Dreams July 13, 14 and 17, 2022
My dreams from Wednesday, 2022–07–13: Fleeing across the worlds. Sixties suburb house labyrinth.
First dream. I escape from one world to another inside a dim cave. There’s a back-story of nanomachines that give you marginal superpowers of calculation and persuasion and some light telekinesis. This product comes from a company outside of time, or between the worlds, like The Company in Cage Baker’s books. A cave-boy character is here with me, and there are others farther back in the dark who might want to get away from the company. I assume the boy wants to get away, and I say, “Anybody else want to come with us?”
Out of the cave is a parking lot at night, like the dream-familiar seamless gray-green linoleum soundstage floor of an /Outer Limits/ set, but outdoors and a real parking lot. The cave-boy is the only one who got away with me, but because of his being infected with the tiny machines he’s controlled by the company people by remote from the previous world. He has an animal bone like a fat baseball bat that he throws at me, that swings around in the air like a boomerang to almost hit me coming the other way too. He’s ready to throw it again, so I shoot him in the chest from twenty feet away with a gun that doesn’t make any noise but just a bright burst of light. He’s on his back on the linoleum. Dead? I don’t know, but I tell the two startled white-collar workers by their car that he’ll be fine, so I can leave.
Later, another night, in yet another world, I’m in front of a strange house. I need to sneak across the road into the forest to get something. Thick low brush grows through the house lawn leaving a path diagonally across it to the right, where I guess kids go to wait for the school bus. I step through this in my socks. Car lights come up the road, then the car, and I should hide. Too late. Just continue across like I belong here. Wave boredly as the car goes by.
Another day, daytime, and I’m still fleeing company pursuit. I’m out on a dirt and rock road in hills of different sizes of rocks and yellow-green cactus shrubs, like the cover of a Carlos Castaneda book. A car or truck is coming. Are they company people? I discover that I’m made all of big droopy plastic banana skins. I crouch down in the rocks and shrubs and hold still to try to be invisible. This part drags out a long time.
Continuing to flee across the worlds, I’m in a building with tiled linoleum, like my grandparents’ restaurant when I was little, but also like an entire community in a single building like some places in Alaska or the north of Russia.
As I go past one big mostly empty banquet room, a small boy in there is entertaining an odd teenage boy who has a movie-star face (perfect symmetry, square jaw, etc. The movie-star boy sees me, smiles confidently, turns to the other boy and nods as though meaning /I told you so/. There’s something wrong with him but I can’t tell what. They continue with their game or chore or whatever they’re doing, at a folding banquet table, and the bigger boy makes the same smile-and-turn-and-nod, the other way from before, this time not pointed at me or the boy or anyone. I wait and watch some more. He does it again. Is he stuck doing that one trope? Or is he mentally mostly absent and that’s something he’s somehow learned to do to pretend to be a person? Or is he okay and just practicing the move for some reason.
Next dream. I’m in a labyrinth of 1960s-like suburban house rooms, like rooms in so many houses of people I knew in the 1960s, where there were between three and eight kids in every family, but there’s nobody here but my mother; she looks forty years old, and she’s like, /Well? Make yourself useful./ Apparently my job is to carry big but light chunks and rounds of firewood out of this bedroom to someplace they belong. Would that be out in back of the house? I pick up three chunks of firewood and go in a long knight’s-move curve gradually counter-clockwise through room after cluttered room. There doesn’t seem to be any back of the house, it’s nothing but rooms… But here’s a den-like place with a neat stack of firewood started on an already ruined place in the rug, so I’ll just put it all here.
I make more trips through the house with more wood. I come to where my college friend Dan is sleeping on a wooden bench-cabinet by windows (that don’t show the outside but look into even more rooms. When I go past, Dan is startled awake. He jumps up and hurries away to pretend to have been doing whatever /his/ chore is.
I woke up with Jerry Reed yell-singing /When You’re Hot You’re Hot/ in my head.
My dreams from Thursday, 2022–07–14: Radio biz. Recurring hide scene. Doctor deejay and her cowboy clone.
First dream. In the dream I work at a radio station in the house where in real life a man named Colonel Jumper lived — he insisted everyone call him /Jump/, and I used to push-mow his vast lawns all day every couple of weeks in summer between school years and he’d give me five dollars when I left and that was it, less than a dollar an hour, and I was miserable from allergies the whole time, and he would sit there, air-conditioned, in his undershorts, inside the sliding glass door, with his feet up, drinking and watching television the whole time. Well, he was sixty or seventy then so he’s long dead now. I win. Swimming pool. Did I mention, he had a swimming pool that nobody ever got in. And if I let grass or leaves blow into it, which you couldn’t help but do, I had to clean that too. In contrast, Mary Lou Pavlick, another person whose grass I cut, had a much smaller lawn, a bunch of it was in the shade, she didn’t care where the cut grass and shredded leaves went, she put out lemonade and ice for me and paid me ten or twenty dollars… I’ve kind of got off the subject here, sorry.
So in the dream I’ve been sleeping in the radio station in Colonel Jumper’s house. I’m usually on at night, well prepared to read stories I’ve gathered. Now I’ll be filling in for someone at 9:30am and it’s already 9:20 and I have nothing ready. A thin-faced blonde deejay woman and her girlfriend are already here, on the air, and they expect to also start a show at 9:30. (It’s like KMFB and KPMO used to be — two radio stations in the same house.) I borrow a tiny stingray bike and pedal fast up the yards (not on the road) to go to the house where I lived in most of high school, to get records, to just play music, which I think of as lazy cheating and a waste of airtime, but what year is this? It occurs to me, as I jump the bike over low fences and crash through bushes and wish I could fly, that if I’m twelve, Frank Zappa is alive, available by phone. I can /interview Frank Zappa/, and even if that’s not possible I can put the whole process of trying to get ahold of him on the air in real time and play my Frank Zappa records.
Next dream. Night-time. I’m at the compound of little buildings where I work. I, and the blonde deejay woman and her friend from the previous dream, a little older here, in their forties, have to hide from a car coming this way on the driveway past the cabin. As well as being pursued, the blond deejay is also pursuing an agent who’s been capturing and torturing supernatural creatures. (Where we are, and the situation, is a recurring one; we’ve been through this already and will have to go through it all again until we get it right.) I hurry the others behind the factory, but our feet will still be moving when the car lights shine this way under the building. The pursuers will see that. I’m like, /Stop. Stop moving./
Next dream. The blonde deejay is young again and she’s a doctor. Her office is a strange house. She’s just operated on a cowboy man version of herself — opened up and repaired and repaired his leg and the side of his foot, and /the cuts have already healed completely./ She’s nervous about that or something else and takes out a cigaret to calm down.
She and the cowboy have a history of breaking up and getting back together as a couple. Invisible others here anticipate that they’ll either fight or make up right now… Nothing? …Okay, I take over for the cowboy and tell the doctor that this time I’ll stick around, but only for every day she doesn’t light that cigaret. When she lights the cigaret, that will be my cue to skedaddle. I give him back to himself to take it from there.
The invisible others with me confer and the general concensus is, next time I take over for the cowboy I should suggest they get married, just to see how she reacts. She looks like Lori Petty, the actress who played /Tank Girl/.
My dreams from Sunday, 2022–07–17: Revolutionary ammunition. Novelty acts. The future of business.
First dream. There’s a film-noir detective/secret-police-related revolution story happening where space aliens that look human are participating in the conflict just to fit in, but they don’t have full knowledge of how these stories go, nor do they understand the line between what’s just part of the story with us and what’s important, so you can easily tell who they are. I and other humans move around in a building that’s like office sets and off-season ocean-resort sets in a line of connected soundstages but also feels a lot like my grandparents’ restaurant building from when I was little.
The man and woman with me panic when we engage with the enemy from the side; they run ahead. I shoot a gun that goes back and forth between being a one-shot-at-a-time pistol and a slightly longer pistol that fires staccato bursts of five to eight shots and never seems to go empty. Around the corner, in a bigger, more open space, some aliens dressed in stiff gray-and-black suits edge or rather seep in at high points on a wall, above doorways, and sneak along a ledge above open closets that are clever-perspective bas reliefs of other rooms (a bar, a furniture store). My view magnifies an alien to sight my gun, now almost a rifle, and I fire single shots directly at his ear-hole — the aliens are all men. It doesn’t do any damage, but while I’m shooting (BANG! …BANG! …BANG!) he’s in a startled state and can’t really act.
He struggles to turn to me and swing his gun around, and I fire several bursts of shots at the right eye of his horn-rim glasses — again, no damage, but he’s stuck there while I’m shooting back over my shoulder as I escape by running between restaurant booths like carnival tilt-a-whirl cars. I run through a room of alien occupation and earthquake/mind-control/destruction-plot from a dream many years ago, but it’s turned the other way and all on one level. Run between stacks of wooden crates of soda pop and liquor and other hoarded post-apocalyptic restaurant supplies, and out to the green-grass Tibetan mountainside stone walled horse stables/hotel/trackless-train terminal that I now understand is where the movie studio has been all along while I was inside and somehow forgot until now.
Citizen revolution soldiers and opportunistic criminals sit around resting from the fighting or move among the dirt-or-hay-or-horseshit-floor stone rooms and the train platform area, scheming or getting last-minute Xmas presents from fair booths so their girfriends or boyfriends won’t be mad. (It’s also partly a Christmas story.)
I find a cache of ammunition for my gun, now entirely a big rifle. It surprises me that the ammo in the sack is not regular cartridges but aspirin-size metal tea-candles with brown-red hard clay stuff in them where the wax and wick would go. I say, “Is this right?” A professional soldier guy assures me it is. I guess, okay, that explains how you get so many shots without reloading, but now I have to sit here and put each shot in, one at a time, all pointed the right direction, and the bad Harry-Lyme-like human-traitor criminals are around to covet the valuable bag of ammo, and I’m worried that if I shoot them I’ll get in trouble for shooting a civilian… /Just keep alert and keep loading till it’s full./ I’ll be more careful and not shoot so much next time. I didn’t know this would take so long. Also the ammunition being these toy little pill things explains why shooting the enemy over and over in the head, and in the face, doesn’t hurt them. Maybe there’s better stuff I could be using. The pro soldier says, “No, that’s it. That’s all there is.”
I have a vague memory of, somewhere in here, shooting and shooting at one of the contemptible human Harry Lyme guys and it killed him, so I had to hide his body under a blanket, but that might be just imagining it to be ready in case I had to.
Next dream. Sunny day in a modern wide-open utopian city of parks and far-apart tall buildings. People are strolling around, sitting on the grass, going about their business. I’m sitting on a bench under the overhang of a building, and I find that I can pretend to play music by tapping at and squeezing and keyboarding on my knees and the music comes out of the sky. People gather, impressed by this technology and my (fake) skill. The volume drops. Doug Warner, who ran Mendocino Theater Company for a few years about twenty years ago, is sitting next to me reading a newspaper; I ask him to turn the volume up, please, because my hands are busy. /Can you just — you know — / He slaps forward, down my left thigh and that does it, but only for a moment. People are getting bored with this novelty anyway. I have to do something else new. I stand, stiffen, fall forward, rocket away across the park, curve upward into the sky, try to go back to that particular crowd but somehow can’t.
Another park, other people, more families, a rural environment. I slow down enough to turn more shaply to wow /this/ crowd by spinning figure-eights over and around them, crashing through tree branches every once in awhile and trying to act like that was on purpose, enjoying showing off until I begin to realize that I might not be flying around at all but might be just part of this crowd and crazy — hallucinating.
No, no, I’m really flying. They’re just not interested anymore. I’m like a firework they’ve seen one of already and they want another kind now. That’s okay. That’s how people are.
Next dream. Continuing from the previous dream, with the knowledge of flying power, I’m driving a regular boxy 1960s convertible car, like a ’65 or ’66 Fairlaine or Galaxie, top down, that’s somehow so narrow that, to have my hands at 10 and 2 on the wheel, my elbows are on the doorsills, and there’s no windshield.
I’m driving next to a wide freeway that goes clockwise around a city like Sacramento with a core of modern very tall buildings then low buildings and flat wet-but-gray land all around. To get a job or thwart a crime or deal with a bad story about me I have an appointment in one of those buildings. I’ll never be able to drive there in time, so I put my arms down around the sides of the car, grab the bottom edges and fly the car up into the air to just go straight there.
The building I end up in, minus the car, is vast inside, full of all different kinds and shapes of shops and galleries and restaurants and fountains and curved walkways and escalators. I meet scientist Jane Goodall and say softly, politely, “Oh, my God, you’re Jane Goodall.” She agrees to an interview. I take her hand, use some flying power to lift her feet off the ground, to show her that it’s safe, and ask her if she’d like to go flying. She says she has to be somewhere in half an hour, but sure, why not?
We’re flying prone, angled slightly upward; she’s under me and a little to the right, and my right arm is around her middle with my hand on her belly to put the flying power in so I don’t have to hold her up at all. We zoom around through all these modern commercial spaces, from just over customer’s heads to up near the high ceilings, turning this way and that way at random, until I realize I haven’t been memorizing the places we went. I say, “I’m lost. Do you remember which way we came?” She doesn’t, but it’s not a big deal. Where she had to be isn’t all that important anymore.
And now Jane Goodall is gone and I’m sitting at a table in the middle of a long, dark-polished-wood restaurant/bar (in the same giant building), across from a strange curly-dark-haired Polish-looking woman I’m here to get a story from, to wreck the criminal business she was the bookkeeper of. It’s the middle of the afternoon; we’re the only customers. We talk for awhile about, I dunno, teevee and movies. Is she hungry? /Yes./ Without looking up or away I call a waiter over. The bookkeeper wants clam chowder and toast. I want that and whatever soda pop they have.
I’m like, /Well. Let’s do the thing./ I press record-and-play on the cassette recorder I had in 1984. She puts her briefcase on a chair, unsnaps it, takes out some Manila folders and opens her mouth to start righteously ruining her former employers. I’m a combination of worried that this is where in the story someone will shoot her and giddy that so far things are going so well. And worried that we’ll finish our business here and I’ll go out and they’ll shoot /me/, and confident that I’ll be fine because I’m the main character. And looking forward to the chowder and toast coming. /Chowder and toast. Thick-cut toasted hard sourdough bread./
I woke up with a medium-bad cramp in my right shin and the middle of a languid version of /A Night In Tunisia/ playing in my head.
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