emotional drawing; i owe $283,000???

Good morning, everybody.

Dream #1

My view was floating somewhere, maybe over the passengers of a kind of large tour bus, maybe from the front of the bus to the back of the bus. My mother and I may have been on the bus somewhere, although I may have been a pretty, young, copper skinned woman with black hair.

I was hearing a discussion in my head between myself and a woman, possibly my mother. We were talking about how, when you draw characters, if you draw characters using a grey cloak, you don't have to give them any personality. This didn't just have to do with the color grey. It was like the character was actually wearing some kind of cloak of grey that zipped over its entire body. I thought this cloak made drawing easier, because it erased personality and emotion from the character.

But I then realized I was wrong. The grey cloak didn't erase any personality or emotion from the character. No matter whether I drew the characters in full color or with the cloak over them, I still had to use personality and emotion.

Dream #2

I walked into a place I supposed was a movie theatre, even though it looked like a really big classroom. The room was dark, but maybe with disco ball stars spinning around the room. At the front of the room, high up on the wall, was a rectangle of light, coming from a projection room high up on the back wall.

There were a lot of rows of desks. And all the desks seemed to be filled with old friends of mine. At the back of the room was some long table that sold items related to the event taking place: maybe some kind of film festival. A lot of people still seemed to be coming into the room and filtering up into the desks.

I had read the program for the event. A lot of films by Pedro Almodovar were going to be shown. I was excited about that. I pointed out the fact to one of my female friends. My friend said, "Oh, yeah. Almodovar is one of the top three directors ever in Spain."

My friend named some director I'd never heard of as being the best director in Spain. The director had worked alongside Almodovar in the 1980s, and his films from that time period were apparently incredible.

I was walking up, trying to find a seat. Somebody up ahead of me mentioned the third director in the group. Even though I hadn't seen any films by the director, I at least knew his name. So I called it out, something like "Ittryia" or "Attyra."

I was already ashamed that I hadn't known the first director. So I just pretended to know about Ittryia. I said a fact I'd known about him: that he'd worked as a kind of assistant to Almodovar on a number of films in the 1980s, but that he'd then gone on to make his own films. I then mentioned one of his films, which was playing here, and even though I'd never seen it before, I went off on how good it was.

Even still, I wasn't happy with myself. People knew Almodovar, and people who knew film adored the first director. But Ittryia was really obscure and not of great interest to many people at all. So, even lying about what I knew, I knew I wasn't really impressing anybody, or even giving them information they'd wanted.

I now sat down in one of the seats and began talking with some of my friends. But my view suddenly shifted. I was laying on my back in bed. Somebody like a combination of a police officer and a postal worker barged into my room. He threw an envelope at my stomach, said that I'd better pay attention to it, and stomped away.

I picked up the envelope and looked at it. Through the cellophane window on the front of the envelope I could see that the contents were a bill that actually looked something like a paycheck. The right side of the bill had the figure of $750 on it.

I could faintly remember owing that amount of money. Maybe I'd had to go to the hospital for something, like I'd been taken into the hospital because I'd been too drunk (which happened to me in 1997 and 2006). Or maybe I'd even been arrested for something that I couldn't remember.

I could faintly remember a police officer telling me that people often get stuck with fines because, even though their crime or stupid action wasn't bad, they needed to pay a lot of money to remember never to do something like that again.

But now I looked over to the left side of the window. As I passed along the window, I'd gotten the feeling that I'd actually owed the $750 for a while now, and that I was now getting in trouble for never having paid it. On the left side of the window was another figure: $283,000.

$283,000? How could that be? For some reason, something about the figure reminded me of the speed of light. It was too much money! But the sum came, I knew, from interest fees as well as exorbitant fines that the police put on late payments -- ostensibly with the goal of getting people to pay.

But I couldn't pay. And I think the police counted on that in most of the cases like mine. The letter was really a subpoena, so that I'd have to appear in court regarding the $283,000 I owed. And I'd probably be sent to jail.

coming back for reports; sitting between guys; internet tattle-tale

Good morning, everybody.


Dream #1


It was a hot, sunny day, probably in some suburban town in the desert. I was driving down a steep slope. I drove behind a family member, possibly my mother. My mom was driving some sporty, red car. Either I had a report or both my mom and I each had a report that needed to get somewhere.


But both our cars got stopped. I don't think it was for speeding. I think there may have been an accident ahead of us, or perhaps my mom's car had gotten into an accident.


My mom was now gone from her car. A police officer (man or woman?) came back to my car. The officer basically told me how this entire incident had been my fault. It seemed like the officer was going to arrest me. But I explained something about getting my report somewhere. Because of the report, the officer let me go, if only temporarily.


I was now inside a house, like everything that had happened had actually happened inside a house. It was night. The house was all dark, except for some dim light that came in through the front window. 


I was walking toward the front door with my report. But I remembered that I needed to take my mom's report as well. Since my mom was gone, she wouldn't be able to take the report herself. 


The report was sitting on the corner of a little breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the living room. But to get the report I actually had to walk up some really steep slope in the house, then go down the slope. The slope was steeper than the staircase up to the second floor. It seemed to float over the staircase. It may also have been invisible.


I came down the slope and grabbed the report. I think my report was small. But my mom's report was very large. I remembered that my report was supposed to go to Michael Aquino. But I don't remember if my mom's report was supposed to go to him, too.


I may have walked out the door of the house. I believe I was talking in my head with some male authority figure. The person may have been Michael Aquino. But he may also have been a tall, young, muscular man with a golden tan and curly, blonde hair. 


I realized I had somehow left my mother's report in the house and on the breakfast bar again. I walked back into the house to get the report. A car may have stood beside the breakfast bar. It may have been a red sports car, like the one my mom had been driving. The passenger side door was open. The tall, blonde man may have been standing beside the car. I may have been continuing my conversation with the man.


Dream #2


It was early morning. The sky was deep blue with pre-sunrise light. I stood out beside a bus in some open space. I walked along the ridged chrome side of the bus and got into the bus. The entire time, I may have been thinking about something I needed to do, like some news I needed to give people, or some report I needed to hand off to people.


I got to some space on the bus. There was one seat open between three men. The men were like stock characters out of a Japanese pink film. They were all dressed like transient people, wearing jackets and skull-caps and baggy clothes like cargo pants.


For some reason, as if because of the position of the seat, but also because of some power of force the men had over me, I had to throw myself, almost like a missile, head first, into the seat. As I did this, the men may either have attacked me or taunted me. 


But then there may have been an understanding among the men that I was protected. I was here under the auspices of a specific person. If anything happened to me, the person who had sent me here would hurt whoever was responsible. This may have caused the men to stop attacking or taunting me.


It could also possibly have been that the men had taken a liking to me, so that they no longer wanted to hurt me. They may even have felt bad about having hurt me in the first place.


Dream #3


There had been three girls in some shadowy room. I could really only see their silhouettes. They had each been talking on a phone. But their phone conversations all had to do with some kind of internet attack. The attack had something to do with me.


I knew that I was going to have to report this attack. The girls all decided to call off the attack. But they were all accusing me of being a tattle-tale. 


I felt bad. I didn't like to think of myself as a tattle-tale. And I didn't want the girls to feel bitter toward me, because I didn't want to have to face the consequences of their bitterness later on.


But I suddenly realized, and I may have shared this news with the girls, that I only knew them by their avatar names. I didn't know their real names, only the names they had used to communicate with people during this attack.


This made the girls feel a little more at ease. They'd decided to stop their attack. And they knew that if they were caught afterwards, their real identities having been found out, that I wouldn't be to blame.