(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.

(1/18/08) mother stalling me

(Entered in paper journal at 5:45 PM on Q-train from Manhattan to Brooklyn.)

Dream #1

It was daytime, maybe late morning. I was in a car with my mother. I was trying to get somewhere so I could do my job. I was mad because my mom was stalling, driving me all over the place.

My mom got mad and told me, "Don't get smart with me. I can prove you're crazy. They'll make you stay with me." I was mad, but I quieted down.

We were now doing my job, which was something like posting paper flyers onto telephone poles.

(3/16/09) killer double; cave museum; stalked, framed, and institutionalized

(Entered in paper journal at 7:50 AM at home in Brooklyn.)

Dream #1

An image of a large man in a black and white leather biker's outfit. The man may have been white, tan, with long, blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. He may have worn tan and white makeup in haphazard fashion, and he may have had all kinds of random things attached to his outfit. He looked like a cartoon, like something out of the anime of Akira. I thought (possibly after waking) that this was a double that could attack the people who were after me.

Dream #2

I stood out with my family on a road somewhere. It was a hot, sunny day. We stood before a car at the top of a hill, looking down to a flat city in a desert (?). I may have seen from a very low view with most of my vision on the front, driver's side tire.

I now stood before a view that was real and "in action," but was frozen like a photograph. A group of at least five "buffalo" emerged from a cave. The "buffalo" were enormous and white, with long, shaggy coats, like the coats of mountain goats. The "buffalo" may even have had the faces of mountain goats. They were all frozen in their emergence (though the event was "still happening") in a close grouping, some running along the ground, some jumping through the air.

I now saw a view from far back and high up of the cave's surroundings. The land was almost entirely covered with snow. But the cave mouth was set into a face of black, snowless cliff. There might have been a marshy lake somewhere as well, with green waters and a surface glinting gold in the sunlight.

I was now underground in a cave which was a museum. There might have been windows on the upper parts of some of the walls, letting in some natural light to add to the soft, incandescent light. I walked into one exhibit room. There were colorful murals on the wall and spaces for old exhibit cases and insets that were now gone. The murals were about using geological strata to calculate time periods and the age of the earth.

A small man stood at the other end of the room. He was skinny with a slight belly, bald with a round head, a round nose, a thick mustache, and round, plastic-rimmed glasses. He wore a brownish cardigan, a yellowish shirt, and khaki slacks.

The man was telling me how the museum was getting rid of this room. It was beautifully designed, but it was entirely based on an approach to calculating geological periods that was now obsolete. The approach may have been too linear. I thought it was really silly to get rid of such beautiful, colorful murals just because some new theory (which probably wasn't that great, anyway) had come along.

But now the room was filling up with water, as if the museum people were going to flood the room to empty it out. The water was about halfway up to my knees. I walked out. The other man still stood in the room. I walked into another room that adjoined to the hallway. It was empty, with black cave-rock walls and dirt floors. High on the wall to my left was a window letting in light from a pale blue sky.

Dream #3

I was wandering through a town like a desert town. It was a sunny, winter morning, possibly with frost still glazing surfaces. I wandered through different buildings and areas, through the front areas of small "auto-shop" stores, under canopies of gas stations, through tunnel-like walkways for places like motels.

I noticed an Hispanic man was following me. I turned slightly and reached around me, almost over my own head, to grab his head. I tried to smash his head, or to hurt the man in some way. I told the man, "I know you're following me! Why are you following me?!"

The man didn't answer. There was now another Hispanic man. I thought, Well, I can't get rid of both of them. If they want to follow me, let them.

We all stood in a foyer area that was also like a telephone booth. I had some Greek books from the Loeb Classical Edition. But I knew I had left some Latin books behind somewhere, as well as having left behind my bicycle.

I told the men, "Wait here for me. I forgot all my stuff. I'll be right back." The men liked me and took me at my word. I ran back for everything. I ran through something like the grounds for a flat, multi-winged high school (like the high school I had attended).

I was trying to remember the path I had first take through the school grounds. I thought, If I go exactly backwards I should be able to find everything. I wondered now why the Hispanic men weren't following me. I thought it had been too easy to get rid of them.

I ran through a long hallway and into a main area joining three or four hallways. A couple of white men, one older, one in his late twenties, both probably teachers, sat at a desk off to the side of the large room, as if they were waiting to sign in a group of folks who would be arriving for some fun event.

I had a pretty good idea of where I needed to go to get my bike back, but I told the men, "Tell me a room number. I'm looking for my bike. If you tell me a room number, I know my bike will just show up there."

The younger man said, "Okay. 158."

I knew that room 158 was in a certain wing, but I ran into a different wing. I opened a big, heavy door to a clunky-looking room like a maintenance or repairs room or garage. On the other side of the room from me was a large opening (like a garage door opening) to the outside. There were a lot of workers in here, mostly Hispanic or Native American, all joking around and acting a little rowdy.

There was a row of lockers along the wall to my left. The lockers were dull orange and yellow. They were all in bad shape. Some weren't even standing upright against the wall. They had numbers scrawled onto them, probably in pencil.

One of the locker doors had the number 158 written on it. I opened that locker up but didn't find anything. The workers might have thought I was acting suspiciously. I said, "I thought I'd find my bike here."

I was now somewhere else, possibly in a long corridor of college dorms. I knew someone was planning to get me blamed for something I didn't do. I saw in a girl's room. The girl lay in a relaxed fetal position on her right side. She slept half under the covers, on white sheets. Near the girl's feet the left corner of the bed had the sheets pulled up. Someone had written on the bed in lipstick "LIVE AIDS."

This bed-vandalism was now being blamed on me. I was being called into the room with two cops. The lights were still off. Nobody had woken the woman. The cops showed me the words. I said, "I didn't know anything about them."

Someone turned the lights on. I tried to prove my innocence by showing the cops my legs. I had shaved my legs, I told the cops, because I'd gotten a few weird scars that wouldn't heal, or would always get infected, while I had hair on my legs. The hair was just now growing back. I pointed out the old, healed scars to the cops. I told them, "It even causes me to walk a little strange."

The cops told me, "Go out into the hallway and let us see how you walk." I went out into the hallway and walked for the cops. As I did, the cops spoke with one another (I heard them as if I were standing right beside them). They said I probably was innocent of this crime, but that I was obviously mentally unstable, and that they should probably take me to a mental hospital.