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.”
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.
Before the vivid memory kicked in, I was shifting through random worlds, going in and out of unfamiliar places. I end up at this house in the country, and walk outside. I see E. leaning on a gravestone, and walk over to see what you are up to. The gravestone falls over, revealing a tunnel that goes under the green grass and into the ground. We decide to crawl into the tunnel, and wind our way to a larger area that is bathed in light. On the left of us is a white wall with opaque windows, allowing the light to come into the tunnel. Past that wall, we find a door, and open it.
We walk into the large room, which looks like an indoor greenhouse, complete with skylights and well maintained gardens. We walk through the garden towards another door and open it. It leads us into an exquisite apartment with commanding views of a Germanic downtown (more like Salzburg than Wien). The apartment is immaculate, with sparse, modern decor. We snoop around and end up laying on a large couch or bed. At this part of the dream, subliminal erotic images flash, taking me away from the current “moment” in the apartment.
Back on the couch, I am ready to go back to the other world. The place is empty, and nice, so E. decides to stay. I exit the way we came in, and once I go past the white-lit walls in the tunnel, I look over my shoulder. Another portal has opened just under the window, and a well-dressed middle-aged woman appears. She doesn’t notice me and, after straightening her suit, heads into the garden room. “I hope E. won’t get into too much trouble,” I say. Crawling back out of the grave in the other world, I realize that that apartment belonged to the dead man who was under the felled gravestone.
The hitch on the trailer has broken, leaving Jon and I broken down on a Northern California winter’s evening. Not much around by way of lodging so we go to one of the few buildings for a night’s stay. Jon immediately goes into a deep, exhausted sleep, while I start feeling uneasy about the house. The house seems to want me dead, trying a few times to end my life. Getting through these attempts, one of the house’s spirits apparates. He’s angry and reminds me I belonged to them since L. tried to kill me there in the past. I refuse to be killed, and with Jon as no help, I leave the building looking for a solution.
I walk to a neighboring property that holds spiritual retreat. They’re closed for the winter, so I try to find the caretaker, hoping that he’ll help me not get killed. I wake him up, and ask him to help me with the problem. He doesn’t want too be bothered, so I begin to think hard about how to escape and not freeze to death. That’ll be hard to do in the country.
Confused spirits begin to show up. They’re looking for their lost loved ones. I ask them if they died in the house I’d fled and they all say yes. I ask them to help me end the spirit’s murderous ways. As they indicate that they want to help, I visualize spirits battling spirits as the only way out of this mess. Excited to deal with this, the spirits gather aroud me. We begin to organize and rally the masses for this one-shot assault.
While going for a walk, I stop at a house to pick up some things that I had recently left there. People are in the kitchen setting food on the table for a brunch. I don’t know anyone but manage to find a small inflatable raft and a shirt that belong to me. I walk around some, trying to find a place to stash the items, and annoy the brunch’s host. Still wanting to stash the items so I can continue my walk, I go out onto the patio and then notice two more items that belong to me. I pick up my travel towel bag and a T-shirt with a screaming hand on it, and fold everything up to fit in the bag. I keep looking for a place in the bushes by the road to stash my items, aware that I’m not welcome inside the house anymore.
I have been assigned to duel and kill a gentleman, who has hired me for that reason. He has also hired a second person, a female, to make sure that he dies. In the back of a restaurant, I stand to the left of the man while the woman stands on his right. We’re both pointing rapiers at him, and he half-heartedly holds one as well. I give an advance with my blade and he blocks it with a clank of his own. Distracting him in this manner, the woman easily checks him from behind and puts her rapier’s point onto the back, top-left of his torso. “Finish it,” I demand, but she only guides the man to a booth on the other side of the restaurant. Food is frantically served to the family at the ajoining booth. A child grabs a handful of spaghetti and splats it on his plate. The man at the booth asks us where he can find a realistic wig. I tell him that he can find something in the yellow pages, or maybe go to the high-end dress shops on Montgomery St. “Those who can afford good wigs, go to the Financial District,” I say.
I’m spending tim in a house with several male children and an attractive mother. One boy doesn’t like to be away from the mother so he’ll contact her via a laptop video connection whenever she leaves the room. I ask the boys about New Orleans and the flood, and have the feeling that we’re located in Louisiana or Alabama. The mother loves the children but appears to be lonely and bored from all the work and time that’s needed in the house. I am on the floor with the woman, flirting, and she pulls the draw string out of my shorts. We begin to get physical but are interrupted by the boy on the computer screen. Plans change, so we make arrangements to leave the boys at the house and go eat something.
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