(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.

(10/14/06) this isn't the brazil you were thinking of; a turbojet panic; snail email

(Entered in paper journal at 9:03 AM at Ozzie's Coffee Shop on Garfield and 5th in Brooklyn.)

Dream 1

I was on a subway. I was trying to get somewhere, but I had gone too far. The few people on the train (mostly Mexican) were telling me so. We stopped at a very wide station with wide, concrete overhangs -- but a very airy place on a grey day -- and like it was in an empty wilderness. I had to take a few stops down to get to a place where I could cross to a train heading in the opposite direction and head back up.

I was in "my bedroom." I may have been living with my mom and everybody else. I was hysterical with grief. I was trying to get to Brazil, but I knew I couldn't get past security the way I was. I had shot myself up with drugs (looked like roach powder from Cronenberg's film of Naked Lunch), either today or in the past couple days, and I knew that would all still be in my system.

But I got even more sorrowful when I recalled that I had actually donated blood after having shot up. Who knew what diseases might be in the blood of someone who shot themselves up with drugs like I had? I hoped the drugs and disease had worked their way out of my system by the time I had donated blood. I felt trapped in my room.

I was on the train. It had been a three hour ride from New York to Brazil. We pulled in by a shore. I walked over to a plaza of wood shop booths. Some mission-style buildings were in the distance.

But someone told me, "This isn't the Brazil you were thinking of. You have to get on a train and go four more hours to get into the main Brazil."

I thought, Do I have time for that? I couldn't remember whether I was here for just one day or for a long time.

Dream 2

I and a friend (unknown/unseen) were in an aviation museum. We came to a small room big enough only to contain a jet like an F-16. It was lit very comfortably and seemed almost like a living room.

My friend showed me a button that could activate the jet from the outside, on the underside. I knew it was there, too: we were both jet experts. But I was surprised it could actually start the jet, which I assumed was decommissioned for the museum.

The friend was now typing at a computer terminal hooked to the button (which was now a flesh-colored, plasticky outlet). The computer was so low he had to sit on the floor with his legs folded under him to type.

As he typed a turbojet beside the man activated. I stood beside it -- I hadn't been aware of its presence on the jet until now. It was bright silver, gnarled with smooth, beautiful pipes. I could see this was actually the strong engine on the jet. I was afraid the friend would get us in trouble for igniting the jet, but I also wanted to see it run. I could feel the intensity of the turbojet.

But a kid who was now with us stood right behind the jet. I pulled him away and held him very close to me. I may have been a woman. I tried to convince the kid, though he wouldn't believe me, that when these jets ignited they would disintegrate him. He had scared the heck out of me by standing right there.

Dream 3

A huge stack of envelopes on a table. They were like emails -- I read them as if off a screen. But I only read their title lines. But somehow a message from my company's sales and research liaison JB made it clear that I needed to read the stack of messages, especially la series of messages sent by him.

I opened one of the messages. It began, "Thank you, first of all, for the good wishes for me and my family. Would you mind..." (at this point he gave me some task to complete).

(10/7/09) dimension of the pregnant supermodels

Dream #1

A movie (?) where a man like the psychiatrist in David Cronenberg's The Brood had to head into some place in order to retrieve something important. He rushed forward and suddenly drove through a watery air-substance which was a gate into another dimension, set into a wall in his destination dimension, like a wall mirror, or possibly even the threshold to or from a hallway.

The man's immediate reaction to the dimensional shift he'd just experienced was terror. I only saw a closeup of his face. The closeup was pulling away.

I thought the pull-away would reveal a terrifying scene. But instead, it revealed a long, bright hallway, the walls bright pink, lined with doors, the doors possibly white. It looked like something you'd see in a poppy music video.

Walking to and from the doors along the hallway were the objects of the man's terror. They were women, tall and thin as supermodels, possibly even thinner, but wearing weird costumes. The costumes were cartoon-like in color and adornments. They started ad the shoulders and went down to the crotch, like leotards. But they were bloated and bean-shaped, giving the women the appearance of being flat-chested and extremely pregnant.

The man ran as quickly as he could through the hallway, trying not to be touched by the women. At the end of the hallway, the man may have reached a much darker place, where something to do with injured people or body parts may have been taking place.