles. A lot of the vehicles were dark and shiny, like limousines. But there may also have been some motorcycles and other vehicles. They all seemed to be driving so that they made something like a triangle formation.
The girl's father, who was the leader of this group, may possibly have been driving the lead motorcycle. But even if he was in one of the limousines, I could see him, or sense him, as if he were at the very front of this pack.
Somehow it was now like I was this Cartel boy that the girl liked. I felt like I myself should somehow confront the father and let him know about myself. I knew the daughter would also probably still talk to her father. And I knew that the father would listen to the daughter more than to me. I doubted, though, that the father would really listen to either of us. But I figured I might as well try, anyway.
***
UPDATE: A discussion of the images in this dream can be found in this entry in my dreamday journal.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
dace joke; humped by zappa lookalike
Good morning, everybody.
Dream #1
I was in a big bedroom with one or two women. Both the women were very beautiful and very made up, almost like 1940s actresses -- or fetish models! They were actually college girls. They either had just graduated or were just about to graduate. There was some issue with one of the girls being just about to meet some other girl, possibly so they could engage in some creative endeavor together.
I turned around and walked toward the door. It now seemed like it was exactly one year later than the time it had been before I'd turned around. There was another woman sitting near some small dresser with a lamp. The woman seemed somehow to be using the dresser as a desk.
There was some discussion about how the first woman and the woman that she had been going to meet were now good friends. The seated woman told me this as if to say "didn't you know this already?" as if I'd asked some question about it.
I walked out into the living room, which was also really large. The room was really messy. It was like there had been some kind of party earlier on -- it was still dark outside -- and nothing had gotten picked up yet.
I was about to walk through the living room and into another room. This whole time I'd been talking with some young woman somewhere about her college graduation, which was just about to take place.
I stopped on the threshold between the living room and some dark room. I stood halfway in both rooms. I could see the woman I'd been talking to in the dark room, standing before a dresser and pulling on some clothes.
In the living room, one of my old friends, M, began making some kind of joke about the graduation party the girl was going to throw. Apparently she was going to throw the party here. Some amount of thought had gone into decorating the place for the party. But M was downplaying all the effort.
The main thing M was doing was playing out the scenario of some dopey, scratchy-voiced, bum-like guy saying all the things you'd need to make a party really classy. M, as the character, would list off one or two normal pieces of furniture, like a coffee table or a dresser. But then he'd veer off and start mentioning all kinds of weird, sometimes trashy, sometimes drug-related, items. One of these things was something called a "dace."
I was really amused by M's antics, even though I felt a little bad, thinking that the girl was probably a little annoyed and insulted by M downplaying her efforts to put together a nice party.
I joined in with M in the antics. The weird exchange M and I had -- both of us acting as the bum-like guy -- was so vivid that I could hear it. But I can't remember anything I said now.
Dream #2
I was in a mall with some guy. I was supposed to keep the guy with me: either making sure I followed him closely or making sure he followed me closely.
The guy was probably in his early forties. He was maybe 190cm or 195cm tall, a little heavy. He had worn out skin and a kind of baggy face. His hair was short, slightly feathery, and blonde, but going grey quickly. The guy wore a blue shirt with a mild, business-casual plaid-like crisscrossing of darker blue lines and a pair of khaki slacks.
The mall was somewhat busy. We had walked out of one store and were now walking to a point where two wide corridors joined into a staircase which led up to one wide corridor.
It had been difficult to keep track of the guy in the corridors, though I'd managed to do it. He'd be up in front of me, then back behind me, then up in front of me all over again. But I think we'd been talking with each other, which had helped me keep some orientation regarding the man.
But the stairwell leading up to the next corridor was extremely busy, if only for a moment. It was like a huge rush of people were all coming down the stairs while I was trying to go up the stairs. I had been having troubles, I think, keeping my own orientation, not to mention keeping track of the man. But now my own orientation was completely obliterated.
I got control of myself. I was only three steps up the staircase. I looked down to the foot of the staircase. I assumed that was the last place I'd seen the man. But the man wasn't there.
The staircase was relatively empty now. I looked past the bottom of the staircase, down the corridor adjacent to the corridor the man and I had come from. I didn't see him among any of the people in the corridor. But I thought he might have gone into one of the shops in the corridor. I thought I should probably walk past all the shops, looking in to see if I could find the man.
But something, either my own thoughts or the voice of some person a couple steps up from and behind me, who seemed to have seen the man, told me that I should actually go up the steps to look for the man.
That made sense. The man, if separated from me, would, I assumed, have kept going in the direction we'd been going in together before we'd gotten separated. After all, our common goal, it seemed to me, was more his goal than mine, even though I'd had to be the one to stick with him to make certain we got to the goal. I could even imagine the man standing on the left side of the corridor, near a shop one or two shops away from the top of the staircase.
I went up the staircase. Time became a little bit jumbled.
For a little while I was in some store like a department store or a drug store, near the makeup sectiong. I may have been talking to a woman behind the counter, standing on a high up platform. I may have been ashamed while I was talking to the woman, like I'd really wanted to wear the makeup she sold, but like I really didn't want her to know that and think I wasn't a boy she could be sexually interested in.
I was then in some big room -- not like a bedroom, but some brick walled room that felt like some kind of art studio, or even an old record store that had been hollowed out. But something about it still felt like a bedroom.
I was in the room with some guy. There may have been another person, possibly also a man, in the room. But he seemed only to be observing, not acting in any way. And he may have disappeared at some point.
The first guy and I went through some scenario together. It was like the guy was trying to figure out something about a girl: maybe why his girlfriend had left him or why he wasn't able to get a specific girl to like him or how to tell a specific girl he liked her. But I had something to do with the woman. It was like I was at fault for the woman not being in love with the man. I didn't know if the man knew this. I suspected he did. But I wasn't going to mention it unless he did.
Now the scenario changed a little bit. So did the guy. The guy had at first been kind of sloppy, wearing a white t-shirt with some black-printed rock band art on it and some kind of khaki jacket. Both the shirt and jacket were in terrible disarray. The guy had been a little round-bellied and round faced, with pretty short hair done in a tightish, square style.
Now the guy was wearing basically the same clothes. But he was really tall and really skinny. He had long, frizzy, black hair, a linty-looking mustache and goatee, and lots of stubble. He had dark, deep-set eyes and bushy eyebrows. He kind of looked like Frank Zappa, with a little bit of Joey Ramone's look, too.
The two of us were still going through some scenario related to the girl who was the guy's love interest. But now there was also some Smashing Pumpkins song playing in the background. Somehow the scenario got mixed up with a discussion about the song -- as if we were actually writing this song together as we heard it, or as if we were trying to figure out how to write a song like this together.
I'm not sure how, but the scenario had worked its way to where the guy had me on the ground, on my back. He was beginning to hump me. He may even have unzipped my pants to reveal that instead of underwear I was wearing a baby's diaper.
I wasn't attracted to the guy. He was pretty dirty looking. But it felt good when he humped me, especially when I could feel the diaper I was wearing pressing against me. I was worried that enjoying this stiuation probably made me gay. But I somehow got myself to believe that even though I was enjoying this guy dry humping me right now, I wouldn't normally enjoy having sex with guys.
I was probably about to climax. I could feel my erection pushing against my diaper. The Smashing Pumpkins song got louder and louder. The man and I may have been singing the song together. I may still have been trying to figure out if we were making this song or only listening to it.
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