HappyFt Travels

An accident has caused a young man’s forehead to cave in. It collapsed like a paper bag when he stood up too fast in the woods and hit his head on a woman’s musical instrument case. Other than looking freakishly odd, he seemed fine after the incident. Smitten over the man, a woman showed her desire by going to the Monument, a hill that their community deems sacred, and stripping it of human-made structures. She wonders what the Blue Bottle would say about that, as she feels a strong urge to restore the Monument to a pre-human condition.

After the man’s cave-in incident, friends are strangely moved by his look, so they put a stocking cap on his head to hide the huge dent in his forehead. They all walk through the woods to attend an odd tennis match, and the man stays in the trees as his friends play below. His hat comes off, and while no one is surprised at his looks, he becomes the focus of everyone’s attention. A woman asks him if he has seen the Blue Bottle about his condition, and he says “No.”

The story pauses, and the scene changes to my driving a car in my small hometown. The roads are oddly marked (like I am in a future version of the town) so I miss a left turn. I drive on and make a dangerous u-turn, and eventually arrive to a future/alt version of my father’s business. In the shadowy rooms, I hear music, and go over to turn it off. It is a collapsible frame with speakers, wires, and buttons. The off switch doesn’t turn it off, but another janky switch does.

The man with the crushed forehead finds himself on the Memorial mound. Something drives him to strip away the human additions to the area. While he pulls a large piece of plastic out from under the duft of the trees, a woman shows up. “Have you visited the Blue Bottle yet?” she asks. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?! No.” “Well, I happen to be his house mate and we live just down the trail over there. Do you want to meet him?” “Sure,” the man answers.

While walking to the house, the man asks the woman why he is called the Blue Bottle. “Have you ever tried heroin?” she replies. “Uh, no,” he responds. “Well, it he’s called the Blue Bottle because of that.”

They approach the house, which bustles with activity. They walk through rooms of people preparing things for a feast and ritual, eventually leaving the main house through another door and into a courtyard. A man sits at a table and welcomes them with a smile. He asks the man with the caved-in forehead to sit.

While chatting, the Blue Bottle places a large round piece of leathery-looking bread on the table. He tells the man that he needs to eat the bread, so the man with the caved forehead picks it up. Parts of the loaf flak away, so the man breaks off the thin parts and pushes them into a small pile on the table. A bearded man walks up to the table, saying nothing, grabs a handful of the flakes, and eats them. He walks away, and the Blue Bottle replies “now that it looks like a buffalo, you should eat it.”

The man with the caved forehead breaks off a piece of the bread, laughs, and exclaims “now it’s shaped like a bicycle saddle!” He eats the piece, and then is shown to another outlaying building. He walks through a room that holds a long row of industrial stoves and ovens. A crowd of people work the ovens, while he walks by and exits out a screened-in door.

He exits out into a large field full of people preparing and congregating around bonfires. He looks back at the screened-in door and sees a sousaphone player exiting into the field with other brass band members. That must be the only entrance into this field the man with the caved-in forehead muses.

Whatever the loaf of bread is, the man does not feel any different. He finds himself by a fire, using his depressed cranium to make noises that mimic prehistoric animals. The crowd stops and listens to his sounds and slowly begin to grow weary of these realistic noises. Somewhere deep in their ancient homo sapien brains, a fear and flight trigger switches on. They’ve had enough of these scary sounds, which make them feel hunted.

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Just a fragment remembered: A pain hits the skin just near the lower left side of my mouth. Feels like a pimple, with the sharp pains that nerves release when one is forming. I put my left hand to the spot near my mouth and slightly pinch it. Yes, probably a pimple, but what is the deal with these course hairs? Several of them are coming out of the area and it hurts to pull on them.

I then feel a clenching in my throat, like I’m coughing up something that I didn’t swallow correctly. Suddenly, I am coughing up a foreign object, and it appears to NOT want to exit out of my mouth. As I retch, a pointed tip exits through the “pimple” in the side of my mouth. I continue to evacuate the object and a full-length, sharpened, yellow No. 2 pencil comes out of the wound! After it comes out, I feel relief and happiness. I wake from this dream (there was more before the “pimple”) slightly laughing at the image. What a great start for a Thursday.

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A prominent female journalist has died. Instead of going to the funeral, I stay outside with J. and help her bake cookies. A circus troupe pulls up and begins a show, so I get distracted with the baking and watch the performance. J. gets upset and cries. An A/V tech person checks on us and wants us to tune in to the journalist’s funeral. “It’s at 12,” he says. The circus troupe perform acrobatics on a prop that looks like a tree. I speak to a woman about to go on with the tree, but she ends up doing a great trick: standing sideways and then doing a back flip off a bench onto the ground. The troupe uses an effect that involves pepper spray, so the audience ends up taking their jackets off. I am not effected.
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Earlier, I dreamed that I was at a larger circus with a troupe performing on a suspended platform. One of the performers wanted to take me home with her. I also guessed their finale correctly, chalking it up to my carny experience.
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I also dreamed a fragment of an old photo of me walking in a funeral. I have bushy sideburns and a big hoop ring in my right earlobe. I am part of an important funeral procession.

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Jan. 22, ‘10 Dream

I sit in an empty parking lot in Canada, waiting to get gassed by riot police. Across from me, a sign has been painted to commemorate a 1992 uprising. Strange blue smoke whips in on me well before the police cars show up. I hold my ground in the lot, wondering where the other protesters are. A second person finally comes in to the lot. He is local so wise in the tactics of the local police. He tells me that the march is down the street, getting blasted by riot cops. We continue to dodge the nerve gas, hiding behind and inside a parked car several times. A jet-propelled gust of wind hits us hard as flames streak down the street to the right of where we’re being blown over. The wind pushes us apart towards the back of the parking lot.

As I grab on to a solid piece of concrete at the edge of the lot, dozens of people come into view while they’re running down the street. The police corral them and force them into the lower section of the parking lot. I try to conceal myself in the rafters above them, but they see me and make me come down to be ticketed with the rest of the protesters.

After being released, my new friend and I walk by a huge piece of machinery. I watch as he knocks a large piece over, and then notice unmarked secret service guards on a nearby roof. Two women see our plight and help us escape in to a nearby building. We come out to a balcony and then hope over to another building’s balcony. The women living there are mixed in the uprising’s support, but a few of them know the local guy. We eat and take a break from the police violence. One woman tells me to go to Union Station after I leave. “That train stop has beautiful waterfalls at its entrance.”

I put my loose items in a plastic bag and leave. I do not get noticed or caught by the police. I also do not find Union Station and the waterfalls.

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Jan. 14, ‘10 Dream

I am visiting a desert-covered planet and am luckily in the privileged class. My class live in exotic, high-rise buildings constructed from red-colored tubes and glass. Floating above the living center, more red-cubed structures house water tanks filled with fish. These two staples sustain the privileged class. Outside theses structures, the people who get by in the harsh climate live in a city that looks like modern-day Cairo.

I spend an evening in the structure with several attractive women who only want to marry the super rich of our class. We go to a club, and bored, I meet a man who seems as disgusted as I am with the follies of our class. We become friends and even practice an intricate, intimate survival drill for the imminent nuclear attack.

In this drill, one puts an object in side one’s throat, which causes gills to form on one’s neck. Once the gills are formed, one can go into a water tank and breath in the water. Somehow this is the developed survival method for a nuclear attack.

Later, I decide to leave the controlled environment of the structure and “slum it” in the dirty streets of the sprawling city. On one visit outside, I try to find a cafe to have some tea. On a second visit outside, I ride an odd-shaped bike with my friend, CC and LRE. LRE needs to sew something, so we stop at a tailoring stand in the market. LRE walks behind the counter and uses the sewing machine for her task. Back on our bikes, we go down a steep hill and find a pub for a drink. I have been to this pub before.

The nuclear attack is finally coming and no one except myself and my friend seem to care. The first mushroom cloud flashes in the distance. I see it reflected in the panes of the floating aquarium structure. As my friend and I prepare for our own mushroom cloud, we place our gill-making device tools out. He tells me to get my tank ready, but I tell him that I want to share a tank with him. “Why?” he asks. “Because I love you,” I say. “I have always loved you.”

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Jan. 12, ‘10 Dream….

USA as we know it doesn’t exist. Proof comes when a person tries to pay for something with USA dollar bills. Being rare, the man behind the counter takes them with amazement and interest. The person who paid with the obsolete money is part of a group of creative people who have just come back into civilization to get by on the fringes. This group lived in the woods for years and left their seclusion by piloting white gliders out of the hills and into the farmland outside the city.

While visiting their new, urban compound (not sure if I am undercover for the government or not), I walk past three racks of printed t-shirts. All the prints are in red ink, with political images and messages. Inside, each of the artists have sections of the shack (it is made from sheets of metal) to display their items for sale. One member has intricate sculptures made out of paper or paper-mache.

Soon after my visit, the compound is peacefully raided (no stormtrooper/SWAT tactics) and all the underground artists are taken into custody. The money exchange was their tragic mistake!

………. Another Dream Fragment from that Morning …….

A theme park exists in the side of a tree-covered hill or mountain. Fantastical rooms exist in carved out parts of the hill. Houses can be rented, shopping malls stretch out into the earth. Even the bathrooms are elegant and high class. Wandering the maze-like halls and stairwells, I discover a huge, indoor pool.

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