(10/10/16) sister & junkyard; natural, real, serious, and sane

(Entered in paper journal at 8 PM at home in Brooklyn.)

Dream 1

I was with my sister (?) in a junkyard. It was supposed to be a place where planes took off. but nothing was running today (?). My sister was disappointed that I had pointed out a bus and a "plane" -- both mangled and burnt-looking. The "plane" was actually just the controls in a cockpit, twisted and gnarled and red and meaty like Brundle at the end of Cronenberg's version of The Fly.

Dream 2

There was some talk about a little girl causing big problems. I walked into a living room. I realized in some way or another that I was dreaming. I jumped over a couple couches and floated over them to a window.

There was a cube of candles hanging on strings. They were in weird shapes, monocolor (???), like ridged rectangles wrapping around a smooth cube. One candle was purple. Possibly another was orange. There were others.

I turned to the right and saw other candle-like ornaments on a white set of shelves. At first the room was small, cluttered, dirty, scary. Then it was bright and open but still cluttered. I jumped over the couches.

Now I was in a huge room. The room was a mess, like an opulent living room gone to decay. There were tall, tall walls on which the turquoise paint was chipping. The floor was hard. Where couches had been, there was now a lot of space, and then rows of folding chairs. There were two paintings on the left wall. One "painting" on the wall I face was inside a box at the top of a tall column like the face on a grandfather clock. But the clock was tall, tall, high in the air. There may have been a tall mantle over a tall fireplace.

I flew up to the paintings on the left wall. One was in a classical British (?) style. They were portraits, maybe turquoise-themed.

I hit my feet against the wall. I flew to the grandfather clock. I looked inside. I saw the painting for an instant. Then it shifted to a piece of box art like a work by Joseph Cornell except somewhat tacky. There was a paper image of a figure collaged into in the work -- a D.D. Home-like man in black and white, and almost crumpled up. There was random junk all over the scene of the work. I shook the grandfather clock, trying to get the beautiful picture back.

I sank to the ground as two women (vague) came into the room. They were talking to me as if this were my my cell or dormitory in an insane asylum. I tried to prove I was not insane and that I could do things like fly. There was a loud TV somewhere in the room. I jumped up and flew like I was back-floating (naked except for grey briefs?) over chairs.

I couldn't fly very well or very far. But the two women said something like "That's the result of that yoga stuff he does."

I jumped up in the air to fly again, to prove (why?) that I wasn't doing yoga or being crazy, but that I was simply being natural, real, serious, and sane.