Dreams from the end of May, 2022
My dream from Thursday, 2022–05–26: Post-apocalyptic bubbas.
There’s a pitted dirt driveway late at night with old hippie-built but well-built houses set back through thick trees. This is a post-apocalypse community birthday party night for a local hero. It’s late and everyone has gone home somewhere else (no-one’s here; people don’t live here anymore).
That’s not true. Little families have defied the taboo and moved into some of the houses; one family’s little girl is in danger of the evil mastermind of the whole apocalypse in the first place coming back around to use her life energy to restore his fortune and undead vitality, so I have to warn them and get everyone out of here.
I’m too late. He’s already got them, the house is empty, but there’s still some scrap lumber and bamboo poles in the shed that he will come back for, because he needs it all for his plan, for the ritual. I pick it all up in my arms and head back down the driveway to where I remember there’s a portable sawmill on a trailer I can use to cut everything into short bits that are useless to the monster.
Again I’m too late. Here come his car lights. I jump into the air, carrying the lumber, fly up above the trees, curve out over the water and turn left to hug rock cliffs of an ocean or giant lake. I worry that /worrying/ about how far I can fly with all this weight will jinx my flying power, but I force myself to stay in the air and even climb a little.
Later in gray daylight I get up from sleeping in an abandoned empty one-floor shopping center building. I’ve hidden the lumber and bamboo. The evil mastermind has got the police and army everywhere on the lookout for me, as if /I’m/ the bad guy who got all those people killed and wrecked civilization. So I move through empty shops, evade pursuit of cheerfully thuggish drawling Southern bubba cops. I have to decide whether to go outside and get away or climb up into the ceiling and hide. The decision stretches out until it’s sad and funny. I mean, if they catch me they won’t listen; I’ll have to kill them with magic power, and that will work to the benefit of the evil guy.
My dreams from Monday, 2022–05–30: Wheelchair telekinesis. Earthquake. Mobile whaler family. Broken glass. Slide.
First dream. I’m in a meeting, having trouble reading aloud a page-long paragraph of a play. I’m supposed to know this in just two weeks. I say what it says, but I stumble and go back and it’s always different. I should just get out of this, say something’s come up and I can’t do it after all. How can I memorize it if I can’t even read one page…
I go to a math classroom where the chairs are arranged around four tables pushed together in the middle. (This might be part of the play.) Time passes. I get up to leave and blotchy xeroxed play-script papers fall off my math book, blow across the table in a sharp loud wind and stick rattling against the window screen. I grab them and hurry out. Superimposed on all this is a scene of a science experiment on a lab bench with flammable pure alcohol spilled out. I can’t smell it. Maybe it’s just water.
Now I’m in a cavernous modern 1970s school library, sitting in a normal manual wheelchair. I can use telekinesis to roll the wheelchair forward and back, and turn left and right… In a conference room I’m in a normal chair, discussing the play with someone I don’t see because I don’t look that way, but I suggest teaching the wheelchair kid (?) to do my mind-power trick. I think, why not develop his telekinesis to make his whole body actually walk? An actor comes in to audition — he’s the wheelchair kid, but he walks in. /Am I doing that?/ I say, “I can teach you to do this for yourself.”
Next dream. Juanita and I are in bed, our arms and legs tangled together, in the teevee studio room of the pink house in Caspar where we lived in the late 1980s. Workers with machines are digging tunnels far underneath for a city project. The house is already unstable from my digging /just/ underneath (in the back-story of the dream) . An earthquake starts. Juanita and I calmly talk about the situation, as though we’re not in any danger of the house collapsing, which it would do soon if this were real, which it can’t be because this house was torn down in the early 1990s.
Next dream. I see like a drone shot in a teevee show about a family in Alaska. They have a big pickup truck with a massive cabover camper shell — this is twice as high and wide as a tractor-trailer, and it’s towing a giant boat trailer that has a camper shell on top of it, and on top of /that/, three brothers around ten years old are standing, picking at a dead whale with long pikes, cutting it up as their dad drives careening around cliff curves next to the ocean. That’s legal in Alaska. What will happen if he ever has to push the brakes or swerve to miss another vehicle? There are no rails on the whale-trailer camper. The boys just keep picking away at the whale. That’s their job in the family. This is normal to them.
Next dream. A man like Colonel Klink in /Hogan’s Heroes/ has a tiny eight-inch-tall girl standing on his open hand. She looks like my friend Julie Pacheco from high school — the striped sweater and red knitted skirt. It’s implied that the man’s colleagues in this science project will make fun of him, as if he’s been pulling her doll-clothes off for fun. (He didn’t. He’s helping her put them on.) They all humiliate him regularly and he’s about to snap.
At a Nazi cocktail party in a New York skyscraper bar, the Colonel Klink-like man is shaking, silently furious. The camera view I have moves from close to his angry sweaty face to looking up at him from the floor, and the camera is shaking too. He goes to a smug Agent Smith-like Nazi at the stand-up bar. They exchange words that enrage Klink further. He accepts a drink from the other man — the man expects him to drink some, take it badly and cough. But Klink doesn’t drink it; he fills his mouth with it, spits the whole thing in the other man’s face and follows it by /smashing the glass in the man’s face/. Just then the Nazi general over all of the project comes in from the elevator and begins shmoozing around through the crowd in this general direction. What will he do when he finds out the scientists have been fighting? I’m on Klink’s side in whatever happens.
My dream from a nap Monday night:
I’m hands-free talking on the phone with someone (I don’t know who it is) while driving a cross between my Prius and some kind of 1950s European sports car faster and faster on a winding hard dirt road cut into a steep hillside. I have ever less control over the car but speed up rather than slow down, because of a feeling that this has already happened, that this is the second time through, and so I’m safe because I didn’t/don’t crash. But I come around a curve to the left and straighten out sloppily, slide so my back left wheel leaves the road on the downhill side. I step on the gas and expect to get fully back on the road but it doesn’t work; the car tips, and I slide and fall sideways, mostly backward, down a steep gully, oddly calm about this.
My dreams from Tuesday, 2022–05–31: Fire on the mountain. Sheet.
First dream. There’s been a a fire over an entire mountain range, and in the dream my mother (40 or 45 years old here) and I (my real age, 63) have a whole mountainside, not to own but to be responsible for. There are house-size rock-wall cribs set around for gathered brush and firewood, where there’s a ten-foot high hollow space underneath and the brush and firewood are up in the air, compacted.
The big fire is out, but smoke is coming from the nearby wood crib. I investigate. If there’s a fire it’s deep inside. What if it bursts out and starts the mountain on fire again?
Another crib is a problem. This one is up near a peak at the corner of the property. I climb around inside, under it, hanging by my fingers. Again I can’t get to where the fire is. There’s no water anywhere, anyway; what would I do if I found the fire?
Some goofy (retarded or stoned) twenty-year-old boys come in and poke around under where I’m hanging from the firewood. They’re also worried about fire. I reassure them that the fire authorities have airplanes with infrared sensors that can see a hot spot and they’ll respond.
There are houses now, on dirt driveways, and a road goes across the top of the mountain, left to right. This feels like Escondido when I was little, the way the houses look.
My mother and I are in the parking lot of a failed shopping center in like Escondido. Her friend, a strange man with a boxy 1960s car, has offered to drive us home (on that road I saw before), but there’s a catch that I don’t grasp. I wander around waiting while they negotiate.
Now I’m alone, over the top of the mountain, which is a rough dirt plain, now. No houses anywhere, no firewood-crib rock structures, remote, bleak. I’m over the line of the /rich people’s/ property, where they might shoot you from so far away you can’t even see them. I’m barefoot. I hurry back toward the line. It’s become rocky and steep. I climb scary places, hooking my fingernails on the rock… and I get back to my side.
But it’s not my side anymore. Here’s like a frisbee-golf-game basket of pipes and chains but also some kind of black-painted plywood in axe shapes. Two hard-eyed rich boys are playing the game, throwing black axes. They don’t see me, I’m so far socially beneath them. I walk past one of their game baskets where an axe shape slips and falls to one side. I tell the nearest boy /I didn’t do that; it happened by itself./
Now they see me and they hate me. The nearest boy walks menacing at me. I move away but he’s closer and closer with no effort. Nearly on top of me he glares, raises his axe, pissed off at how poor I am and how I touched his stupid game thing, which I didn’t, and…
I have a moment of wondering if I can fly, deciding it would do no good because they’ll just call all their rich friends everywhere to shoot at me no matter where I go, and watching the axe come across and down. /Why are rich people always like this? Why does this always happen?/
Next dream. I’m shut in a suite of apartment or motel rooms with a family of thin rich women of all ages. There are no windows; it feels claustrophobic, underground. The old woman of the family is in a room on the left of the hallway. I want to take a shower. I leave my room, look for the bathroom, notice I have no clothes so I have to go back for them, but my room isn’t there anymore. The twin teenage girls are somewhere else, so I go into their room and pull a sheet out of a bed to wrap around me.
Heading back up the hallway to the bathroom I struggle to recall a vague memory of something that happened in the dream in between this one and the fire-on-the-mountain one.
(I woke up from one of the different alarms and notices and little songs Juanita’s phone is always playing when she’s awake and home and working on her project. This one is the piercing-even-when-set-low flanged bell sound.)
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