(Entered in paper journal at 6:15 AM on Q-train from Brooklyn to Manhattan.)
Dream #1
I was in a dark room. It was like a basement. It had concrete floors and walls that felt rocky and thick. It was my bedroom. I was getting dressed under a light fixture. The light wasn't on. Instead, it was like there was a shaft of dim light coming from a window or opening in the ceiling.
I looked over to my bed, which had nothing on it, no sheets, blankets, etc. But a pink pair of panties lay slung on one of the bed's edges. I thought, I really need to stop neglecting this place.
I was now sitting on my bed, probably with my knees pulled up to my chest. The (incandescent) light in the room was on. I was singing along with a song that sounded like it was from the 1960s: --
"I would never chase a sunbird,
I would never watch the sea,
I would never chase a rainbow;
But I would change my life
So rapidly,
Yeah, I would change my life
So easily."
As I sang I thought that my voice sounded pretty good, but that I was just a little off-key.
Showing posts with label 1960s style. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 1960s style. Show all posts
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Sunday, January 6, 2013
(9/27/08) the story of my boss' career
(Entered in paper journal on Q-train.)
Dream #1
I was in a big room. It might have been a mod-fashion type of room, like in a lot of movies about the 1960s and 1970s, with bright-orange walls and lots of big, white blocks everywhere for furniture. But there might also have been other objects in the room, such as small aircraft.
I stood in front of a small, blonde woman who sat on a piece of furniture. I was trying to tell the woman about the career of my boss BS. But as I got to a point where I was talking about when he began working for our company, BS walked past and corrected me. He said, "I began twenty-nine years ago." BS continued walking on and talking about his time at the company. I also continued talking to the girl about BS' time at the company, though I now felt a lot less confident about what I was saying.
The scene soon faded. I could still hear BS talking about his life. But I was now seeing as if I were floating along myself, to my right, before some docks, or along a shore. I first saw a large ship which kind of looked like a battleship and a large yacht combined. Then (at a specific point in BS' story) I saw a ship submerged so that only its bow stuck out of the water, flatly, almost even with the water. The bow itself was flat, like a wood for or a bowling lane.
Saturday, January 5, 2013
(11/29/08) escape from the barber
Dream #1
I was in a barber shop. I sat down at a chair and an older, fattish man with bronzed skin and darkish, blonde hair got me ready. He brought out a big tub of shaving cream. He used a large brush to spread some of the shaving cream across my face. I really didn't want to have a shave. But I thought that since the barber had already started, it was just as well.
The shaving cream was tan colored, with little flecks of green in it. It smelled like seaweed. The man began to shave me, but only cut the top part of my left sideburn. He might have sensed a bit of my hesitance. He got angry and stood me up. He said this wasn't the right room for cutting people's hair.
We walked into another room. The previous room had been run-down, with concrete floors and green-painted, concrete walls, with only one barber chair and a dirty mirror in front of it. But this room was even worse. The walls were dark wood. The room was very small. There might have been a worn-out bed and a thin, worn-out, dark wood chair.
The man was grumbling violently to me about how bad I was for not letting him do his job. He mad some angry complaint about how people like me were all alike (rich people, people from a certain place or of a certain race, etc.), and how he hating having to do anything for them at all.
The man pulled me into a couple other rooms, which may possibly have been getting deeper into this building. Finally we stood in a small room. I may not have had shaving cream on my face anymore.
The old man pulled out his blade and said, "This blade isn't good at all for shaving people. It's good for killing them."
The man grabbed me, but I got loose. He chased me through the building and into an area like a courtyard garden.
Right at the doors into the garden the man was caught (by a middle-aged, Latin man and woman, a couple, who may have been dressed in blue or purple nurses' scrubs?). The captors held the man as he violently struggled with them and screamed and barked after me.
The courtyard was square. The garden was complex, like a medieval garden, but it looked worn down and neglected. There might even have been rusty junk, like old wheelbarrows, in the garden. The walls of the building may have been stucco. There was a wood-columned, patio-like, covered walkway along the walls. I ran through the garden and at a set of wide, old, greying wood doors (like for a horse stable).
I was now in a car, driving very slowly through a suburban street. I was with the Americorps crew with whom I had worked in New York City in 2005. We were in some neighborhood like far out in Queens, a very quiet, suburban neighborhood with houses and yards.
I knew we were coming to a house number that was the same as the number of the house I had last lived in with my family. I didn't really care -- it didn't seem too special -- there must have been tons of houses with that same number. But I new my crew mates would be interested. But I also didn't want to tell them my old house number. I felt uneasy about giving away even the slightest details about my family's past or present whereabouts. But it was like my crew already knew.
We parked at the curb of a dark-tan-bricked house, the yard of which had a slight upward slope. The house number was written out in big, black-iron, cursive characters to the left (my right) of the doorway. The door was open.
The crew had brought me here as a kind of surprise. They knew either that I had lived here or that the house number made this house very much like the house I had lived in. My crew had arranged for me to come in to get a glimpse of my "old days." Some other people were also slowly trickling into the house. There was a whole houseful of people inside, all relaxedly mingling with each other.
The house itself was huge on the inside. The interior decoration was very much like that of a house of the late 1960s or early 1970s. It was dark carpeted, with mostly dark-toned furniture. There seemed to be a layering of rooms -- the rooms were divided from each other not by walls but by successive flights and sometimes by small bars. Something about the bars or walls may have had a stony quality. The space was altogether expansive, though the dark colors made it feel somewhat closed in.
The people all looked like middle-aged people from the late 1960s or early 1970s. They were dressed semi-formally. I met up with some of the people and was walking down a flight, to the main buffet table.
Suddenly I remembered the incident with the barber. I started telling the story to the man to my left. The man was probably in his late thirties, white, tan, with a bowlish haircut, a thick, white, turtleneck sweater, and a black blazer. I told the man that the barber hadn't gotten very far along at all in cutting my hair. I then thought how disappointing that was. I knew how shaggy my hair was. And now my sideburns probably looked all lopsided, too.
I was in a barber shop. I sat down at a chair and an older, fattish man with bronzed skin and darkish, blonde hair got me ready. He brought out a big tub of shaving cream. He used a large brush to spread some of the shaving cream across my face. I really didn't want to have a shave. But I thought that since the barber had already started, it was just as well.
The shaving cream was tan colored, with little flecks of green in it. It smelled like seaweed. The man began to shave me, but only cut the top part of my left sideburn. He might have sensed a bit of my hesitance. He got angry and stood me up. He said this wasn't the right room for cutting people's hair.
We walked into another room. The previous room had been run-down, with concrete floors and green-painted, concrete walls, with only one barber chair and a dirty mirror in front of it. But this room was even worse. The walls were dark wood. The room was very small. There might have been a worn-out bed and a thin, worn-out, dark wood chair.
The man was grumbling violently to me about how bad I was for not letting him do his job. He mad some angry complaint about how people like me were all alike (rich people, people from a certain place or of a certain race, etc.), and how he hating having to do anything for them at all.
The man pulled me into a couple other rooms, which may possibly have been getting deeper into this building. Finally we stood in a small room. I may not have had shaving cream on my face anymore.
The old man pulled out his blade and said, "This blade isn't good at all for shaving people. It's good for killing them."
The man grabbed me, but I got loose. He chased me through the building and into an area like a courtyard garden.
Right at the doors into the garden the man was caught (by a middle-aged, Latin man and woman, a couple, who may have been dressed in blue or purple nurses' scrubs?). The captors held the man as he violently struggled with them and screamed and barked after me.
The courtyard was square. The garden was complex, like a medieval garden, but it looked worn down and neglected. There might even have been rusty junk, like old wheelbarrows, in the garden. The walls of the building may have been stucco. There was a wood-columned, patio-like, covered walkway along the walls. I ran through the garden and at a set of wide, old, greying wood doors (like for a horse stable).
I was now in a car, driving very slowly through a suburban street. I was with the Americorps crew with whom I had worked in New York City in 2005. We were in some neighborhood like far out in Queens, a very quiet, suburban neighborhood with houses and yards.
I knew we were coming to a house number that was the same as the number of the house I had last lived in with my family. I didn't really care -- it didn't seem too special -- there must have been tons of houses with that same number. But I new my crew mates would be interested. But I also didn't want to tell them my old house number. I felt uneasy about giving away even the slightest details about my family's past or present whereabouts. But it was like my crew already knew.
We parked at the curb of a dark-tan-bricked house, the yard of which had a slight upward slope. The house number was written out in big, black-iron, cursive characters to the left (my right) of the doorway. The door was open.
The crew had brought me here as a kind of surprise. They knew either that I had lived here or that the house number made this house very much like the house I had lived in. My crew had arranged for me to come in to get a glimpse of my "old days." Some other people were also slowly trickling into the house. There was a whole houseful of people inside, all relaxedly mingling with each other.
The house itself was huge on the inside. The interior decoration was very much like that of a house of the late 1960s or early 1970s. It was dark carpeted, with mostly dark-toned furniture. There seemed to be a layering of rooms -- the rooms were divided from each other not by walls but by successive flights and sometimes by small bars. Something about the bars or walls may have had a stony quality. The space was altogether expansive, though the dark colors made it feel somewhat closed in.
The people all looked like middle-aged people from the late 1960s or early 1970s. They were dressed semi-formally. I met up with some of the people and was walking down a flight, to the main buffet table.
Suddenly I remembered the incident with the barber. I started telling the story to the man to my left. The man was probably in his late thirties, white, tan, with a bowlish haircut, a thick, white, turtleneck sweater, and a black blazer. I told the man that the barber hadn't gotten very far along at all in cutting my hair. I then thought how disappointing that was. I knew how shaggy my hair was. And now my sideburns probably looked all lopsided, too.
Monday, December 31, 2012
(1/30/09) a portrait of the lennons; screwed and loving it
(Entered in paper journal at 8:30 AM at Red Horse cafe in Brooklyn.)
Dream #1
I was in a very grimy and messy, unfinished basement, like the basement of the house my family lived in in my last three years of high school. I was coming out of the basement as if I were coming back from a long trip. I walked through a plastic (?) curtain to get into the stairwell. The stairwell was also grimy, like the basement, but had white walls and white-tiled stairs (with reddish and brownish grime all over the place) and was yellowed with sunlight from a door-window at the top of the stairs.
As I walked up the stairs I said, as if speaking to a camera, "I know I'm being watched, so I'd better behave." I may have turned around to see a small surveillance camera on the wall over the doorway at the foot of the stairwell. I might have been or thought of myself as a pretty girl with dark, tan skin and long, black hair.
I was now somewhere upstairs with my mom. She had gotten me a camera, since I had expressed my frustration over not having been able to take photos of things recently. But, she told me, the camera had only a XXXXX memory, so I could only take (five? ten?) photos at a time. But the medium was also film, not digital memory. So I knew I'd have to get the photos developed. The photos were also only in black and white, although they apparently had the most desirable resolution quality imaginable.
I saw a few photos that had been taken, as if I were holding onto them crookedly, in a disordered pile, as if I couldn't put them in order at all in my hands. The photos looked like crime scene or car crash (or punk rock) photos: very jangled, with people lying or standing in awkward, wild poses, with their mouths wide open, and with objects scattered all over, maybe broken.
I then saw a photo of John Lennon and his family, possibly standing in Central Park. There were a lot of people in the photo. The photo stood before all my vision, as if I were seeing it on a movie or television screen. At first I could only see a small fragment of it, like pant legs, then a section of face. But eventually the whole photo became clear to me.
Julian Lennon, as a boy, caught my attention first. He looked exactly like John Lennon. He wore a pea coat that went down to his knees. He stood just about in the center of the photo, a little to the left. Just to the left of him and behind stood Yoko Ono. Farther to the left and farther back stood John. He and Julian may have been making the same kind of expression: a complacent, but somehow sad, tucking upward of the right corner of the mouth, with a bright, but blank, almost depressed, look in the eyes.
Farther to the left stood people like my brother and sister. To the right of Julian, beside him, stood one or two of his brothers/sisters by John and Yoko. The children were all the same height, and they looked somewhat the same, thought the brothers/sisters may have looked like children who had more "personality."
Behind Julian stood a tallish, blonde, teenage girl. Whereas everybody so far (except John and Yoko?) had a kind of dressed-up casual, late 1960s look, this girl looked like a fashionable casual girl from the 1980s. She wore a patterned sweater and had short, loosely curled, blonde hair. She was looking to the right, to a woman who looked just like her, except that she was more formally dressed, though still in the 1980s style. This was the girl's mother, who was also (i.e. at the same time as Yoko) John's wife.
To the girl's immediate right were a couple of the girl's brothers/sisters, who were slightly shorter than she, and were dressed more in the 1960s style. I may have been in the photo as well, somewhere far to the right.
Dream #2
I was in an office, which actually looked more like a theater or auditorium, talking with my boss BS about my having gotten fired. The place was bright and grey with window light -- probably high windows on a sunny day. The place was also full of young people, mostly men, who were very active and happy. They all looked like business people, but they were dressed in t-shirts and jeans.
One of my friends caught my attention. He had let his seat move back into its upward position. He then sat on its edge and moved back and forth on it. He said something like, "Now I can feel what our company did to us is really like!" This was supposed to mean he felt that we had gotten screwed. But then he said, "It kind of feels good. I can tell by your look that you think it feels good, too. Don't tell me you're one of those guys who likes it up the ass."
I looked away and I thought, It couldn't be. I thought the swaying back and forth on the seat edge was fun. But could that mean I liked anal sex? I then moved away from my chair, not standing, but crouching. I let the seat cushion spring back up, like a normal seat in an auditorium or movie theater might do. I then started scratching my back against the seat edge. Everybody around me said, "Now that's a great idea!"
The guys were all starting to act rowdy. They were all scratching their backs against their seat edges, but they were also standing and joking with each other, having a lot of fun. I had previously felt like they were making fun of me. Now I realized that all their joking had been to make me laugh, and that they were largely looking for my approval.
Dream #1
I was in a very grimy and messy, unfinished basement, like the basement of the house my family lived in in my last three years of high school. I was coming out of the basement as if I were coming back from a long trip. I walked through a plastic (?) curtain to get into the stairwell. The stairwell was also grimy, like the basement, but had white walls and white-tiled stairs (with reddish and brownish grime all over the place) and was yellowed with sunlight from a door-window at the top of the stairs.
As I walked up the stairs I said, as if speaking to a camera, "I know I'm being watched, so I'd better behave." I may have turned around to see a small surveillance camera on the wall over the doorway at the foot of the stairwell. I might have been or thought of myself as a pretty girl with dark, tan skin and long, black hair.
I was now somewhere upstairs with my mom. She had gotten me a camera, since I had expressed my frustration over not having been able to take photos of things recently. But, she told me, the camera had only a XXXXX memory, so I could only take (five? ten?) photos at a time. But the medium was also film, not digital memory. So I knew I'd have to get the photos developed. The photos were also only in black and white, although they apparently had the most desirable resolution quality imaginable.
I saw a few photos that had been taken, as if I were holding onto them crookedly, in a disordered pile, as if I couldn't put them in order at all in my hands. The photos looked like crime scene or car crash (or punk rock) photos: very jangled, with people lying or standing in awkward, wild poses, with their mouths wide open, and with objects scattered all over, maybe broken.
I then saw a photo of John Lennon and his family, possibly standing in Central Park. There were a lot of people in the photo. The photo stood before all my vision, as if I were seeing it on a movie or television screen. At first I could only see a small fragment of it, like pant legs, then a section of face. But eventually the whole photo became clear to me.
Julian Lennon, as a boy, caught my attention first. He looked exactly like John Lennon. He wore a pea coat that went down to his knees. He stood just about in the center of the photo, a little to the left. Just to the left of him and behind stood Yoko Ono. Farther to the left and farther back stood John. He and Julian may have been making the same kind of expression: a complacent, but somehow sad, tucking upward of the right corner of the mouth, with a bright, but blank, almost depressed, look in the eyes.
Farther to the left stood people like my brother and sister. To the right of Julian, beside him, stood one or two of his brothers/sisters by John and Yoko. The children were all the same height, and they looked somewhat the same, thought the brothers/sisters may have looked like children who had more "personality."
Behind Julian stood a tallish, blonde, teenage girl. Whereas everybody so far (except John and Yoko?) had a kind of dressed-up casual, late 1960s look, this girl looked like a fashionable casual girl from the 1980s. She wore a patterned sweater and had short, loosely curled, blonde hair. She was looking to the right, to a woman who looked just like her, except that she was more formally dressed, though still in the 1980s style. This was the girl's mother, who was also (i.e. at the same time as Yoko) John's wife.
To the girl's immediate right were a couple of the girl's brothers/sisters, who were slightly shorter than she, and were dressed more in the 1960s style. I may have been in the photo as well, somewhere far to the right.
Dream #2
I was in an office, which actually looked more like a theater or auditorium, talking with my boss BS about my having gotten fired. The place was bright and grey with window light -- probably high windows on a sunny day. The place was also full of young people, mostly men, who were very active and happy. They all looked like business people, but they were dressed in t-shirts and jeans.
One of my friends caught my attention. He had let his seat move back into its upward position. He then sat on its edge and moved back and forth on it. He said something like, "Now I can feel what our company did to us is really like!" This was supposed to mean he felt that we had gotten screwed. But then he said, "It kind of feels good. I can tell by your look that you think it feels good, too. Don't tell me you're one of those guys who likes it up the ass."
I looked away and I thought, It couldn't be. I thought the swaying back and forth on the seat edge was fun. But could that mean I liked anal sex? I then moved away from my chair, not standing, but crouching. I let the seat cushion spring back up, like a normal seat in an auditorium or movie theater might do. I then started scratching my back against the seat edge. Everybody around me said, "Now that's a great idea!"
The guys were all starting to act rowdy. They were all scratching their backs against their seat edges, but they were also standing and joking with each other, having a lot of fun. I had previously felt like they were making fun of me. Now I realized that all their joking had been to make me laugh, and that they were largely looking for my approval.
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