(Entered in paper journal at 7 AM at home in Harlem.)
Dream 1
I was in a small consultation room with my old psychiatrist from Santa Fe, GR. There was a big window that let in a view of a tight staircase with a handrail overrun by dark vegetation. But the sunlight still came through and helped to give the small room an open feel. GR sat facing away from the window and a small desk and facing toward me.
I was telling GR something that was really worrying me. he was only half-engaged. At some point his phone or beeper rang. He picked up the phone and then walked out the door, telling me there was a slight emergency, but that he'd be right back.
After "a few minutes" I got up to leave. A weird guy blocked the doorway. He was dressed all sloppy, with three or four hideous shirts, a head of undone, long hair, and a shaggy, thick beard. He was simultaneously too skinny, and a little potbellied.
The man asked me where I was going. I told him something simple, like GR ad up and left, and that I didn't have any more time to wait. The weird guy suddenly spoke with great acumen and diction. He said something like, "You over-homoeroticize both the things you hear and the thing you say."
He continued a small, "sound-byte" analysis, maybe ten seconds long, that was so stunning and direct that I, having walked back into the room, now collapsed back into my chair. I felt that what he said was so sever that it had to be true.
The man now did a little bit of talking that sounded a bit boring and lazy. But I had to give him a chance, since what he said at first seemed so true. -- That isn't quite it. -- I also think I felt trapped, without any choice over where I could go. At the least, my choice was slightly restricted. So I tried to stay positive.
Now we were in a long, wide, dark room like a movie theater entrance with no lights. It was full of enormous standing cutout movie advertisements and arcade games. I don't think the weird guy was even analyzing me anymore. I kept hoping he would, all the while fearing that I'd have to face something really frightening or shameful about myself.
"He" pointed out a beautiful, tall cutout advertisement with a huge, moonlit, blue mansion and Zhang Ziyi in a blue outfit, I think Zhang curved her left arm over her head, had a sword in her left hand, and put her right hand in front of her with her two first fingers sticking up and together. then there were strange clumps of computer-style numbers ghosting very isolated and sporadic into the whole scene.
The "weird guy" (who was now fat and possibly a woman) said, "Oh, did you know House of Flying Daggers 2 was coming out?"
I thought that was cool. But I was also getting impatient. I could tell our analysis session had suddenly turned into nothing more than the old "take the poor kid out to the zoo" approach to psychology. But I tried to stay enthusiastic.
There was either a video game or cutout stand that was a huge, tilted-back couch hung from the ceiling by thick, black ropes on each corner to float the couch about three feet above the ground. Then somewhere were large, black, canister-like cylinders with watery lenses a few inches inside. These were screens. We looked inside and either controlled a game or watched a preview that looked just like a video game.
I went to sit beside the "weird guy," who was now an overweight, round lady with an enormous beard. I also knew now that she really had no psychoanalytic or psychiatric knowledge. But I jumped up on the couch wither her anyway, thinking, Oh, well. Maybe she'll seduce me and prove once and for all that I'm gay.
Showing posts with label strange device. Show all posts
Showing posts with label strange device. Show all posts
Monday, March 13, 2017
Sunday, February 24, 2013
(8/7/07) hot dog stand and coffee pot; my sister's birthday
(Entered in paper journal at 5:30 AM on Q-train from Brooklyn to Manhattan.)
Dream #1
I walked under a wooden door-frame and into a plaza or hallway full of nice-looking, but cheap, mall-like storefronts, mostly for restaurants. Most of the places were closed. I knew from this that this area wasn't getting as much business as had been expected for it when it had first been developed.
One place was open. I went inside. It was like an old hot dog stand at Coney Island: all the surfaces of stainless steel, etc. A father and his twelve-year-old son worked there. The father stood behind the counter and the son beside the front door. (To get into the place I probably had, once again, to crouch under a half-door-frame in a "wood" wall like the wood-pattern siding on the outside of a double-wide trailer.)
I was offered breakfast -- some candies like peanut butter cups. I took them, figuring I wouldn't know where else to get food.
I stood outside at night. I was in a suburban neighborhood. The land, even the pavement, was rolling with roughly four-foot-tall mounds like a carpet with stuff hucked underneath it. I stood by a sleek, black SUV. I stood with some other people, my mom probably among them.
I had a cream-white (ceramic?) coffee pot with a polished silver top. Inside the pot was something like liquid nitrogen. I had to pour the substance on or in some pipe in the SUV's engine to get the engine running.
But I had just run out of the substance. Someone, possibly my mom, took the coffee pot to go fill it again. I stood with the other people by the SUV. I told them that somehow it seemed like we shouldn't need that second pot after all.
Dream #2
I stood with my mom before an electronic piece of machinery. I had to twist some knobs or gears to manipulate the quality of metals. There may have been construction workers nearby, watching us. I think I had done something wrong, and that people were now laughing at me.
I was riding in an SUV with my mom and my sister. We drove on a bridge like the Manhattan Bridge. The sides of the bridge were mostly covered by orange, mesh material, making the bridge feel like an interior. I may have been sitting in the front passenger's seat. I didn't see as myself. I saw as my sister and sometimes as my mother. Either I or my sister sat in the backseat on the passenger's side.
My mom told my sister why this day (my sister's birthday?) was so good. My mom gave a lot of flattering reasons. I, as my sister, giggled shyly while looking at the dashboard. My mom (I seeing as her) said, "But I love this day most of all because I knew" (I seeing as my sister again) "that Preemie was not in New York City during the World Trade Center attack."
I stood out on the bridge. My mom and sister were in the SUV, which was stopped and facing me.
I stood on the right side of the road, before some electronic equipment like an old record player. One knob in particular, which looked like a coppery version of the base of a record needle's arm, was my focus. I had to thumb down a tiny switch inside to make a change to copper. I thumbed the switch down. I heard a sound somewhere like distorted church bells.
Dream #1
I walked under a wooden door-frame and into a plaza or hallway full of nice-looking, but cheap, mall-like storefronts, mostly for restaurants. Most of the places were closed. I knew from this that this area wasn't getting as much business as had been expected for it when it had first been developed.
One place was open. I went inside. It was like an old hot dog stand at Coney Island: all the surfaces of stainless steel, etc. A father and his twelve-year-old son worked there. The father stood behind the counter and the son beside the front door. (To get into the place I probably had, once again, to crouch under a half-door-frame in a "wood" wall like the wood-pattern siding on the outside of a double-wide trailer.)
I was offered breakfast -- some candies like peanut butter cups. I took them, figuring I wouldn't know where else to get food.
I stood outside at night. I was in a suburban neighborhood. The land, even the pavement, was rolling with roughly four-foot-tall mounds like a carpet with stuff hucked underneath it. I stood by a sleek, black SUV. I stood with some other people, my mom probably among them.
I had a cream-white (ceramic?) coffee pot with a polished silver top. Inside the pot was something like liquid nitrogen. I had to pour the substance on or in some pipe in the SUV's engine to get the engine running.
But I had just run out of the substance. Someone, possibly my mom, took the coffee pot to go fill it again. I stood with the other people by the SUV. I told them that somehow it seemed like we shouldn't need that second pot after all.
Dream #2
I stood with my mom before an electronic piece of machinery. I had to twist some knobs or gears to manipulate the quality of metals. There may have been construction workers nearby, watching us. I think I had done something wrong, and that people were now laughing at me.
I was riding in an SUV with my mom and my sister. We drove on a bridge like the Manhattan Bridge. The sides of the bridge were mostly covered by orange, mesh material, making the bridge feel like an interior. I may have been sitting in the front passenger's seat. I didn't see as myself. I saw as my sister and sometimes as my mother. Either I or my sister sat in the backseat on the passenger's side.
My mom told my sister why this day (my sister's birthday?) was so good. My mom gave a lot of flattering reasons. I, as my sister, giggled shyly while looking at the dashboard. My mom (I seeing as her) said, "But I love this day most of all because I knew" (I seeing as my sister again) "that Preemie was not in New York City during the World Trade Center attack."
I stood out on the bridge. My mom and sister were in the SUV, which was stopped and facing me.
I stood on the right side of the road, before some electronic equipment like an old record player. One knob in particular, which looked like a coppery version of the base of a record needle's arm, was my focus. I had to thumb down a tiny switch inside to make a change to copper. I thumbed the switch down. I heard a sound somewhere like distorted church bells.
Monday, February 11, 2013
(9/21/07) mick jagger: ice cream bully
(Entered in paper journal at 7:30 AM at Starbucks on 56th Street and Sixth Avenue in Manhattan.)
Dream #1
I may have been standing out on a lawn with a group of people. We'd finished working on some long project, which had apparently been physical, but which I then remembered as having been something like preparing for a court trial. It was like we were a jury and we had been preparing for the trial by finding the evidence ourselves.
Now either the trial was over or the evidence finding part of the trial was over and the trial was beginning. we were all relieved. This had been one of the longest times it had ever taken to find evidence. But one of us said, "Isn't there a group on the other side of the earth that has taken an even longer time?"
Our leader, a woman, said, "There is." I saw, for a moment, a photo of a group of Latin American people, mostly men, mostly wearing soccer jerseys, like soccer fans, on a sunny day out on a field like ours. The woman continued, "I'm planning on giving the people on the other side of the earth a congratulatory call and see how their trial is going right now."
We were all in a room. In the next room our trial was getting ready. The next room was dark wood, with some kind of a counter like a breakfast bar and then a kitchen area behind that. In front of the bar was the place where the jury sat. It was like a rubber doormat on a heavy, yellow, metal or plastic platform that shifted left to right as if it were on ball bearings. We could lay on the platform and watch the proceedings (in the kitchen area) as if we were watching TV.
The trial was about the murder of a little girl. The murderers might have been the little girl's parents. But at some point the trial became just a discussion of some industry, and we were all waiting around to hear one particular data point about the industry.
At some point I got bored. I walked out. I came back in just a second or two later, but the data point had already been said. My co-worker CJ had gotten it.
I now sat with a group of women right before the bar. A man who looked like Mick Jagger saw in the kitchen area. He kept handing us ice cream, sundaes, and hot fudge. The girls would eat the stuff. I kept thinking about eating it, but I didn't want to eat right now because I was scheduled to eat somewhere else shortly.
I thought, Perhaps when I go out to eat, I can by myself a sundae, maybe even a Peanut Buster Parfait. But I thought I probably wouldn't do that because that would be too many calories.
But now Mick Jagger became a lot more bullying. He insisted that I eat some of the ice cream. He even put a bowl of hot fudge in front of me and told me to eat that. He then sang a song about how I was in deep trouble if I didn't do everything he told me.
Dream #1
I may have been standing out on a lawn with a group of people. We'd finished working on some long project, which had apparently been physical, but which I then remembered as having been something like preparing for a court trial. It was like we were a jury and we had been preparing for the trial by finding the evidence ourselves.
Now either the trial was over or the evidence finding part of the trial was over and the trial was beginning. we were all relieved. This had been one of the longest times it had ever taken to find evidence. But one of us said, "Isn't there a group on the other side of the earth that has taken an even longer time?"
Our leader, a woman, said, "There is." I saw, for a moment, a photo of a group of Latin American people, mostly men, mostly wearing soccer jerseys, like soccer fans, on a sunny day out on a field like ours. The woman continued, "I'm planning on giving the people on the other side of the earth a congratulatory call and see how their trial is going right now."
We were all in a room. In the next room our trial was getting ready. The next room was dark wood, with some kind of a counter like a breakfast bar and then a kitchen area behind that. In front of the bar was the place where the jury sat. It was like a rubber doormat on a heavy, yellow, metal or plastic platform that shifted left to right as if it were on ball bearings. We could lay on the platform and watch the proceedings (in the kitchen area) as if we were watching TV.
The trial was about the murder of a little girl. The murderers might have been the little girl's parents. But at some point the trial became just a discussion of some industry, and we were all waiting around to hear one particular data point about the industry.
At some point I got bored. I walked out. I came back in just a second or two later, but the data point had already been said. My co-worker CJ had gotten it.
I now sat with a group of women right before the bar. A man who looked like Mick Jagger saw in the kitchen area. He kept handing us ice cream, sundaes, and hot fudge. The girls would eat the stuff. I kept thinking about eating it, but I didn't want to eat right now because I was scheduled to eat somewhere else shortly.
I thought, Perhaps when I go out to eat, I can by myself a sundae, maybe even a Peanut Buster Parfait. But I thought I probably wouldn't do that because that would be too many calories.
But now Mick Jagger became a lot more bullying. He insisted that I eat some of the ice cream. He even put a bowl of hot fudge in front of me and told me to eat that. He then sang a song about how I was in deep trouble if I didn't do everything he told me.
Monday, January 21, 2013
(4/29/08) threat and consolation
(Entered in paper journal at 6 AM on Q-train from Brooklyn into Manhattan.)
Dream #1
I was outside on a clear day, looking out over a group of small buildings across a wide street. I was near the back of a group of people. From the buildings I could hear some kind of music playing. I thought I recognized it and called out that I liked it. Then I realized it was a Prince song. I said that I did't like it that much, after all.
I noticed that the people all around me (except one or two friends) were high school students and black or Hispanic. They grumbled defensively at my comment.
I said to my friends, as if trying to sound spontaneous, hopefully to make the students feel less offended, "Well, I guess Prince wrote some pretty awesome songs, now that I think of it."
The students now grumbled, "Oh, look at the white man pretending to like black music now that he feels bad."
I said, "I actually don't see why I have to feel bad. If you were to say you thought a song by a white person was bad, you'd feel like that was a perfectly fine and natural thing to say."
One of the female students said, "That's right. Don't make him feel bad about what he said."
I now stood in a long hallway with the students. It was a ramped hallway like in a hospital. I was worried about something else. One of the male students consoled me over this other thing, putting his hand on my shoulder and saying, "Don't worry about it. Everything will be fine." The student was black, taller than I by at least a head, and dressed like a skater.
We were all walking somewhere. I felt an increasing scrutiny around me, like I was the target of students who were going to hurt me regardless of whether I was an adult.
Suddenly someone pushed down on my shoulders. I thought they were trying to steal my backpack. I was pushed all the way down so my face was against the ground.
Everything went black. When I stood up, the hallway, which had been dim before, was even more pronouncedly dim, as if half the building had broken down.
I saw a couple white kids, either boys or girls, sitting on a barrier on the right side of the hallway. The kids were dressed in an exaggeratedly grungy style. I accused the kids of having stolen something from me. The kids just laughed.
An adult came up. I tried to explain that the children had stolen my bag. But the children had tumbled over the barrier to hide. I ran to the barrier and grabbed at something like a dog kennel. I pulled it up, thinking that the children would be inside. But there were only blankets.
I looked over the barrier and saw a child hiding under a chair. I pulled him out, but he may have disappeared or become a pile of clothes. I may have seen a student and become very violent toward him or her.
I was now walking toward a subway station entrance in the daytime. A young man cut me off. We headed down a long stairwell. As we did I ran up to him and cut him off and then started arguing with him.
I was now speaking instead with an Indian woman who was maybe in her forties. She was calming me down. I felt ashamed for having been so petty and violent with the young man.
When we got to the bottom of the steps the woman said that she had forgotten something upstairs. She had to go back up. I told her I would go with her.
I asked the woman something about her job. We stood at the foot of a down escalator (i.e. down from a level above us and ending at our level). The steps glittered, like they were wet, or like they were made of mercury.
We walked over to an up escalator. This escalator was like a thin sheet of metal that drew passengers upward. It was a side, somewhat steep, strip.
As we went up the strange escalator, the woman asked me about my job. I tried not to be boastful. also realized that the woman would know a lot about my job -- maybe more than I did -- given her own job.
At first, instead of simply standing on the escalator, the woman was at first walking along a half-wall that was weirdly shaped. Then she went to standing on the escalator.
We kept going up, into a dark sky. I looked down and saw that below us was a strange, desert planet or landscape, like in a Salvador Dali painting. The land was greyish-tan, featureless, with orange and red, plasticky figures on it like cacti or barren vegetation. A few sparse people wandered aimlessly through the landscape. Light seemed to crackle against the sand, as if somewhere fireworks were going off.
Dream #1
I was outside on a clear day, looking out over a group of small buildings across a wide street. I was near the back of a group of people. From the buildings I could hear some kind of music playing. I thought I recognized it and called out that I liked it. Then I realized it was a Prince song. I said that I did't like it that much, after all.
I noticed that the people all around me (except one or two friends) were high school students and black or Hispanic. They grumbled defensively at my comment.
I said to my friends, as if trying to sound spontaneous, hopefully to make the students feel less offended, "Well, I guess Prince wrote some pretty awesome songs, now that I think of it."
The students now grumbled, "Oh, look at the white man pretending to like black music now that he feels bad."
I said, "I actually don't see why I have to feel bad. If you were to say you thought a song by a white person was bad, you'd feel like that was a perfectly fine and natural thing to say."
One of the female students said, "That's right. Don't make him feel bad about what he said."
I now stood in a long hallway with the students. It was a ramped hallway like in a hospital. I was worried about something else. One of the male students consoled me over this other thing, putting his hand on my shoulder and saying, "Don't worry about it. Everything will be fine." The student was black, taller than I by at least a head, and dressed like a skater.
We were all walking somewhere. I felt an increasing scrutiny around me, like I was the target of students who were going to hurt me regardless of whether I was an adult.
Suddenly someone pushed down on my shoulders. I thought they were trying to steal my backpack. I was pushed all the way down so my face was against the ground.
Everything went black. When I stood up, the hallway, which had been dim before, was even more pronouncedly dim, as if half the building had broken down.
I saw a couple white kids, either boys or girls, sitting on a barrier on the right side of the hallway. The kids were dressed in an exaggeratedly grungy style. I accused the kids of having stolen something from me. The kids just laughed.
An adult came up. I tried to explain that the children had stolen my bag. But the children had tumbled over the barrier to hide. I ran to the barrier and grabbed at something like a dog kennel. I pulled it up, thinking that the children would be inside. But there were only blankets.
I looked over the barrier and saw a child hiding under a chair. I pulled him out, but he may have disappeared or become a pile of clothes. I may have seen a student and become very violent toward him or her.
I was now walking toward a subway station entrance in the daytime. A young man cut me off. We headed down a long stairwell. As we did I ran up to him and cut him off and then started arguing with him.
I was now speaking instead with an Indian woman who was maybe in her forties. She was calming me down. I felt ashamed for having been so petty and violent with the young man.
When we got to the bottom of the steps the woman said that she had forgotten something upstairs. She had to go back up. I told her I would go with her.
I asked the woman something about her job. We stood at the foot of a down escalator (i.e. down from a level above us and ending at our level). The steps glittered, like they were wet, or like they were made of mercury.
We walked over to an up escalator. This escalator was like a thin sheet of metal that drew passengers upward. It was a side, somewhat steep, strip.
As we went up the strange escalator, the woman asked me about my job. I tried not to be boastful. also realized that the woman would know a lot about my job -- maybe more than I did -- given her own job.
At first, instead of simply standing on the escalator, the woman was at first walking along a half-wall that was weirdly shaped. Then she went to standing on the escalator.
We kept going up, into a dark sky. I looked down and saw that below us was a strange, desert planet or landscape, like in a Salvador Dali painting. The land was greyish-tan, featureless, with orange and red, plasticky figures on it like cacti or barren vegetation. A few sparse people wandered aimlessly through the landscape. Light seemed to crackle against the sand, as if somewhere fireworks were going off.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
(5/21/08) fear of the well-known; future of the french press
(Entered in paper journal at 6:15 AM on Q-train from Brooklyn to Manhattan.)
Dream #1
I was in a bedroom in a house like the house my family lived in from the time I was in sixth grade through the time I was in ninth grade. I may have been surrounded by a bunch of clutter or junk. I may have been lying on a bed.
I heard a noise coming from the front door. I became afraid. It sounded like someone was breaking into the house. There was a shattering and jangling, like breaking glass and metal.
I stood up and ran to the front door. The front door had something like a black-painted metal, folding bed frame (with clear white Christmas lights on it?) leaning against it, keeping it from opening. Someone was pushing and pushing at the door to get it. I thought, or imagined, that the person was a big, overweight, Italian (?) man.
I was angry that anybody would try to get into this place. (It might have been my place.) But when I looked behind the door -- the person had managed to open it slightly -- I saw that the person on the other side was one of the heads of my department, DM.
I was relieved. DM walked in, as if the door were now wide open. I realized my mother had put this huge bed frame in front of the door simply to get me into a scared condition whenever anybody came to the house. DM and I may now have been speaking about something.
Dream #2
I stood before a coffee counter in an office space. The counter wasn't separated off into a pantry room. Instead, it was right in front of a bunch of cubicles. I stood to the left of one of my senior co-workers, DS, who was making some coffee. Before me and off to the left (my left) of the counter was a doorway to a dark room
DS was complaining about the coffee in this place. I joked about how we should get an office-sized french press coffee maker. I imagined a large, stainless steel vessel shaped like a futuristic version of an old-style coffee pot, and how awkward it would be to hold such a thing.
DS said something about how that wouldn't work. I laughed and was about to joke again (although I didn't believe what I was saying (???!!!) ) that a french press would be too classy for my company. But as I was in mid-sentence, looking to my right to regard DS, I saw the department head, DM, sitting on the floor in a dark, smallish closet space. I stopped saying anything. I didn't want DM to think I was seriously insulting the company.
Dream #1
I was in a bedroom in a house like the house my family lived in from the time I was in sixth grade through the time I was in ninth grade. I may have been surrounded by a bunch of clutter or junk. I may have been lying on a bed.
I heard a noise coming from the front door. I became afraid. It sounded like someone was breaking into the house. There was a shattering and jangling, like breaking glass and metal.
I stood up and ran to the front door. The front door had something like a black-painted metal, folding bed frame (with clear white Christmas lights on it?) leaning against it, keeping it from opening. Someone was pushing and pushing at the door to get it. I thought, or imagined, that the person was a big, overweight, Italian (?) man.
I was angry that anybody would try to get into this place. (It might have been my place.) But when I looked behind the door -- the person had managed to open it slightly -- I saw that the person on the other side was one of the heads of my department, DM.
I was relieved. DM walked in, as if the door were now wide open. I realized my mother had put this huge bed frame in front of the door simply to get me into a scared condition whenever anybody came to the house. DM and I may now have been speaking about something.
Dream #2
I stood before a coffee counter in an office space. The counter wasn't separated off into a pantry room. Instead, it was right in front of a bunch of cubicles. I stood to the left of one of my senior co-workers, DS, who was making some coffee. Before me and off to the left (my left) of the counter was a doorway to a dark room
DS was complaining about the coffee in this place. I joked about how we should get an office-sized french press coffee maker. I imagined a large, stainless steel vessel shaped like a futuristic version of an old-style coffee pot, and how awkward it would be to hold such a thing.
DS said something about how that wouldn't work. I laughed and was about to joke again (although I didn't believe what I was saying (???!!!) ) that a french press would be too classy for my company. But as I was in mid-sentence, looking to my right to regard DS, I saw the department head, DM, sitting on the floor in a dark, smallish closet space. I stopped saying anything. I didn't want DM to think I was seriously insulting the company.
Monday, December 31, 2012
(2/1/09) who'll get fired?; the shooting game; a new religion
(Entered in paper journal at 8:22 AM at Red Horse cafe in Brooklyn.)
Dream #1
I walked through an office hallway. The hallway was narrow, with harsh, white, fluorescent light, grey carpet, and greyish walls. It was like a maze, or it was like this hallway would break off into other maze-like hallways.
I came to a small room, like a pantry, to my right. The head of my department, MR, stood before a tight circle of people, mostly low-level workers like me. He was talking about planning something out, like who would still be working here. He asked the people around him not to say anything.
I was now in a big, warm swimming pool in a room with warm, tan tiling on the walls and floor. The water in the pool was clear and green with depth. I swam before a weird "computer," like an old television with wires connecting in tangles to a rough set of units below it.
My old boss BS swam somewhere behind me and to my left. He said, "Well, I wonder who it's going to be who stays. Well, anyway, it's gonna happen soon." BS stepped out of the pool and told me he'd see me later.
Dream #2
I was in a big room like a mix between a studio and an inner courtyard. The room probably had black walls and columns, like a small theater, and probably had a big window showing blue sky out front. There were a few people with me.
One person and I were having something like a gunfight. We were both climbing up and down aluminum ladders, possibly trying to get up to a balcony level. The man shot me in my ribs, on my left side. The shot was like a puff of air. I don't think the shot hurt, but it made me flinch and it scared me somehow. I was disappointed in myself for having been so weak.
The scene replayed, or else the man and I, as if we were rehearsing, started our actions over again. The man was long-haired, possibly Asian. He was explaining to me how this whole thing worked. He showed me that we shot little, neon-green pellets out of our guns. The pellets were soft, like Styrofoam. They didn't hurt at all. They were really fast, but their impact was like it had no speed.
The man shot me again in the ribs, and I flinched again and got scared.
Dream #3
I was with either my old friend R or my brother. We were in a gigantic structure which may itself have been an entire city, an ancient city. The structure was all made out of huge, tan blocks of stone, and warm, soft light flowed into the structure, possibly from windows high up on the walls.
I had gone out of one room and into another. I had been speaking with R/my brother, and was now considering whether to change my religion. The room I was in now may actually have been like a library with grey stone walls. There may have been a long, maroon, velvety banner hanging down from a narrow wall, like one would expect to see draping down behind a throne. I tried to consider the differences in the religions I was deciding between.
I went back into the tan room. All along the walls were doorways to different churches. It was now like I was flying past, and just over, all the doorways, focusing in particular on three doorways. One was to a Catholic church. There may have been a statue of a church official before the door and to the left. I thought there was something I did like about this church, like the monks, but that the overall view of this church didn't match mine.
The next doorway I focused on was something like a Lutheran church, but with some kind of new-age ideology combined with it. I thought this was my church. I felt some kind of familiarity with it, and thought this must have been where I should go. But then I realized there was a lot of stuff in this church's ideology that I didn't feel comfortable with intellectually, and that I felt might actually make me soft or unhealthy. Before this doorway, to the left, was a sculpture, maybe five or six feet tall, of a palm branch.
These first two doorways had been along the left wall of the building, both toward the middle of the wall. The next doorway I focused on was on the right wall, near the top corner, and off to the right of it may actually have been an altar. This doorway was for the Lutheran church. I may have headed directly for this doorway after the previous doorway, as if I needed to convince myself that this doorway actually existed, that the stable church I was looking for was real, not just existing in admixture with things I didn't believe.
I may have been standing on the ground now, not flying. The room itself may also actually have been a sanctuary, with dim lighting, dark walls, and purple carpeting. But the stone doorway to the church still stood in the wall.
Dream #1
I walked through an office hallway. The hallway was narrow, with harsh, white, fluorescent light, grey carpet, and greyish walls. It was like a maze, or it was like this hallway would break off into other maze-like hallways.
I came to a small room, like a pantry, to my right. The head of my department, MR, stood before a tight circle of people, mostly low-level workers like me. He was talking about planning something out, like who would still be working here. He asked the people around him not to say anything.
I was now in a big, warm swimming pool in a room with warm, tan tiling on the walls and floor. The water in the pool was clear and green with depth. I swam before a weird "computer," like an old television with wires connecting in tangles to a rough set of units below it.
My old boss BS swam somewhere behind me and to my left. He said, "Well, I wonder who it's going to be who stays. Well, anyway, it's gonna happen soon." BS stepped out of the pool and told me he'd see me later.
Dream #2
I was in a big room like a mix between a studio and an inner courtyard. The room probably had black walls and columns, like a small theater, and probably had a big window showing blue sky out front. There were a few people with me.
One person and I were having something like a gunfight. We were both climbing up and down aluminum ladders, possibly trying to get up to a balcony level. The man shot me in my ribs, on my left side. The shot was like a puff of air. I don't think the shot hurt, but it made me flinch and it scared me somehow. I was disappointed in myself for having been so weak.
The scene replayed, or else the man and I, as if we were rehearsing, started our actions over again. The man was long-haired, possibly Asian. He was explaining to me how this whole thing worked. He showed me that we shot little, neon-green pellets out of our guns. The pellets were soft, like Styrofoam. They didn't hurt at all. They were really fast, but their impact was like it had no speed.
The man shot me again in the ribs, and I flinched again and got scared.
Dream #3
I was with either my old friend R or my brother. We were in a gigantic structure which may itself have been an entire city, an ancient city. The structure was all made out of huge, tan blocks of stone, and warm, soft light flowed into the structure, possibly from windows high up on the walls.
I had gone out of one room and into another. I had been speaking with R/my brother, and was now considering whether to change my religion. The room I was in now may actually have been like a library with grey stone walls. There may have been a long, maroon, velvety banner hanging down from a narrow wall, like one would expect to see draping down behind a throne. I tried to consider the differences in the religions I was deciding between.
I went back into the tan room. All along the walls were doorways to different churches. It was now like I was flying past, and just over, all the doorways, focusing in particular on three doorways. One was to a Catholic church. There may have been a statue of a church official before the door and to the left. I thought there was something I did like about this church, like the monks, but that the overall view of this church didn't match mine.
The next doorway I focused on was something like a Lutheran church, but with some kind of new-age ideology combined with it. I thought this was my church. I felt some kind of familiarity with it, and thought this must have been where I should go. But then I realized there was a lot of stuff in this church's ideology that I didn't feel comfortable with intellectually, and that I felt might actually make me soft or unhealthy. Before this doorway, to the left, was a sculpture, maybe five or six feet tall, of a palm branch.
These first two doorways had been along the left wall of the building, both toward the middle of the wall. The next doorway I focused on was on the right wall, near the top corner, and off to the right of it may actually have been an altar. This doorway was for the Lutheran church. I may have headed directly for this doorway after the previous doorway, as if I needed to convince myself that this doorway actually existed, that the stable church I was looking for was real, not just existing in admixture with things I didn't believe.
I may have been standing on the ground now, not flying. The room itself may also actually have been a sanctuary, with dim lighting, dark walls, and purple carpeting. But the stone doorway to the church still stood in the wall.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
(5/7/09) jet maneuvers; ring of baldness; apocalyptic home improvement
(Entered in paper journal at 9:09 AM at Red Horse cafe in Brooklyn.)
Dream #1
A view of a B-52-like plane carrying along a whole school of SR-71-like jets, all tethered to the B-52 by something like metal cords. The B-52 led the SR-71s through a series of maneuvers like for an air show, darting back and forth through the sky.The sky was a darkish, purplish blue, dotted by occasional white clouds, behind which the planes might fly.
I wondered how the planes could all be tethered to the B-52 while going through the maneuvers and manage not to get all tangled up -- especially the SR-71s. As I had this reflection, the SR-71s might have changed into old, World War I style biplanes, painted a purplish blue.
After more maneuvers the planes landed. One of the pilots of the tethered planes stepped out of his plane -- which was now like a somewhat modern, very small private plane. The man was tall, white, a little heavy, with a broad forehead and pale blue eyes. He may have been balding, with short, pale grey hair. He looked exhausted. The right side of his face may at some point have been a little grey, dry, and cracked.
The man was talking about the rigors of these training flights. He spoke about how his thumb (on his right hand?) had gotten smashed or otherwise somehow injured. He said he'd be okay. He had to go up for one more flight, but he could make it. As the man spoke, he looked more and more exhausted. He almost looked like he was dying or becoming a zombie.
I saw the man's injured hand. The thumb was smashed almost flat at the nail. It was all normally colored, though: no bruising or anything. But the thumb was flat, and there was a bloody mass around the sides and top. The man pulled at the thumb, so that the top part of the thumb flapped away from the bottom part a little.
I knew the man normally used this injured hand to manipulate one of the plane's control knobs. I wondered how the man could possibly use the hand. But I also thought that if he did use the hand, the same conditions which caused his thumb to get smashed the first time around would injure his hand even more.
But all the pilots, I knew, had to take the planes up one more time today. They were each taking a child on the flight. The children were special in some sense. Most likely they were terminally ill children, part of a "Make a Wish" type program.
The man now put a thin, blonde girl, maybe nine or ten years old, into the passenger seat of his plane. The girl wore a 1970s style, flowery dress of muted colors, with a white shirt underneath.
The girl requested that the man not do too many rough stunts. The girl was either afraid or too sick to sustain too much force. The man assured the girl that he would take it easy. The flight pattern assigned was very gentle, planned specifically for this special group of children.
The man then put a "helmet" on this girl. The "helmet" looked like a chain-link basket of thin-spun metal links, like the biggest bottom "bowl" in a ceiling-hung series of tiered, mesh-metal "bowls," used in kitchens sometimes to hold fruits or plants or other things.
Dream #2
A man got angry at me. He was either very short or bent down, or else I was standing on a slightly higher level than he. I could see the top of the man's head. The very top and center was bald in a circle maybe one and a half inches in diameter.
The man got madder at me and asked me why I thought I should be so interested in his head. I looked at the man's head again. The circle had a bit of longish, thin hair in it now, leaving only the edges, a ring of baldness. This was something of a relief to me. I had thought that the man's baldness was a sign that I myself would become bald.
Dream #3
I was in the living room of the house my family lived when I was eleven to fifteen years old. Some of my family and friends were also there. It was night. The room was lit with incandescent light. The front door was open.
Something was happening in the neighborhood, maybe even throughout the world, like an attack of killers or zombies. We had to take care of something on the roof, which was sloped and made of tin or some other sheet metal. We were (or I was) afraid to do this. It would likely call the attention of the killers/zombies and put us at great risk.
Dream #1
A view of a B-52-like plane carrying along a whole school of SR-71-like jets, all tethered to the B-52 by something like metal cords. The B-52 led the SR-71s through a series of maneuvers like for an air show, darting back and forth through the sky.The sky was a darkish, purplish blue, dotted by occasional white clouds, behind which the planes might fly.
I wondered how the planes could all be tethered to the B-52 while going through the maneuvers and manage not to get all tangled up -- especially the SR-71s. As I had this reflection, the SR-71s might have changed into old, World War I style biplanes, painted a purplish blue.
After more maneuvers the planes landed. One of the pilots of the tethered planes stepped out of his plane -- which was now like a somewhat modern, very small private plane. The man was tall, white, a little heavy, with a broad forehead and pale blue eyes. He may have been balding, with short, pale grey hair. He looked exhausted. The right side of his face may at some point have been a little grey, dry, and cracked.
The man was talking about the rigors of these training flights. He spoke about how his thumb (on his right hand?) had gotten smashed or otherwise somehow injured. He said he'd be okay. He had to go up for one more flight, but he could make it. As the man spoke, he looked more and more exhausted. He almost looked like he was dying or becoming a zombie.
I saw the man's injured hand. The thumb was smashed almost flat at the nail. It was all normally colored, though: no bruising or anything. But the thumb was flat, and there was a bloody mass around the sides and top. The man pulled at the thumb, so that the top part of the thumb flapped away from the bottom part a little.
I knew the man normally used this injured hand to manipulate one of the plane's control knobs. I wondered how the man could possibly use the hand. But I also thought that if he did use the hand, the same conditions which caused his thumb to get smashed the first time around would injure his hand even more.
But all the pilots, I knew, had to take the planes up one more time today. They were each taking a child on the flight. The children were special in some sense. Most likely they were terminally ill children, part of a "Make a Wish" type program.
The man now put a thin, blonde girl, maybe nine or ten years old, into the passenger seat of his plane. The girl wore a 1970s style, flowery dress of muted colors, with a white shirt underneath.
The girl requested that the man not do too many rough stunts. The girl was either afraid or too sick to sustain too much force. The man assured the girl that he would take it easy. The flight pattern assigned was very gentle, planned specifically for this special group of children.
The man then put a "helmet" on this girl. The "helmet" looked like a chain-link basket of thin-spun metal links, like the biggest bottom "bowl" in a ceiling-hung series of tiered, mesh-metal "bowls," used in kitchens sometimes to hold fruits or plants or other things.
Dream #2
A man got angry at me. He was either very short or bent down, or else I was standing on a slightly higher level than he. I could see the top of the man's head. The very top and center was bald in a circle maybe one and a half inches in diameter.
The man got madder at me and asked me why I thought I should be so interested in his head. I looked at the man's head again. The circle had a bit of longish, thin hair in it now, leaving only the edges, a ring of baldness. This was something of a relief to me. I had thought that the man's baldness was a sign that I myself would become bald.
Dream #3
I was in the living room of the house my family lived when I was eleven to fifteen years old. Some of my family and friends were also there. It was night. The room was lit with incandescent light. The front door was open.
Something was happening in the neighborhood, maybe even throughout the world, like an attack of killers or zombies. We had to take care of something on the roof, which was sloped and made of tin or some other sheet metal. We were (or I was) afraid to do this. It would likely call the attention of the killers/zombies and put us at great risk.
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