(Entered in paper journal at 4 AM at home in Brooklyn.)
Dream #1
I was in a cubicle before an office. I sat like I was in a chair directly before the doorway to the office. A woman was in the office. she was darkly tanned, a little thick-bodied, with long, wavy, soft brown, and dark blonde hair. She wore a sleeveless, black shirt.
The woman told me, "I like you. You're smart and interesting and amazing." She then began singing to the effect of, "But no matter how I try, I just can't get myself to love you. It's no offense to you. I just can't feel anything for you." I thought it was a beautiful and charming song.
As the woman was partly through, a man walked up to us. He may have been my co-worker MW. The woman stopped singing, as if she thought she would get scolded for saying she didn't love me.
We were all heading downstairs for a celebration. I thought the celebration was for me, because I was doing such a great job. We went down a long escalator in a wide room with one or two other escalators in it. I was not interested in going to this thing, but I thinking of nice things to say.
We got down to a basement that looked like a school cafeteria built into a huge basement laundry room. There were only a couple long bench-tables in the whole space.
In now learned that this celebration was all about a group of people who had put together a really interesting project. They sat at a bench-table.
People were passing around cupcakes. They wanted me to have a plate with three large, frosted cupcakes on it all to myself. But I couldn't eat that much. I took one that looked like German chocolate cake. There was another one that was chocolate on chocolate, and another that was chocolate with blue frosting.
I stood up. Another group of people walked in. I gave them the two cupcakes. I told the group I couldn't possibly eat these cupcakes.
Dream #2
I was in a car with a long-haired, pale-skinned, young man. He kept sucking his mouth around and then away from his teeth, like he had a nervous disorder. He was very thin-faced. I saw him as if I were a camera filming him in the driver's seat. But I was myself, somewhere.
We drove through "New York," around "Central Park." The man told me, "People walk down routes they wouldn't have thought of walking down years ago. This city is different. You simply couldn't walk down those routes a few years ago: you'd get killed.
"We found safer routes in those days. The easiest way was by staying close to the libraries." As we passed gates into the park, the man said, ""You definitely didn't go into the park."
We passed a big library on a triangular corner. A lovely couple walked out. The man said, "Those two right there. That's a sign of the times. They would have gotten beaten up for sure. Now they walk around here shopping for groceries."
I stood out on the corner now, on a little plaza area before the library. There were a few Asian guys in suits handing out Christian literature. I was still seeing everything as if I were a movie camera. I thought this was a movie. I wondered how they got everybody to act so natural.
Showing posts with label co-worker MW. Show all posts
Showing posts with label co-worker MW. Show all posts
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Monday, February 25, 2013
(7/25/07) control of the pole
(Entered in paper journal at 5:45 AM on Q-train from Brooklyn to Manhattan.)
Dream #1
I stood in a misty landscape, possibly moving as if on a train, in the dim evening. I heard a woman talk about how much it cost to live in this area. I saw a figure like $612,000 per year in my head. The woman spoke, probably about this figure, as if she had gotten a good deal. I thought, Why is it so expensive to live here?
I stood in a tall, wide building like an emptied warehouse with a handful of desks in it. There may have been no glass in the windows -- the building mostly open to the bright morning air. The walls gave off a bluish tint. They were like rough, unfinished concrete.
My co-worker MW sat at a teacher's desk at the "head" (more like the side) of the room, giving the Sales department a presentation on research his team had done on housing prices. The members of the Sales department sat in students' desks.
I had left my copy of MW's printed presentation over the blackboard, off to the right of the sales force. I reached up and grabbed it.
The presentation may have been over now. I walked up to a young man in the back row who may have been sleeping. (The seats were now arranged perpendicular to how they had been before, facing now to the left of the building instead of the right half of the back wall. The seats were also rows, long tables, instead of single desks.)
The young man, white or Hispanic, had a thug-like look to him. He wore a big, baggy, white jacket with blue designs on it. When he looked up at me from under the hood of his jacket it was like he was looking out from under a rock. I was afraid -- like I was afraid of telling the young man something he didn't like. But all I wanted to do was tell the young man that the presentation was over and that we were all leaving.
I was in a hallway of a smallish suburban house. I was walking into "my bedroom" (?), which was to my left. I had to grab some notebooks to get ready for a presentation. I was embarrassed by how shaken up I had let the young man's mean gaze get me. But I tried to convince myself that I wasn't shaken up at all.
When I grabbed some notebooks out of a wicker basket high up on a bookcase, two or three other notebooks started slipping down. I tried to hold them in place, but they became unmanageable and slid down to the ground. I knew that I couldn't control the notebooks because I had let myself become jittery and clumsy -- because the young man's mean gaze had shaken me up.
I got angry, indignant, and stomped out of the room. I walked along a flagstone path. The house I'd been in was now down a short but steep slope off to my right. To my left was a vista of desert mountains.
I stood huddled against a pole, or possibly a phone booth. I looked over my left shoulder, behind me. I thought, I'm so bored with my life, my job. I wish I could get out of here.
I looked out over the vista of desert mountains. One mountain I saw was, on the far right, mostly green with trees. In the center it had a vertical striation of basalt-like maroon stone and tan stone that spread out into wide stripes at the base. This section of the mountain had new cookie-cutter house on the slope and the base.
The far left section of mountain was like a mountain that had been covered in geometric, fluorescent plastic. In some patches it was green and in some patches it was orange. There were houses on the mountain here, too. The houses were also plasticky, like the mountains.
(At this point I got off the train and headed into work. I resumed the paper journal entry at 6:14 PM, after work, and after a visit to my psychiatrist A, I believe. I wrote at the Starbucks on 29th Street and Fifth Avenue in Manhattan.)
I had finished dealing with a group of bullies who were being verbally abusive. They had stopped I was now standing on a porch. Now one of the bullies came at me with physical threats. The bully was a scrappy, black boy with a black sweat-hoodie jacket, black t-shirt, black jeans, and a squarish, red baseball cap with the bill tilted rakishly to the right side of his head.
At first I thought I would avoid the boy by getting away from the porch while he calmed down. But as I left the porch the landscape became harder to traverse: it was slowly cluttered with broken pieces of scaffolding, metallic fragments like off of large pipe-seals or caps. I walked until i had to jump from stable piece to stable piece. I worked my way counter-clockwise around a huge boundary of standing blue scaffolding-wall.
At the same time I heard the boy's friends say, "If he doesn't face him," (i.e. if I didn't face the bully) "he" (the bully) "will just think he" (I) "is a chicken shit, and he'll keep attacking."
I got around the final bend of the scaffolding, knowing I'd have to face the bully. I was ready. He stood maybe twenty-five meters away, across a span of scrap wood and metal, like the debris of a house that had been hit by a storm.
The boy swung a long, red pole at me. The pole was like plastic-coated metal. The red "plastic" was ribbed, almost like the ribbing on the hose of a vacuum cleaner at a car wash. I grabbed the pole. The boy swung the pole with me at the end of it. He was trying to throw me off it so he could hit me with it.
But I was slowly gaining an understanding of how the boy was using the pole. I was about to turn the tables, to use my understanding to leverage the boy's actions against him.
The boy dropped his end of the pole, thinking I would fall with the pole, flat on the ground. But I was ready for this move. I landed on my feet, and I now had complete control of the pole. I was about to begin hitting the boy with the pole.
Dream #1
I stood in a misty landscape, possibly moving as if on a train, in the dim evening. I heard a woman talk about how much it cost to live in this area. I saw a figure like $612,000 per year in my head. The woman spoke, probably about this figure, as if she had gotten a good deal. I thought, Why is it so expensive to live here?
I stood in a tall, wide building like an emptied warehouse with a handful of desks in it. There may have been no glass in the windows -- the building mostly open to the bright morning air. The walls gave off a bluish tint. They were like rough, unfinished concrete.
My co-worker MW sat at a teacher's desk at the "head" (more like the side) of the room, giving the Sales department a presentation on research his team had done on housing prices. The members of the Sales department sat in students' desks.
I had left my copy of MW's printed presentation over the blackboard, off to the right of the sales force. I reached up and grabbed it.
The presentation may have been over now. I walked up to a young man in the back row who may have been sleeping. (The seats were now arranged perpendicular to how they had been before, facing now to the left of the building instead of the right half of the back wall. The seats were also rows, long tables, instead of single desks.)
The young man, white or Hispanic, had a thug-like look to him. He wore a big, baggy, white jacket with blue designs on it. When he looked up at me from under the hood of his jacket it was like he was looking out from under a rock. I was afraid -- like I was afraid of telling the young man something he didn't like. But all I wanted to do was tell the young man that the presentation was over and that we were all leaving.
I was in a hallway of a smallish suburban house. I was walking into "my bedroom" (?), which was to my left. I had to grab some notebooks to get ready for a presentation. I was embarrassed by how shaken up I had let the young man's mean gaze get me. But I tried to convince myself that I wasn't shaken up at all.
When I grabbed some notebooks out of a wicker basket high up on a bookcase, two or three other notebooks started slipping down. I tried to hold them in place, but they became unmanageable and slid down to the ground. I knew that I couldn't control the notebooks because I had let myself become jittery and clumsy -- because the young man's mean gaze had shaken me up.
I got angry, indignant, and stomped out of the room. I walked along a flagstone path. The house I'd been in was now down a short but steep slope off to my right. To my left was a vista of desert mountains.
I stood huddled against a pole, or possibly a phone booth. I looked over my left shoulder, behind me. I thought, I'm so bored with my life, my job. I wish I could get out of here.
I looked out over the vista of desert mountains. One mountain I saw was, on the far right, mostly green with trees. In the center it had a vertical striation of basalt-like maroon stone and tan stone that spread out into wide stripes at the base. This section of the mountain had new cookie-cutter house on the slope and the base.
The far left section of mountain was like a mountain that had been covered in geometric, fluorescent plastic. In some patches it was green and in some patches it was orange. There were houses on the mountain here, too. The houses were also plasticky, like the mountains.
(At this point I got off the train and headed into work. I resumed the paper journal entry at 6:14 PM, after work, and after a visit to my psychiatrist A, I believe. I wrote at the Starbucks on 29th Street and Fifth Avenue in Manhattan.)
I had finished dealing with a group of bullies who were being verbally abusive. They had stopped I was now standing on a porch. Now one of the bullies came at me with physical threats. The bully was a scrappy, black boy with a black sweat-hoodie jacket, black t-shirt, black jeans, and a squarish, red baseball cap with the bill tilted rakishly to the right side of his head.
At first I thought I would avoid the boy by getting away from the porch while he calmed down. But as I left the porch the landscape became harder to traverse: it was slowly cluttered with broken pieces of scaffolding, metallic fragments like off of large pipe-seals or caps. I walked until i had to jump from stable piece to stable piece. I worked my way counter-clockwise around a huge boundary of standing blue scaffolding-wall.
At the same time I heard the boy's friends say, "If he doesn't face him," (i.e. if I didn't face the bully) "he" (the bully) "will just think he" (I) "is a chicken shit, and he'll keep attacking."
I got around the final bend of the scaffolding, knowing I'd have to face the bully. I was ready. He stood maybe twenty-five meters away, across a span of scrap wood and metal, like the debris of a house that had been hit by a storm.
The boy swung a long, red pole at me. The pole was like plastic-coated metal. The red "plastic" was ribbed, almost like the ribbing on the hose of a vacuum cleaner at a car wash. I grabbed the pole. The boy swung the pole with me at the end of it. He was trying to throw me off it so he could hit me with it.
But I was slowly gaining an understanding of how the boy was using the pole. I was about to turn the tables, to use my understanding to leverage the boy's actions against him.
The boy dropped his end of the pole, thinking I would fall with the pole, flat on the ground. But I was ready for this move. I landed on my feet, and I now had complete control of the pole. I was about to begin hitting the boy with the pole.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
(10/8/08) memory lane and coney island
Dream #1
I was walking across an enormous bridge in the bright daylight. The bridge seemed to be just a walkway where I was.
I was just coming out of a tunnel part of the bridge and heading back down (across a river like the East River) when my old co-worker MW called from behind me. I turned to face MW. He was wearing a pale yellow shirt. MW and I spoke about some work I had done. I laughed, either about how it was right or how it was wrong.
MW seemed to fade away behind me. I was back down on the ground by myself. I was walking alone through an area that looked like a closed-down amusement park. A lot of the "buildings" (booths, really) had airbrush paintings of scenes with Popeye on them. At one point I may have walked past a Popeye's restaurant. The booths seemed to crowd up all around me, blocking the direct sunlight to some degree.
I was walking across an enormous bridge in the bright daylight. The bridge seemed to be just a walkway where I was.
I was just coming out of a tunnel part of the bridge and heading back down (across a river like the East River) when my old co-worker MW called from behind me. I turned to face MW. He was wearing a pale yellow shirt. MW and I spoke about some work I had done. I laughed, either about how it was right or how it was wrong.
MW seemed to fade away behind me. I was back down on the ground by myself. I was walking alone through an area that looked like a closed-down amusement park. A lot of the "buildings" (booths, really) had airbrush paintings of scenes with Popeye on them. At one point I may have walked past a Popeye's restaurant. The booths seemed to crowd up all around me, blocking the direct sunlight to some degree.
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