Right Lobe in a Left Lobe World

2010-11-17T17:55:00.000-08:00

I was living in a home on a hill overlooking a large body of water. The architectural style was 1970s retro modern... basically a large cube with massive tinted glass windows, lots of exposed steel structural elements and a huge cantilevered deck. It rested on a tall, angular concrete foundation. It's a style known as Brutalist architecture, which flourished from the 1950s to the mid 1970s, spawned from the modernist architectural movement. Most brutalist building are constructed from cast concrete, but this home was built from steel and heavy red cedar panels. I made a rough sketch of the exterior after I awoke.

I was sitting on a sofa looking at brightly colored picture postcards friends have sent over the years. I hummed the first line of a song called "The Patriot Game." My friend M.R. was in another part of the house, I think in an upstairs open loft. She hummed back the second line of the song. I answered with the third line, we both laughed and then finished humming the song in sweet two-part harmony.

-----

The Patriot Game is an Irish ballad about an incident during the Border Campaign launched by the Irish Republican Army during the 1950s to bring about the reunification of Northern Ireland with the Republic of Ireland. It was written by Dominic Behan, younger brother of playwright Brendan Behan, to the tune of an earlier folksong, The Merry Month Of May. I haven't thought of the song in years, but used to perform it with M.R..

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Patriot_Game

Also from the 1970 album "Wales and Nightingales" by Judy Collins

http://itunes.apple.com/us/album/whales-nightingales/id300204961

Music box tour bus jetliner

2009-08-11T19:35:00.000-07:00

My dream world is as active as ever these days. Last night I was on a flight in a sort of cross between a jetliner and a tour bus with about a dozen passengers I don't know.

This plane had huge curved windows so you could really see out. Not like the little peepholes in a jetliner. We took off from an airport in a canyon and had to dodge power lines and shear rock walls for a while until we broke out into a sort of alpine landscape. The pilot gunned it and we rose sharply toward some Sierra-like mountains. Then we were flying along a little road in a Hoofhaven-like landscape... curving along the roadway under the trees like a car. Heh.

We came across an old ramshackle abandoned house and stopped to tour it. It was like a museum ghost town house... all the furniture was there, plates on the table in the kitchen as if whoever had lived there just walked away one afternoon. There was a huge red 1930s O'Keefe and Merit range in the kitchen, surrounded by cheap 1970s 'wood-grain' kitchen cabinets -- like a bad remodeling job had been attempted at some point in the home's rather humble past. Somebody said, "If these walls could only talk."

There was a photo album on a small dusty table. This photo album was full of everyday snapshots from the family who had lived in the house... card games at the table, holiday and birthday dinners, kids clowning around, you know, just regular family snapshot stuff. Nothing special, but really sweet. Now here's an interesting thing: The album had an audio narration! Each snapshot had an audio recording of what the people were saying when each photo was snapped. So, in essence, those walls *were* talking. I suddenly realized that the narration was actually coming from a little ornate music box next to the photo album. This fancy music box looked out of place in the otherwise rundown room and I thought it must be a treasured family heirloom.

I could write for hours about the running dialogue coming from that music box, but I decided that I really wanted to take it with me so I could bring it home and digitize it on the computer. It was such a lovely little documentary about the family who had lived here and I wanted to preserve it. The music box was mechanical and I knew that it would inevitably break down some day. If I could digitize it and upload it to the net, it might be preserved and shared.

I didn't want to just take it... that felt disrespectful. I put the idea to a vote among the other passengers and the consensus was that it was worth preserving. So, I left a note on the table explaining what I was doing and included my name and address, in case the family came back some day. I promised to take good care of the music box and mail it back to the house when I was done. We all piled back into the plane/tour-bus and took off.

-----

I LOVE dreamtime. It's the best part of the day.

44edward

2008-11-16T14:21:00.000-08:00

I’ve taken a full-time job and shut down my business. Apparently, the economy’s gotten so bad that a former high-end graphic design firm has taken in a bunch of former freelance designers in order to pool resources. It’s a sort of design cooperative, known unofficially as The Firm. We all contribute our computers, art supplies, office equipment and so on. We share our skills and client contacts, splitting the cost of rent for the office space from our combined commissions. We receive room and board in return, a little spending money, and have access to other member equipment and expertise.

The building is a rambling 1920s storefront with exposed brick interior walls, in a downtown neighborhood. It was once upscale and fancy, but it’s a bit run down these days. There’s a room in front which used to be a reception area. It’s been converted to a conference room for client meetings. Behind it are individual offices for co-op members. Bedrooms, a kitchen and living spaces are at the rear of the building... we call that “the dorm.” I have a small, cluttered bedroom back there.

It’s lunch time. Something special has happened. I don’t remember exactly what, but it seems to have something to do with a lucrative new contract. Instead of eating in the co-op kitchen, everyone has gathered at a nearby diner. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s a nice break from our routine.

I’m in a booth with some friends, ready to order, when an old man comes in with a couple and their infant. They’re carrying the baby in a beat up yellow car seat. They’re poor and disheveled and the old man -- a sort of carnival hawker -- grandly announces a “spellbinding big show for your dinning pleasure!” The couple move through the diner collecting donations. This bothers me. It feels invasive and I tell my friends that we should leave. “There’s a mediterranean deli across the street,” I say. “The food’s great. Let’s go eat there.”

No one else wants to leave. A co-op member tells me to ‘chill.’ He’s a tall, good-looking guy in a pale blue denim shirt. “It’s just like going to the movies!” he says.

“No,” I reply. “No, it isn’t. If I go to the movies, I’m making a choice. I choose to go to the movies, decide which movie I want to see, and buy a ticket. They’re trying to guilt me into paying for something I didn’t request. It’s completely different.”

I get up alone to leave. As I pass the old man, I turn to him and say, “This is bull shit.” He doesn’t skip a beat... he continues to pitch his captive audience.

Outside, I see a man and a woman on their bicycles. They’re wearing colorful bike togs and there’s a dog with them, following along on a leash. The dog’s really cute... a tan and white mutt with a cheerful disposition.

“What a great dog!” I say to them. “What’s his name?”

“We just found him,” the woman replies. “We haven’t named him yet.”
I’m wearing a black T-shirt with the word “Bleaker” printed in white garamond book condensed type.

The woman looks at it and says, “That’s great! We’ll call him Bleaker! Hi, Bleaker! What a good dog!” Bleaker wags his tail and smiles.

I laugh and say, “How’s your ride going? Where are you riding today?”

“Oh, my legs are so tired,” the woman replies. “I better get used to it. We’re riding all the way around the world. We signed up all these sponsors and we’re donating all the money to charity.”

“That’s fantastic!” I say. “Do you have a website were you’re posting photos and stories? I’d love to follow your progress.”

“Well, we do have a site,” the man tentatively says, “but we don’t really know how to build it... so it’s not very good.”

“What’s the domain?” I ask.

He pulls a manilla envelope out of his backpack, writes something on it, and hands it to me. It reads “44edward.com”.

“Listen,” I say, “I’m a designer. I’m broke, so I can’t make a donation... but maybe I can help fix up your site. That could be my donation.”

Presidential Dream

2008-09-10T17:32:00.000-07:00

I’m in the military, stationed in a sort of wild west frontier town in a northern climate. It might be Alaska, but I don’t remember. The town is, well, “rustic” would be a polite way to put it; “run-down” is more accurate. Weathered Victorian buildings -- very ornate, but unpainted and in disrepair -- line a single main street. Corrugated tin awnings along the street shelter a sidewalk of rough-sawn wooden planks. It’s late at night and bitterly cold. It’s snowing, hard. Snow is drifting in the street and piling up everywhere.

I’m stationed at an especially run-down building -- a sort of barrack. (Is that a dream pun about the Democratic nominee? Maybe.) Despite the late hour, there’s a lot of activity by lamp light. Twenty or thirty people are rushing around, sweeping snow that’s blown in and setting a long table. We’re preparing for a visit from “General McCain” and my sergeant is barking orders. He’s a gruff, kind old goat who reminds me of the actor, Jack Palance.

He assigns me the job of going to a hotel down the street to collect firewood. “We’re all out and we’ve got to get this room warmed up for the General,” he tells me. “And you need to be quick.”

I’m donning a sort of protective snow suit made of heavily padded blue and white striped cotton. There’s a basket of gloves made of the same fabric by the door, but none of them match. It’s very frustrating. I give up after a few minutes, put on some mismatched gloves and a neon blue ski cap. I head out into the blowing snow and crunch down the sidewalk.

The hotel is very shabby, but one can tell that it was once quite fancy. I suddenly realize that I have nothing to carry firewood and decide to go back for a wheelbarrow. I remember that there’s a rusty old yellow wheelbarrow behind the barracks. Another soldier appears out of the snow with the wheelbarrow and informs me that she too has been assigned to bring firewood.

“It’s for the fireplace in the General’s room,” she announces, “and I have priority.” I suddenly realize it’s Sarah Palin. I don’t like her and I don’t like this situation. She refuses to share the wheelbarrow and this really annoys me because it means I’ll need to make several trips in the blizzard.

“You’re going to regret this,” I say.

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Because some day you’re going to need something and I won’t be there for you.”

She giggles sarcastically and says, “God bless you!”

“Go to hell,” I reply.

The firewood is stored by a stone fireplace in a mezzanine restaurant on the second floor. The carpet on the stairs is red, dirty and threadbare. There’s a bar next to the fireplace, tended by a tall African American guy (not you-know-who, but with a similar build).

“My boss told me you have some firewood you can spare,” I tell him.

“Help yourself,” he says flatly and turns away to wipe down some dirty beer glasses.

I drag firewood to a window, open it and start tossing it to the street below, one log at a time. It thuds into the blowing snow and disappears. I’m thinking that this is going to take forever and I’m rather ticked off.

“The General should get his own damn firewood,” I announce to no one in particular. A few diners look up blankly, but no one helps.

Merciful Chickens

2007-01-30T13:28:00.000-08:00

Part of a much longer dream:

There had been some cataclysmic event which had ground civilization to a halt... like a nuclear attack or something. Big explosion in the middle of the night. The house was all blown apart but still basically standing. We were all OK. KF and HL were here along with some other friends. Nobody knew exactly what had happened.

The electricity started coming back on; you could see house lights glowing faintly yellow in the debris of a few homes around the neighborhood. People started turning on their TV sets to see if there were any news reports.

I went across the street to see if some neighbors knew anything. “It’s real typical,” my neighbor said. “The news reports are just fluffy bs saying that something has happened but not what. There’s some pretty reporter live from the scene with absolutely nothing useful to say — and then they broke away for a commercial.” I put on an ironic little old lady voice and said, “Oh well, that’s a relief, dear, I guess I’ll be getting back home to bed now.” Everyone had a good chuckle.

My TV was an odd contraption that looked sort of like an old graphic design light box. The only way to properly display an image on it was to lay a piece of black graphics film over the white plexiglas surface. The TV image could then be viewed through the film. The film had been blown off in the explosion. I found it, dug it out of some rubble and blew the dust off. It was OK but a little crumpled. I needed something fairly heavy, flat and black to lay over the film to hold the edges down. I looked around and spotted a black leather-bound Bible in the debris.

“Hand me that Bible,” I said to KF.

“Why!?” said he. He had an odd expression and I realized he was thinking, “Oh, great, the end of the world comes and you’re getting all Christian on us.”

No, no, no,” I said, “I just need something flat to lay on top of the film. To hold it down, you know?”

Relieved, KF handed me the Bible, put on a little old lady southern belle voice and said, “Lord God Almighty and the blessings of His heavenly host of Merciful Chickens be upon you.”

We all had a good chuckle and I started working on the TV.

Restoration

2006-08-14T18:49:00.000-07:00

I was part of a work crew restoring an old Victorian home.

A previous attempt at restoration many years ago couldn't withstand time and bad weather. The foundation was crumbling. Rotted timbers and clapboards hadn't been replaced. Instead, the house was slathered in a coat of pretty pastel yellow paint. All the Victorian doodad trim was painted flat bright white.

Good paint job, lots of time and effort. The house looked ready for prospective buyers, but appearance was more important than substance or durability. If you picked at the paint with something as soft as a fingernail, you’d reveal the rotten brown wood beneath.

To be fair, the previous owner wasn't trying to cheat anybody. He wasn't trying to sell broken goods. He did the best he could with what he had at hand. He pretty much wanted to cut his losses and move.

So anyway, I was working on a second floor back porch... like one of those sleeping porches that people of means built before the advent of electricity and air conditioning. This sleeping porch was filled to the railing with broken, spongy brown chunks of bad wood.

I was using a small trowel (way too small for the job - should've brought a shovel) and throwing the bad wood over the railing into the back yard. Much sweating and swearing. I said to the crew, “We'll haul it all away later. Let's just clear it out for now.”

Digging down more, I discovered a rectangular box... maybe a foot square by about three feet high. It was pristine... a solid clapboard box painted the exact same pastel yellow as the rest of the house. I emptied it out and turned it over, upside down.

I woke up (delighted and laughing for the first time in a long time).

A faster mode of transportation

2006-08-02T19:05:00.000-07:00

Dreaming is easily my favorite pastime. “To sleep, perchance to dream” (stole that phrase from William Shakespeare). I sleep as often as possible.

The real world is so nasty, so violent, so selfish and self-absorbed, that dreamtime offers a safe harbor... a glimpse into something more interesting, powerful, generally kind, and way more useful.

A new mode of travel cropped up repeatedly in recent dreams. I needed a faster mode of transportation to get from one place to another. “Necessity is the mother of invention” (Plato is said to have said that... whatever... I blatantly steal it here).

I often simply fly from place to place in dreamtime. Flying is fun, but it sometimes doesn’t satisfy. It’s too easy to fly. I want to feel my real meat and bones going somewhere. When that happens, it works like this:

I hunker down with both feet planted firmly on the ground and launch myself in a powerful leap. In the waking world, I could maybe leap 6 or 8 feet... but in dreamtime, I can leap maybe 50 or 60 yards, at an altitude of about 15 or 20 feet. As I arc down to the ground, I throw my arms forward and land on my hands.

In the real world, this would cause extreme and probably fatal damage to my hands, arms, and person. But in dreamtime, I simply push off again with my arms, travel maybe another 30 or 40 feet, curl my legs like a spring for the next leap, and take it.

Once you’ve tried it a few times, it becomes an easy, fluid motion. Sorta like the way a frog jumps. You can cover a lot of ground, real fast.

I employed this locomotion technique in a dream about Wal-Mart a few nights ago. I leapfrogged through the whole crazy store and back out to the parking lot... where I collapsed, exhausted and disgusted.

Expectations

2006-07-23T13:04:00.000-07:00

2 parts of a much longer dream...

I’m in a convoy of cars and motorcycles heading west through the mountains east of Salt Lake City. It’s late spring and there is still snow at our elevation, but we can see that the city below is clear of snow. Sister (S) and Mom & Dad are in the convoy and we’re going to visit sister (G) who, in the dream, lives in the city.

I’m in a little silver Honda and decide to take the lead. I roar past the lead motorcycle, a classic Harley hog ridden by a classic 60s biker (long hair, fringed leather, the works). I’m really moving. It’s all good natured; he doesn’t care that I’m passing him. Everyone’s been taking turns at the lead. The roads are plowed and mostly clear - but as I round a curve, I hit an icy patch and loose sight of the road. The car careens into the air, but it isn’t at all frightening... the car is simply airborne, flying toward the city like a small plane.

I’m flying over the city now, looking for somewhere to land. Sort of an industrial part of town. The car has disappeared - I’m just flying on my own. I fly low along a street lined with old brick apartment buildings. There are too many trees and power lines for a safe landing. I circle around and find an open space to land on a parking strip next to a bus kiosk. Sort of a hard landing, but OK.

I’m worried that the rest of the convoy won’t know where I am and wonder how we’ll hook back up. I had meant to tell everyone to pull over at the rest stop in the Bonneville Salt Flats west of Salt Lake City to regroup - and now I wonder if I’ll lose them. I start walking toward a restaurant in a touristy part of town. It’s like Old Sacramento. When I arrive at the restaurant, S is there with Mom. Dad is at another restaurant around the corner. I tell S that she’s at the same table Dad and I sat at years ago.

We’re supposed to pick up S’s car at G’s house. I’ve got the keys. It’s a gold Mitsubishi sedan. I walk with some people I can’t remember and don’t really know to her house - but the car isn’t there. We pile in to a green Miata that pulls up, driven by S’s husband - who’s come to help us find the car. I say to him, “Move over, I’m driving,” and he’s fine with that... almost relieved.

We never do find the car and I’m a little annoyed with G. She had parked it on the street but can’t remember exactly where. I’m thinking, “Why didn’t she make herself a little map?” We think we spot the car in a parking lot at a run down car repair joint, next to a weathered old barn. I find a parking space in front of a semitrailer truck with an empty wine bottle on the hood and we set off to see if it’s S’s car.

Later...

I’m an unknown actor cast in a leading role of a B-grade Sci-fi movie. We’re doing a scene where they fly me in a harness around a large, detailed model of a space station. The grips are rigging my harness to wires and this pneumatic machine that controls it. It’s hooked to a computer so the motion can be controlled and exactly repeated from take to take. They need to do it this way to match the motion with computer graphics of stars and planets that will be added to the shot later.

The sound stage is a rusty old warehouse with a bar. Everyone who isn’t working at the moment is crowded around the bar drinking, partying, making lots of noise. While I’m waiting for the scene, I sit next to the director. We’re discussing the scene and I say, “Don’t you remember when we shot it before?” I describe the previous takes and the way the harness is supposed to circle around the space station model. “When we shot it before, my feet brushed the ground at one point... when I’m circling around those white solar panels on the model. We need to raise the harness a little higher at that point.”

The director is a little surprised that I know so much about the tech involved. He looks at me as if he’s taking me seriously for the first time. He’d made many successful films during his career and would rather have cast a name actor in my role. He just didn’t have the budget. He’s past his prime and this project is definitely a step back.

He confides that we probably shouldn’t worry too much about it because, “this thing is going straight to cable.” But I can tell he’s a little more interested in the project than he was before... he’s glad to know someone here is taking this seriously and wants to make some work that’s worthwhile. I say, “Expect expectations that are beyond your expectations.” He beams.

Twilight walk

2006-07-15T13:31:00.000-07:00

Part of a much longer dream...

It was twilight at the house on Embassy... deep blue, clear sky... yellow house and streetlights starting to shine across the neighborhood. No stars. Cool, but not chilly.

Younger sister and Mom were conversing about something in the other room. G decided to walk over to a friend’s house and Mom was concerned about her walking alone at night. Mom decided to walk with her, saying, “Well, there’s a world beyond Louisville and maybe it’s time I see it.”

I thought this was nice and decided to go too. I was putting on a pair of gray socks and pale blue walking shoes... slip on shoes with dark blue piping. I was somewhat annoyed with Dad. He was in another room with the TV blaring. Basketball game. I said, “All through our lives, that damn TV chattering away.” Then I felt bad about being annoyed. Toward the end, Dad was getting rather deaf and couldn’t help watching with the volume turned up loud. He was a good guy and would have turned it down if asked... and would have sat there struggling to hear the game.

I decided I’d get him a pair of headphones as a gift. That way, he could watch TV without disturbing everyone else. At first I thought this was a great idea but then I realized the headphones would make him even more isolated than he already was. I decided to just let it go. “It’s just a basketball game,” I said. “God knows there isn’t much enjoyment in his life. Let it go.”

Poached eggs for Stanley Kubrick

2006-04-09T03:15:00.000-07:00

Part of a much longer dream...

I was some sort of spy on a secret mission. I was wearing a tan trench coat. I was in the back of a commercial airliner, awaiting takeoff. The main passenger cabin was in front of me and I was sitting in a windowless galley area which had three seats.

This galley was gray and cheerless. The main cabin, beyond a bulkhead in front of me, was light and airy... windows at every seat, lots of bright, direct sunlight. There were little tables at each seat, like the tables on a train. Not like those stingy, fold-down trays on an airliner.

The plane was a little smaller than a Boeing 737, with maybe 100 seats. It was nearly full, just a few empty seats. People were chatting, playing cards, reading books. It was pleasant and relaxed.

Stanley Kubrick (the film director who made “2001: A Space Odyssey”) was in the second row from the front, on the left. There was a slight buzz among the passengers because a celebrity was on board.

The plane taxied out on to the runway, then climbed smoothly and powerfully into the air. It banked sharply, but not uncomfortably, to the left.

A little girl with long brown hair, wearing a T-shirt with wide, vertical red and white stripes, came into the galley and began preparing a breakfast tray. She was very intent and focused, the way children often are when they’re concentrating on a grown-up task.

“What are you doing?” I asked, grateful for someone to talk to.

“I’m making breakfast for Mr. Kubrick,” she replied brightly. “It’s a surprise,” she added in a mischievous half-whisper, as though letting me in on a secret.

She began making poached eggs on toast. She used a round cookie cutter to remove the center of a slice of white bread, leaving a hole in it that was just the right size for a poached egg. She pulled a small rubber stamp from her pocket and printed something on the leftover piece of bread. She was careful not to crush the bread when she stamped it. She held it up for me.

“See?” she said. “That’s the garnish.”

“Oh! That’s so sweet!” I beamed.

The leftover piece of bread had an “S” stamped on it.

Howard Hughs' UFO

2006-04-07T11:42:00.000-07:00

Something from an earlier dream woke me up... something about a bear who had a terrible cut on its neck. There’s blood everywhere. “Yikes,” I said in the dream. “That’s pretty grizzly.” Bad dream pun.

Later... sleeping again...

My friend NG and I lay on our backs in the front yard looking at the stars. In the waking world you can’t see the stars on my city street, but the dream sky is pitch black and star spangled. The lawn has been recently mowed and smells like a wheatgrass juice bar.

We don’t have a telescope or binoculars, but we each have a glass from the kitchen cupboard. When you hold the glass to your eye, it works like a small telescope. We’re studying a fairly large orange fuzzy formation, about half the size of the moon. We’re thinking it must be a nebula or galaxy and we’re surprised at how well we can see it tonight. We agree that we’ve never noticed it before. Through our “telescopes” we can make out a spiral pattern of orange lights. NG says she thinks it’s a spiral galaxy.

It suddenly changes color and begins to flash a pattern of blue and tan lights... very odd and obviously artificial; not a natural formation.

Another friend shows up (JB) and I say to him, “Is that a UFO?”

“Sure is,” he replies.

The sky becomes solid, like a low black ceiling with fluorescent stars painted on it. The UFO is stuck to it and I wonder how. JB says it’s stuck there with little suction cups.

He reaches up and pulls it down. We’re quite surprised by this. It’s much smaller than we thought - about the size of a small plate. It’s also paper thin. JB folds it in half and says it’s part of a secret project run by Howard Hughes (!). He slips it into his shirt pocket and leaves.

I’m suddenly in a sort of bank lobby and NG is gone. There are black rubber mats on an old linoleum floor and room dividers about waist high made of scuffed up old fake wood formica. I realize it’s a newsroom and I’m a reporter interviewing Howard Hughes. Typewriters clatter in the background and somebody walks by with a steaming cup of coffee. Reporters sit at junky old desks, papers piled up everywhere, everyone’s smoking cigarettes.

“Do you deny the existence of this secret UFO program?” I demand.

“No, not at all,” Hughes replies. “We’ve been working on it for years.”

The phone rings and I wake up.

Airports and paperbacks

2006-03-08T18:25:00.000-08:00

I’m riding a local municipal bus to the airport for a business flight I need to catch. The bus is packed, but I find a seat next to two noisy teenaged girls. They’re flighty and loud - quacking away about mascara and boyfriends and fashion. I settle in to my seat and pull a paperback sci-fi novel from my backpack. The book is entitled, “Other Ways We Go Home.”

One of the girls spots the title on my paperback spine and shouts, “Oh! I LOVE that book! I read it five times! What do YOU think it’s about?”

I fan my fingers through the first thirty or forty pages and say, “Well, I’m just getting started. It’s a big book, but I think I know where we’re going with this. I don’t want to spoil the ending, but my first guess is that every moment in time - every split second, every heartbeat - splinters the universe in to a gazzilion other possible universes, each and every one just as real as the one we think we live in.”

Well, that shuts them up. They stare at me like a couple of stunned hogs at a feed lot.

“It’s a book about time travel,” I continue. “It turns out that time travel in the conventional sense is impossible. You can’t go back in time. Einstein was right about that. He got lots of stuff right, but he missed some crucial principals, ‘cuz he had old data. It wasn’t his fault, he just didn’t know any better. Isaac Newton got the gravity thing sorta right, but he was a prisoner of his moment in time. The limitations of his particular universe, ya know?”

My fellow passengers are unimpressed. They begin to play with their cell phones.

“If we can demonstrate that each universe folds and splits and multiplies, nanosecond by nanosecond, we can learn to find a desired conformation in all those gazzilion times gazzilion possibilities. If we can’t go back in time, we can certainly learn how to step over it... like walking across stepping stones on a fast moving stream.”

The bus drops me off at my stop. It’s a park bench in an urban setting, on a fine warm day. I read my book for a while and eventually remember that I need to catch a plane. The terminal is just a few blocks away. I can see it from here.

Psi-Ops

2006-02-07T10:04:00.000-08:00

“She’s right, you know. It’s all about Psi-Ops. We play you like a pitch pipe.”

“More like a pitch fork,” I replied. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you won’t remember. And even if you do, you won’t be able to make yourself quite believe it. And even if you do, nobody else will.”

“So why do you do it? What’s the point?”

“It’s something to do. It’s amusing. We’re so far beyond money and power, you can’t even imagine. We’re bored. It’s something to do. Whoever dies with the most toys wins.”

There was no malice in the voice. There was no - anything. It was like the voice of Hal in the movie “2001” while he’s killing the crew.

“Well, I’ll fight you,” I said. “I’m a brazen man.”

“Yeah, more like a raisin bran. Watch this.”

All through this conversation, there was this silly Betty Boop music playing in the background. It suddenly got louder and Betty was booping away about how Kansas was a territory in northern Minnesota, boop boopy do. I was suddenly hanging off the end of a metal ladder, like a fire escape, over a deep black pit. The point of view was stretched like a scene from the Hitchcock movie “Vertigo.”

I woke up.

Foreign Photographer

2005-12-31T21:24:00.000-08:00

I’m staying at a cheap motel in a northern state (like Minnesota, but not Wisconsin). I’m attending some sort of convention; can’t remember exactly what it’s about. My older sister is staying here too, along with some high school friends. The old gang from Young People’s Theatre is here. I don’t remember specifically which YTP friends check in, but I remember that Fritz was there.

The building is a 1960s one-story affair, with a long central hallway carpeted in worn stripes of tans, dull pinks, orange and beige. It’s lit by bare bulbs that feel a little stark and shabby. The walls are a dark institutional beige. I’m painting a picture of the place here that sounds bleaker than it really was... it isn’t a bad motel, just a little tired and threadbare.

Fritz and I check in. He chooses a room on the right side of the hall, about three-quarters of the way down from the end... I choose a room on the left side, about halfway down. I remember talking with my sister while checking in, but she doesn’t appear later in the dream - except I remember now that she checked in to the last room on the right. Each room has two entrance doors... one in the long hallway and another entrance from outside.

Instead of entering my room from the hall side, I go outside and enter from that door. I walk along the outside of the motel. It’s late afternoon and its been raining - but it’s clearing now. It’s chilly outside, but not cold. The exterior walls are beige, maybe stucco, and each room has a single bay window facing a narrow sidewalk and the parking lot. The motel sits on a small burm. Beyond it, the land drops away to a little town situated in a winter forest.

When I unlock my room and enter, I discover that a package has been delivered... a brown corrugated cardboard box about a foot square, addressed to me. I open it; shredded newspaper packing material falls out in scattered clumps all over the carpet. I don’t remember what’s in the package, just the packing material falling out. I think, “Damn, I should clean this up,” so I open the hallway entrance door to look for someone from housekeeping.

The door to the room opposite mine is open and three maids are making it up. I explain what’s happened and ask them for a vacuum cleaner. One of them smiles and says, “Oh no, sir, that’s our job! We’ll take care of it.” They clean up the newspaper, start fluffing pillows, tidying things. They produce a bottle of wine from somewhere and we start talking; just chitchat about this and that. They want to know where I’m from and why I’m visiting. I tell them that my Dad is buried near here and I’ll probably check in with my family from time to time to visit him. “Mostly for special occasions, like the Fourth of July,” I say.

I leave the three maids in my room and go to the motel bar. It’s a classic bar in that 60s style. Dark, cheap paneling, red pleather seats in fake early American motif, worn wood-grain formica tabletops, low ceiling (maybe even with sparkles sprayed into it, I tell a friend after waking up). Those red bubbly glass table candles everywhere. It’s quiet, just about a dozen people talking quietly, old 70s soft rock playing from a juke box next to the bar. All bass and treble, like those old jukeboxes sound. No midrange.

The bar runs along the left side of the room in a backwards L shape, jutting out at the bottom of the L. Beyond that, there’s an aluminum sliding door, the only window. It’s sunset now; a low sun hangs in the window, below heavy, breaking, blue gray clouds. Pretty ochre light streams in, throwing most of the room into silhouette.

A foreign photographer is sitting at the L in the bar, facing the window. He’s set up his gear... high-end tripod, expensive camera case, light meters, small fill lights and related pro tools - all servicing a cheap ‘point-and-shoot’ digital camera. I remember thinking it’s weird that he has all this good gear but the camera is cheesy... “No matter,” I remember thinking, “you can get some great stuff out of cameras like that if you know what you’re doing.”

I take a seat next to him.

I know he’s foreign from his accent and color. Maybe he’s Mediterranean. He speaks with an accent I can’t identify, but which sounds Italian... or maybe French or Greek. Maybe middle-eastern, maybe Slavic. Anyway, he’s not a local.

He’s setting up this terrific tabletop shot on the bar; a model of a temple (?). It’s like a model of an architectural plan, explains Fritz, who’s been here for a while. There’s a pyramid at the center, about 8 inches tall, surrounded by little ornate statues and columns, arches and other vaguely baroque elements - with details of text and hieroglyphics engraved throughout. I can see it clearly as I type this, but it’s hard to describe. When I related the dream to a friend after I woke up, I realized that it might be what was in the package back in my motel room... but I don’t remember unpacking it or bringing it to the bar.

Anyway, it’s a complicated shot. The foreign photographer is having some trouble juggling everything he needs in order to shoot it. The lighting is perfect right now, but it won’t last long... the sunset through the window, the red bar candles several patrons helped him arrange to get the back fill light just right, the smoke and mirrors behind every good photograph.

He has a long glass tube, about the diameter of a chopstick, maybe two feet long. At the end of the glass tube is a small mirror - like a dental mirror - and he’s trying to aim its reflected light onto the left face of the pyramid. He’s using a jagged little rock under the glass tube like a fulcrum to get the height and angle of the reflected light just right. The rock is mostly rusty brown and copper colored, with veins of quartz crystals and fool’s gold running through it.

Like I said, he’s having trouble juggling all this stuff, so I offer to help by holding the glass tube to angle the light. He says OK.

I fiddle with the glass tube and fulcrum rock for a few minutes until finding a position that nicely lights the left face of the pyramid... to reveal a fiery image of the buddha. This surprises everyone and we all think it’ll be a pretty good snapshot.

-----

Bonus dream scene:

I don’t remember exactly where this fits in to the dream timeline, but here we go. The motel had a gym and I used to be a member - but my membership had expired. I had been sneaking in to work out without having my membership card checked. I could no longer afford the membership fee. Generally, nobody checked my card, because they all knew me and assumed I was paid in full. But this time, the cashier needed to see my membership card. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but this card has expired.”

“Damn. OK. How much do I owe you?”

“I’ll check. Wait here a moment.”

She came back and handed me some money. About eight dollars and some change.

“Here we are,” she smiled. “That should just about cover it.”

-----

Lunch with Mom & Dad

2005-08-11T12:43:00.000-07:00

The last part of a much longer dream... most of which I can’t remember, but it involved a lot of family business and a lot of driving around.

Mom and Dad had come to visit and their visit was almost over (in the waking world, Dad passed away last year). We were in Old Sacramento, near the railroad museum when we said our goodbyes. I was going to go home and do some errands but decided to get some lunch first.

Mom and Dad had walked toward the part of old Sac where the sidewalks are boardwalks, like an old west town. I was wearing my bicycle togs but wasn’t riding. I got in my car - a huge white Buick Park Avenue station wagon (!) - and drove across a gravel parking lot toward the same area. It had rained recently and the car slogged through big deep muddy puddles. The parking lot was empty, so I pulled into a space by some wooden stairs that led up to the boardwalk. Mom and Dad saw me and stopped to wait.

Dad was wearing a black suit, white shirt and a tie. He was also wearing a very severe expression. Mom was looking forward to doing some shopping and when I walked up to them I said, “Have you had lunch yet? Do you want to get something to eat before shopping?”

We agreed to have lunch. We were right across the street from a pasta place, but I didn’t want pasta because I’d been eating a lot of pasta lately. Directly in front of us was a place that sold these sort of Mediterranean wraps. There were brushed silver metal doors over the counter where you ordered, each door labeled with an ingredient you could have on your wrap. One ingredient sounded particularly good to me - I forget exactly what but it might have been lentils. We decided to eat there.

Inside, an ex-football player was making a speech to the crowd of people eating. It was a homophobic tirade. At one point he said, “Gay people don’t deserve a childhood!” This absolutely incensed me and I walked around the restaurant counter to confront him.

I was furious and although he was much bigger and younger than me, I was ready to fight. I didn’t care that I’d probably be injured, I just wanted to beat the crap out of this jerk. Very uncharacteristic of how I’d react in the waking world. I grabbed a black metal bar from - like the leg of a cash register or some sort of machine and was ready to bean him with it when I woke up with a start... heart racing, troubled and and unhappy. As I was waking up I remember saying, “God, I’m depressed.” It was like the physical fight was an inevitability I had to confront but just could not bear.

Bees Cure Disease

2005-03-11T13:20:00.000-08:00

I'm in this large laboratory and communal kitchen with a friend (PT). We're researching a disease. It may be a disease afflicting my mom or another close relative. We've discovered that there's a chemical compound - like, an enzyme or protein - in honey. Honey holds the key to an important therapy, or maybe an outright cure. We cooked the honey over a bunsen burner to concentrate it. The concentrated honey is a deep golden brown, full of sticky clumps and crystals.

"Do you see that?" I say to my friend, "That's a concentrated cure. It's a real breakthrough! Bees cure disease."

The concentrated honey is stuck to the bottom of a tall, white, square container with lots of tiny chambers. The chambers are lined with a mesh of fine mylar screens. It's too thick and crystalized to pour out. I need a tool to scrape out the honey... so I look around to find something. I remember a line from a tune I played with a band called The Moderns, back in 1980... "I need knowledge and tools."

There's a long line of kitchen sinks along one wall. People who use this combination laboratory and communal kitchen wash their dishes in these sinks and put them on rows of dish racks to dry. I spot a screwdriver with a red handle among the dishes in a nearby dish rack. The people who own it were washing dishes here earlier in the dream, but they're gone now. I figure they won't mind me using their property, as long as I clean it and put it back when I'm finished.

We use it to scrape out the honey. As we work, I notice this odd contraption that's climbed up on our lab table. It's a tan, flesh tone, plastic beehive on little black plastic wheels... with a little camera, a computer track pad, and lots of little yellow and red blinking LED lights. I notice that it's about the size of a human brain. It's trailing a long wire... like a TV cable. It's some sort of remote sensory array... and it's playing back the sound of our breathing through its little onboard speaker. I wonder who's observing us and why. The beehive begins to roll away as its cord retracts into its innards.

I follow the beehive along a short corridor, past the row of sinks. My friend stays behind to wash and return the borrowed screwdriver and white container. We talk about that for just a moment before I go, and agree that this is the best course of action. The best use of our resources.

The beehive rolls around a corner, turning to the left. I follow it into a small, windowless living room furnished with a sofa, easy chair, and two end tables. The room is comfortable, lit by lamps on the end tables, but it has the feel of a faceless hotel room... you know, that nondescript, bland, rented decor that's perfectly suitable for living, but nobody really lives there.

There are several people sitting on the sofa, listening to a man sitting on the easy chair. He's just signed a book deal to publish a book about bees. It has lots of color photos and he's very pleased that the book is being printed in Japan - because lots of really high end printing is done there these days. I want to ask him some questions about the book, but it's a little hard to get a word in edgewise. Everyone's animated and talking all at once.

"Excuse me," I say, "I came to this party a little late." Everyone smiles and a few people laugh. "Will the book be printed on one of those fancy new six-color digital presses?"

The phone rang and I woke up.

Walmart Detention Camp

2005-02-15T11:28:00.000-08:00

I attended some sort of graduation ceremony. There were about two dozen people wearing dark blue graduation robes, but no caps. We were all picked up by the police or military on the way home. Lots of Hummers and automatic weapons. We were sent to a detention camp... like detention camps Asian Americans were sent to during World War II. We were told that we were a threat to national security. Some of us giggled at that concept. Giggles were not well received in this brave new world.

The camp was in the foothills of the Sierras. Pine forests and snow capped mountains. A little town in a valley, junky and run down. It looked like most places in America look these days... strip malls from hell, fast food joints, a Walmart... a place where everything looks like everywhere else. Other than the mountains and pine trees, it could be anywhere in America.

Our camp was in the Walmart parking lot. Barbed wire, gates and guards, surrounding a dumpy, rambling old white clapboard house that had been converted into our quarters. One large bedroom had been converted into a dormitory with about a dozen beds. There were bunk beds and single beds. Everyone rambled in, did their best to be comfortable, and claimed a space. I chose a top bunk next to a wall.

There was one other large room I remember... a kitchen and living space. All the walls were paneled in cheap brown plywood... like this house had once been nice, but had suffered a bad renovation in the 1970s. Cheap paneling and those crappy drop ceiling panels that look awful after a few years. Junky furniture that no one had cleaned in a long, long time.

The bathroom was filthy. I wanted to take a shower, so I spent an hour or so cleaning it (I could write for hours about scrubbing the tub and tiles with Comet cleanser, scrubbing the tile grout with an old red toothbrush, and all sorts of things no one wants to know about Clorox bleach).

I remember thinking that the last people sent here obviously hadn't cleaned the place or made any attempt to fix it up or make it comfortable. After my shower, I started to put my graduation robe back on... but I noticed that everyone else had switched to regular street clothes. I folded the graduation robe and put it on a rusty chrome towel rack that I found on the wall near my bed. I can't remember what I was wearing, but it seems to have been tan and tweed - or maybe a beige and black herringbone.

There were large dusty windows looking out across the parking lot. I looked through the windows and suddenly there were lots of people - including Jaylo and Ben (huh?) - and a busload of Australian tourists. There were cops in black uniforms with white riot helmets directing traffic and moving the crowd around.

Two cars pulled up... a taxi yellow 1956 Pontiac and another 1950s car, maybe a '57 Plymouth (I remember good tail fins). Somebody opened the Pontiac's hood. Taped inside was a photo of Mars.

It turns out that the busload of tourists and classic cars were part of some traveling exhibition. NASA had held some sort of contest or publicity event where people lent time to do research about something related to Mars. The winners were sent on a cross country promotional tour.

It was all very confusing to me. The grand prize photo was the one taped to the inside of the Pontiac hood. There was a caption below the photo, listing the winner... "The Randi Rhodes Dating Service."

-----

Whew. I woke up, wondering what this was all about. Later, I fell asleep and dreamed an interesting new dream about walking with strangers in a golden summer field.

1960s Danish Modern

2005-01-31T01:23:00.000-08:00

Nearly lucid dream...

I “wake up” in this dream to find myself living in a huge apartment building. It’s a rambling, white structure about eight stories high, forming a long zigzag shape across a suburban landscape - a park-like setting, a little too manicured for my tastes. The architectural style is Bauhaus - a clean, sterile, early 20th century deco. It’s a little run down.

My apartment is on an upper floor - not the very top, maybe six floors up. KF and JB are here to help me move. We’re packing up boxes and I’m looking out the window, daydreaming. Suddenly, I clearly realize that I’m dreaming (I even rearrange the pillows in my bed and mutter something like, “damnit.”... I’m annoyed and think, “I don’t want to work now, OK?... just sleep”).

As I stare down several floors to the ground, I vaguely consider launching myself through the window for a little flying lesson. I want to fly through the window and soar - and I know I won’t fall if I do. But I’m too chicken to try it.

Then I’m asleep again and the lucid feeling is gone. I’m just dreaming. It’s hard to describe the difference. I decide to go downstairs to check up on an elderly couple I know (not in my waking world, but I knew them here in the dream time). I care about them, and I want to make sure they’re OK.

I set off along these endless corridors. I walk past a public area on this floor, with a small movie theatre and a laundromat. There’s a cop or security guard there, a burly man in a dark blue/black uniform. I notice that a trash can is on fire... something smoldering in it... and I say to him, “Look! There’s a fire!” He says it’s no big deal, it’ll burn itself out. “Happens all the time,” he says. This annoys the hell out of me - like, he’s not doing his job. I put it out myself, by pouring melted ice into the trash can from a paper soft drink cup somebody left on a beat-up formica counter. The fire sizzles, belches out a cloud of smoke, and sputters out. As I walk away, I look back at the guard and think, “What a jerk.”

I take a nearby elevator down several floors to the elderly couple’s apartment. I distinctly remember pressing the “down” arrow and watching it light up... and once again, I realize I’m dreaming. I can feel, smell, and see the scene the same way I do in the waking world. It just lasts a second and then I’m asleep again.

The elderly couple is moving too - shutting down their home of many years to move into a retirement community. They’re getting rid of a bunch of old stuff. They ask me if I want to go to the basement. That’s where they store a bunch of stuff they don’t need. They tell me I can take whatever I want.

Their basement storage area has a workbench with a bunch of dusty old tools, geegaws, and nondescript doodads - a place where the old gentleman used to tinker and fix things. The ceiling is a typical basement ceiling - all beams, bare light bulbs, wires, and furnace ducts. It feels close and heavy. The floor is concrete, painted in chipped, gray enamel... still shining, but worn. It’s clean and dust free. At the back of the room, I see a jumble of old furniture. It’s mostly worthless junk... except for this great chair. It’s orange, 1960s Danish modern, with a matching ottoman - and it’s in perfect condition - like something out of a time capsule.

I’ve always liked 1960s kitch, so I’m drawn to this chair. “Oh, that old thing?” says the old gentleman. “We never used it. It’s been here for years. You want it?” Once again I realize I’m dreaming... and I think, “They have no idea what this is worth. I could sell this on eBay and make a ton of money. But how can I get it out of here?” I wonder if I should tell them that it’s valuable - or just take it. A moral dilemma.

Then I’m dreaming again - and KF and JB are back. I point to the chair and say to them, “Isn’t it amazing?” They agree - and then I really wake up. It takes almost an hour to get back to sleep.

-----

I don’t have this sort of nearly lucid experience very often. When I do, I shake for a while afterwards, and drop things or walk into doorways. I’m disoriented - like, reconnecting my physical body to the other circuits in this universe is a lot of work that I don’t want to do. I’m famished. I pad downstairs to the kitchen and eat a whole can of tuna - washing it down with big gulps of milk, right from the carton - lit by the bare bulb inside my refrigerator.

I’m annoyed and worn out. I just want a good night’s sleep - with everything shut down for a while. Sometimes I think I’m going nuts. The rest of the night, I sleep heavily and remember no dreams. I wake up around noon - tired, sore, and a little depressed.

68.94 Miles

2005-01-30T14:02:00.000-08:00

Part of a much longer dream...

I’m at my folk's house (but it’s not their waking world house). Things have been very stressful since Dad passed away and this visit isn’t going well. I snap at Mom about something and feel bad about it. She says it’s OK and I say, “I need to get out of here for a while.”

I decide to take their car and drive in to town. It’s a big, dark copper color Lincoln town car with a gray leather interior. I’m backing it out of a wide, three car, tudor style garage - like an old fashioned carriage house - with three arched garage doors. I can’t find the door opener button on the dashboard. Two of the doors are shut and the only one that’s open is blocked by my sister’s car - which ticks me off. I think, “Why on earth would she block the only open door?”

I somehow get the car out of the garage - don’t remember how - and I’m driving along a wooded lane with my friend Rick C. I can’t remember how he ended up in the car. We’re driving up a long hill on a hazy morning... not foggy, just hazy, spring sunlight. It’s a two lane parkway with a wide median... one lane for traffic going up, one lane for traffic coming down. We get about halfway up the hill and find a turnoff where you can turn around to come back down. I pull off to turn around and tell Rick that I’ll ride my bike from here - try to get in a nice bike ride. Somehow, my bike’s in the trunk, I'm wearing my helmet and bike togs, and Rick is gone. I’m going to meet him later at a bar downtown.

Riding down the hill is nice at first - it’s always more fun to coast down a long hill than to climb one. The road is smooth and newly paved in black asphalt. It’s slightly wet and shiny, like after a recent rain. But the road isn't slick and I’m peddling strong and fast. I round a curve to the right - banking deeply into a small town. Suddenly, the road is full of pedestrians and I slow down quickly to navigate around them. It’s like some sort of street fair or something.

Some guy on a bike has peddled up behind me, talking on his cell phone. I’m becoming annoyed with the crowd... it’s like people are completely blind to where they are and who’s around them. They’re oblivious to me and each other, wandering along, getting in the way. I’m especially annoyed with the guy on the cell phone. I tell him I do not want to hear his chatter. “Why are you talking on the phone while you ride?” I slow down and let him pass me.

As I leave the little town, the road opens up again and I’m able to enjoy the ride. I’m nearly at the bottom of the hill. I round another curve and find a covered gatehouse. I ride in. It’s old, wooden - like a covered bridge with heavy beams - and it smells nice, like cedar. There’s a small blue and yellow neon sign that says “Louisville Cycle Club.” On the other side of the gatehouse is a sort of open air shopping mall... lots of shops and other buildings connected to each other, rambling up the side of the hill.

My phone rings. It’s Rick. He tells me he’s in the old section of town, at the bar where we’re going to meet. “How’s your bike ride?”

“Pretty good,” I reply. I look down at my bike computer (a little odometer and clock, like the one on my waking world bike). I say, “I managed to get in about 70 miles... 68.94 miles. Where are you?”

“I’m up in the second tier.”

“OK, I’ll see you soon.”

I ride a little way back up the hill, along sidewalks in this mall, and into the lobby of a hospital. It’s a shortcut to the bar. I get a little lost riding in the plain beige corridors and ask a nurse for directions to an elevator. She points around a corner, where I find two elevators with glass walls looking out of the building. They’re impossibly fancy and modern, black leather airliner seats lining the glass walls. The other walls are red. The first elevator is full, so I ride into the second one.

My bike has disappeared and I sit in one of the black leather airline seats. There are a few other people in the elevator, including Rick. We start to descend and I say, “I HATE elevators. They scare me.” The elevator drops fast and I hold on tight. At the ground floor, the elevator makes a sharp, stomach wrenching turn and is suddenly moving horizontally along a curved pair of red metal tracks - like railroad tracks, but bigger. It occurs to me that this is more like a theme park ride than an elevator.

We get to the end of the ride and are deposited on an empty city street near a bus stop. The bar is only a few blocks away, but Rick wanders off with some girl he picked up in the elevator. She giggles a lot and I get the feeling that she's probably rather stupid. She has sandy blonde hair and wears a yellow and gray striped tube top.

I suddenly remember that I left the car up at the turnoff. I’ll need to ride back up the hill to retrieve it. I wonder where my bike is.

Endless Rooms

2005-01-22T13:54:00.000-08:00

Bad flu fever dream...

I was at a party or some sort of gathering at a fancy mansion owned by a family I knew - or maybe it was my family, but not the family from my waking life. It was nighttime and the mansion was brightly lit.

The place was immense... impossibly so. The rooms went on and on... endless rooms. I didn’t much care for the style. It was that cluttered, busy, gilt, baroque stuff that some wealthy people seem to favor. Acres of flocked wallpaper, heavily carved furniture in dark woods, gold leaf everywhere, gold colored carpet. A little threadbare, but clean. I found the whole place rather bloated, cold, and pretentious.

At one point we were all supposed to do something important... find something. I can’t remember exactly what. It had to do with a daughter in this family who had been recently murdered. I set off alone to look for whatever we were all looking for.

I wandered and wondered. It would take hours to write what all the rooms looked like, but I remember one suite that was very nice. Comfortable. Lots of windows and light; nice postmodern design. I remember thinking J would love to live here... it was just his style... except for the kitchen, which was crumbling, dark, and much too small for a good cook to spread out and really work.

I was in a high sort of attic or loft space where I found one more of many bedrooms and suites. It was dark here and I fumbled for a light switch.

This room was different. The decor was retro 1950s atomic age modern. The colors were simpler, mostly tans and beige with darker accents in warm browns and black. The furniture was spare and geometric. The carpet was off-white and the whole effect was almost Japanese.

I rounded a corner, walked down a short hallway, found some stairs, and climbed them. I was in another sort of loft above the main suite. It was the only room that wasn’t kept clean by the staff. It was dusty and smelled closed and stuffy... like rooms smell when you’ve been away for a long time. There was some clothing tossed on a chair that was upholstered in a simple tan and white striped fabric - just tossed there - and a pair of silk stockings on the floor at the foot of the chair - as though a woman had undressed and tossed them there, knowing the staff would take care of them later.

I suddenly realized that these rooms belonged to the dead girl - the murdered girl - and I wondered if the staff had been instructed not to move anything... you know, the “leave it just as it was” thing cops do at a crime scene. This loft was the girl’s private sanctuary - a place where she could escape the heavy decoration and formality of the other rooms. There was a real good stereo, some books, trinkets and remembrances - two caged love birds in a corner. I was surprised that they were alive, but noticed they had fresh water and seeds - I figured somebody was still taking care of them and thought, “these birds shouldn’t be left alone up here... they need to be around people and activity or they’ll go nuts.”

I found a plate or platter on a coffee table. It was in black enameled metal, covered with a classical Greek motif of men having sex. I decided to steal it. I had been carrying my portfolio with me the whole time, but it wasn’t my regular portfolio... it was made of tattered white cardboard, held together with masking tape (in the waking world, I keep my larger artwork in a fairly nice black portfolio). I slipped the plate into the portfolio and quickly left these rooms.

On my way back down to the main rooms, I got completely lost. I was in a long, windowless, unlit hallway with red flocked wallpaper and rough wooden plank flooring (hmmm... walking the plank). I was beginning to panic. I called out for help over and over, but the house was so big, and I was so far off the beaten trail, that nobody could hear me. At one point, I left my artwork and my stolen treasure behind as I fumbled around looking for a way out.

Eventually I found a little stairway that led down to a main upstairs hallway. There were five men doing restoration work in a side room - shirtless carpenters with tool belts, wearing jeans. I had seen them earlier and they didn’t like me, so I didn’t speak to them. I found the head housekeeper walking down the hall toward me. She was a matronly woman who had been in service at this house for years. Everybody respected her and some family members even loved her. I was so glad to see her, I literally fell to me knees.

“I got lost!” I cried. “I was upstairs and I found her [the dead girl's] rooms and then I got lost and couldn’t get back! I have to go back for my art.” I didn’t mention my theft.

We walked to a sort of linen or storage closet, because the housekeeper wanted to give me a flashlight stored there. We couldn’t find it, but we did find one of those emergency lights you see sometimes... the ones with a battery pack that you plug into a wall outlet so there’s a light source if the power fails.

I took it and returned up some rickety stairs to the red hallway. It was even more immense than before - in the feeble glow of this emergency light, I could see that it stretched away for what seemed like forever. There was carpet on the floor this time, dark red with gold speckles in it that glittered off into the distance.

I woke up.

Elephant Drawing

2005-01-20T10:45:00.000-08:00

...I was looking at a drawing of an elephant. It was like an illustration in a zoology book, very straightforward and realistic. The line work was black and the skin was printed in a light brown. The animal was drawn in profile. I looked at the trunk and big flappy ears and wondered what a person who'd never seen an elephant might think of it. I thought, "If you made this stuff up, no one would believe it."

When I woke up, I remembered that Bush and the elephant Republicans are having a big party in DC today, while a war built on lies rages on. Right. If you made this stuff up, no one would believe it.

Skull in the Bathroom

2005-01-18T18:02:00.000-08:00

Long dream in three parts:

1) I was visiting my parents home. The whole family had gathered... flown in from all over the country. I had spent a lot of time working on the garden, making sure everything was well-watered and pretty. I remember thinking that all the work I’d done wouldn’t matter if the garden was left to bake in the sun after I went home.

I was in the family room and the curtains were drawn - heavy, dark red velvet curtains that blocked out most of the light. As I drew them back to let in light from the garden, I noticed an electrical outlet on the wall next to the French doors leading outside. The outlet was crammed full of extension chords and those adapters that let you plug more than one chord into an outlet. It was a tangle of chords - way too many for the outlet to safely service. My Dad was usually careful about this sort of fire hazard and I remember thinking it was unlike him to do something so unsafe.

There was a phone call about some mess-up with my return ticket home... but I sorted it out through a different travel agent or ticket service from the one I normally use. My original plane ticket was going to cost $500, but the new ticket was only going to cost $175. The only problem was that it wouldn’t be a direct flight... I’d have a long layover in Portland, Oregon, before I could make it back to Sacramento. It was completely out of the way, but cheaper. My Dad thought I was wasting a lot of time just to save a little money. This baffled me because Dad wouldn’t normally say something like that. He was usually very thrifty - and would put up with a little inconvenience to save a little money. I said, “Eight hours or six hours... what’s the difference, Dad? You’re never more than eight hours away from anyplace.”

-----

The scene changed - I think I woke up a little, then slept again.

2) I was getting ready to move into a big, run-down old house a bunch of people shared. I decided to clean an upstairs bathroom. It was a good room, with one of those big antique claw-foot bathtubs I like. The room was dusty and dirty... not filthy, mostly just unkempt. I wanted to clean it so I could use it comfortably.

There was a long shelf to the left of the sink, running down a wall to a little alcove with a window. The shelf and window sill were full of little collectibles that various tenants had placed there over the years. Mostly candles, but also little statues and junky knickknacks. They were all jumbled together, covered in cobwebs. One candle I remember was shaped like the Empire State Building with a wick on top. I overheard someone in another room saying, “We get all this stuff real cheap from the boutique downstairs.” The voice was RC (a waking life friend from a long time ago).

The window sill knickknacks were different from the ones on the shelf. Better quality and placed in an almost reverent manner, as though on an alter. There were brass ornaments, mostly, surrounded by candles. The centerpiece was one of those brass Shiva goddess figurines. It was made out of brass bones and the Shiva’s head was a large skull - all out of proportion to the rest of her body.

I suddenly had to use the toilet. As I sat down, MM barged into the room (an acquaintance who, in my waking life, sold me a classic 1960s English touring bicycle I love to ride). I quickly yelled, “Occupied! This bathroom is occupied!” He was embarrassed. Suddenly, we heard this commotion outside the window... down in the street below. I stood up, pulled up my pants, and we looked outside. There was a demonstration or rally moving down the street. I went downstairs to see what the hubbub was all about.

-----

I think I woke up a little again, but the dream picked right back up as soon as I was soundly sleeping.

3) The demonstration led from our old neighborhood to a sort of campus. The campus had been founded by Elvis Presley as a sanctuary for people who had drug and alcohol problems... a place where they could learn about and overcome addiction. The campus buildings were fairly nice in a polite, milk toast way... sort of fake suburban tutor. The roofs were cheap brown tarpaper, which surprised me... they seemed to bring the stature of the whole campus down a few notches, in my opinion. I said to someone, “Did he really pay for this whole place out of his recording fortune?” “Sure did,” was the reply.

The demonstrators were all earnest college-age kids, holding signs and chanting slogans about freedom and justice. The kids were sort of glassy-eyed and blissful, like born-again Christians... like members of any cult that thinks it has an exclusive on the meaning of life.

I’m not sure how it happened, but I suddenly realized that I was the Dean of this campus... and I was a Victorian woman, dressed in a long tan skirt, high-button shoes, a white blouse tightly buttoned to its high, lace collar. I had my hair piled on top of my head, the way women of that era wore their hair.

The campus was being shut down by the police for some reason. There was something about this campus being an illegal cult with subversive intent. I was holding a baby in my arms as I approached two officers who were sitting on a porch swing in the white, ornate front entrance to the main administration building. One officer was in charge of the police action and the other was his deputy. I said to the officer in charge, “I’ve been thinking about this a great deal and I’ve made a decision. Go ahead. Shut it all down. Take all of these people into custody.”

The crowd gasped and fell silent. One student near me said, “You’d do that? You’d sacrifice us all?” His name was Perry O’Dontis (an obvious word play).

“Yes, Perry, I would,” I replied in a soft, even voice. “It’s for the greater good. I am a victim of third-degree clarity.”

-----

The phone rang and I woke up, troubled and exhausted. I need a good night’s sleep, with no pesky dreams.

Two Old Junkyard Ladies

2005-01-18T16:25:00.000-08:00

I worked at a business that was a sort of hybrid junkyard and nature reserve for this particularly rare species of grass - like, an endangered species of pampas grass. It was about three feet tall, with long-stemmed seed flowers that looked like bottle brush cleaners. There was only one example of it, looking rather dusty and forlorn at the entrance to the reserve. The rest of the reserve consisted of a circular, unpaved drive made of broken concrete and gray gravel that crunched under your feet. The whole place was filled with junked cars in various states of having their guts and sheet metal ripped out and recycled.

I walked along the drive and saw an old man working... bent over, under the hood of a mid-1970s Chevy Malibu. I thought, “you could lose yourself in here.” A little further along, I met two nice old ladies wearing flowered print dresses. We talked about the grass at the entrance and exchanged pleasantries... and although we were standing in a junkyard, it didn’t seem at all odd.

The scene changed, and I was walking home. I had found this odd contraption - more junk - made out of a big glass bottle, clear plastic hoses, and other assorted doodads. I don’t remember what it was for, but I told my Mom (I met her along the street) that it was a still (for making alcohol). I was telling her a lie, because I knew it wasn’t a still. Although I can’t remember what it was really for, I remember thinking that she’d be angry about it. So, I lied and said it was a still. Telling the lie made this thing give off chemical fumes that made me feel giddy and drunk.

The scene changed again and I was working in an office with my friend JS. We were starting a new company and designing its corporate headquarters. The building was to be the Tallest Building In The World. We were making mockups of it out of old cardboard cereal boxes. We were trying to choose between two different patterns for the exterior window frames. One was a series of rectangles. The other was a series of crosses (I drew both patterns when I woke up). We were waiting forever for a print of the patterns to print on a laser printer. I said something sarcastic, like, “Well, of course we have to wait - the printer here runs at the blistering speed of 80 MHz.”

We wanted to paste the prints onto the cereal boxes to see what the building would look like. There was a logo over the front door of the mockup that said “Artist Access.”

Poached Eggs for Stanley Kubrick

2005-01-18T15:41:00.000-08:00

Part of a much longer dream:

I was some sort of spy on a mission (I was even wearing a classic cliché trench coat). I was in the back of a commercial airliner, waiting for takeoff. The main passenger cabin was in front of me and I was sitting in a windowless galley area that had three seats.

This cabin was gray and cheerless. The main cabin, beyond a bulkhead in front of me, was light and airy - windows at every seat and lots of bright, direct sunlight. There were little tables in front of each seat, more like the tables on a train than the fold-down trays on an airliner. The plane was a little smaller than a Boeing 737, with maybe 100 seats in all. It was nearly full; just a few empty seats. People were chatting, playing cards at their tables, reading books. It was pleasant and relaxed.

Stanley Kubrick (the film director who made “2001: A Space Odyssey” and who, in the waking world, died a few years ago) was in the second row from the front, on the left. There was a slight buzz of excitement among the passengers at having a celebrity on board.

The plane taxied out onto the runway, climbing smoothly and powerfully into the air, banking sharply, but not uncomfortably, to the left.

A little girl with long brown hair, wearing a T-shirt with wide, vertical red and white stripes, came into the galley area and began preparing a breakfast tray. She was very intent and focused... in the way children often are when they’re concentrating on a grown-up task.

“What are you doing?” I asked cheerfully, grateful for someone to talk to. “I’m making breakfast for Mr. Kubrick,” she replied brightly. “It’s a surprise,” she added in a mischievous half-whisper, as though letting me in on a secret.

She began making poached eggs on toast. She used a round cookie cutter to remove the center of a slice of white bread, leaving a hole in it that was just the right size for an egg. She pulled a small rubber stamp from her pocket and printed something on the leftover piece of bread (the round piece left over from when she made a hole in the main slice). She was careful not to crush the bread when she stamped it. She held it up for me.

“See? That’s the garnish.”

“Oh! That’s so sweet!” I beamed.

The little piece of bread had an “S” on it...

Chicken Little's Event Horizon

2005-01-18T14:35:00.000-08:00

I was holding this odd pair of binoculars. Each lens, and the "handle" you held them with, were made out of 3 floating metal disks that reflected and held the sky. They worked like a combination kaleidoscope and telescope. I was sitting on the edge of the bed in Paul's old apartment. I remember his purple bedspread. We were laughing...

"Look, Paul, look! The sky is falling!!" It just cracked us up for some reason... I was smiling when I woke up.

illustration

Inauguration Maps

2005-01-18T11:25:00.000-08:00

I’m going to the Presidential inauguration, which is being held in this sprawling, well-manicured park. I’m supposed to stand on a particular street in this park to watch the parade go by, but I can’t find the street. Its name begins with the name of a neighborhood in the SF East Bay... can’t remember it now but it sounds like “Modesto.” I see a cop, wave to her, and ask if she knows where the street is. She’s a short, portly black woman wearing blue police slacks and a pale blue shirt. She has a badge and a police walkie-talkie that’s sputtering something unintelligible. She says, “All the streets that sound like places in the East Bay are up that way.”

She gestures toward a little bluff with paved streets and street signs, so I set off in that direction. There’s a map on one corner, like one of those “you are here” signs in a shopping mall. Can’t remember what happens next, but later...

I’m in an area of the park that’s more overgrown and wild, like a hilly forest. I walk across a small stream and look down at my hiking boots in the shallow water. The water is clear and cold, with small pebbles. I scramble up a slippery slope on the other side, through a tangle of young trees and bushes.

Later again...

I’m in a car with Dad and Uncle K. Dad is driving. Long, hilly, winding back country roads. We pass some farm houses and a big yellow Victorian building... like an old hotel or resort, very run down. Muddy front yard... some mud splattered on the dirty yellow clapboards.

Dad is driving down this long hill, aiming for a big, dilapidated hotel with a dark wooden doorway in the middle of the road. I say, “Dad, you’re driving too fast; you’re scaring me.” He's a bit embarrassed and slows down a little. We get to the doorway and suddenly the car is gone... we’re walking through the doorway... up this odd, rickety white ramp. Instead of stairs, there are black strips of old tires nailed to the floor - and you have to dig your toes in to them to keep from sliding back down. I’m wearing brown socks (no shoes for traction) and I'm worried about slipping and falling.

Further up, the ramp becomes a narrow stairway with white walls. At the top is a series of little rooms, like in an old house that’s been turned into some sort of office. Pale yellow 1920s rooms with gray baseboards and wide window sills... lots of modern, slightly beat up, dusty office equipment and old computers, papers cluttered on desks, chords and wires spaghettied around and over everything.

The last room is more like the living room of an old apartment. Comfortable old furniture, tables with family knickknacks. Mom is there. Dad and Uncle K are gone and I start to tell her where we’ve been. There’s a road atlas opened to a page showing the area we traveled through - I can see it clearly as I type this. I try to find a particular town or landmark we passed but can’t remember its exact name. It might be the name of the hotel. I do find the general area on the map, but either it isn’t listed or I can’t remember the name. Sorta frustrating.

A big truck growling down the street woke me up.

Underwater TV Pilot

2005-01-18T10:33:00.000-08:00

Part of a much longer dream:

I was an actor on a TV pilot that I knew wouldn’t be picked up by any network. My character was a single Dad (widowed or divorced... I can’t remember), raising his son in Hawaii. My body in the dream was the body of that hunky guy on the JAG TV show (yeah right, in my dreams).

The opening title music was a vocal piece with a lyric that said, “oh to be free - free from Hawaii.” The camera was pointed straight down into the ocean as the credits rolled. The water was about 50 feet deep... tropical blue, reefs, lots of tropical fishes, dappled, shimmering light. I swam with the actor who played my son. We held hands as we swam, with the camera following us from above.

We wore black wetsuits but no air tanks - and that wasn’t a problem. I think we could breathe water. The wetsuits had two bright yellow stripes from each shoulder to the waist. The scene was tender and bittersweet for some reason. That’s the feeling that stuck with me when I woke up.

In the waking world, I don’t watch much TV these days. I’m not a professional actor, I don’t have a son, and I’ve never been to Hawaii. I bear no resemblance to the above referenced actor and I don’t think I can breathe water, although I haven’t tried lately. I’ve been listening to an album as part of a work project. It has lots of tropical ocean, water and nautical references in the art and music. A line from one song I particularly like says, “you’ll drown in the love you were drinking.”