Dreams last week of October 2022

My dreams from Sunday, 2022–10–23: Words come back to bite you. Homeless protocol.

First dream. I’m on a road in a flat place. A dull but strike-like-a-snake, thuggish police officer is asking me questions because of a dream-back-story years-old time at a school like the Fort Bragg (CA) middle school when I was there to videorecord [a theater play? an Amway pitch?] and I said /two offhand words/ to a skinny little blonde teacher (who I remember) that she interpreted as inappropriate and reported. What two words? That’s what the cop wants to know. I don’t remember what I said. Maybe it /was/ inappropriate, but he’s looking for an excuse to beat me up.

We walk down a side road to my car. I’m as polite and subservient as I can force myself to be. I’m about to get in my car. If he’s going to attack me, this is where he’ll do it… He lets me get in the car. Now where am I going? Just away from here and hope he doesn’t follow me and pull me over again. What’s the point of having police who are like that? Why are they allowed?

Next dream. There’s an L-shaped shopping center like Roseville Square, that I remember from when I was 14, but this is not that. A buffet-style restaurant — Swedish or Chinese or something like that — at the inside corner. Juanita and I go in directly through the kitchen area to shortcut a line to the booths in the back of the place. A woman follows us and when we sit down she pulls my shirt up in back and scrubs my back with a scrub-mop on a stick, because she thinks I’m a homeless person and there’s like a delousing protocol. I say to Juanita, “Do I look that homeless?” Juanita laughs, and the woman answers me in an insulting tone: “You look like the kind of person who /knows what you are./” Juanita nods, agreeing with this.

I’m wearing zoris. That’s probably it. Homeless people wear zoris to a restaurant.

Next dream. I’m in my orange kayak, sitting behind someone I don’t know, and we’re paddling out onto a calm ocean of tiny three-inch waves. Other people are swimming around out here, very far from shore, but there’s a floating swim platform, so. We turn around to go back and I have to be careful not to hit anyone with my paddle.

Next dream. My employer’s rental house that I helped renovate is back in the state it was just after I’d ripped out all the carpet. There are foot-square samples of gray carpet by the fireplace, No — it’s not gray; it’s saturated with ashes. I use the compressor and a sportsball-inflator nozzle to go back and forth across each square and blow it clean and white. I clean all the squares.

Ants boil out of them. I need the real vacuum cleaner.

I woke up with The Temptations warming up in my head, getting ready to sing something.

My dreams from Monday, 2022–10–24: Copies. Takeover From Within. A benign future Monkey’s Paw situation.

First dream. The back-story is, a persecuted people already living in space either steal a giant ship or they save up and build one to get away to another star system, and something went wrong, or the malicious power persecuting them in the first place caused something to go wrong, or a third party of crooks or demon aliens saw an opportunity and ruined them. Anyway, the survivors are on a benign sort of desert planet, like the planet where Coyote and Roadrunner live, but with more realistic sand and rocks.

A small group of children move around in either a parked spaceship or an office building. They’re leaving the place now, but one little boy hid when they went into a dark suite of rooms and they left him behind. The realize it, go back… I’m in the action with them now. I discover two sleazy grownup crooks just sleeping on their sleeping bags. I’m replaced by one of the others, who freaks out about the crooks and leads the others to flee, deliberately leaving the small boy behind this time. /Mom’s gonna be mad./

Time has passed. More refugees have come to the planet, and they’re working to reconstruct their civilization from wrecked ships and parts of things. Two men keep a shop that buys and sells things and also puts especially precious things to work for their cause. A boy comes in with a 1970s-era-like electronics rack for maybe a separate oscilloscope tube (light-blue and gray knobs and one bigger flat many-turn knob). The tech men recognize that this boy will get great use out of it; they won’t buy it; its meant for him. A man says to the boy, “This’ll tell you everything you want to know.” He twiddles the dials and sliders and a radio voice comes out of the air, telling information about an earthquake, and how earthquakes work.

More time has passed. People stand in a loose line out on the sand while others in a high, shallow cave use a machine whose heart is the boy’s control device. They use data from the device to reconstruct an Italian-looking man who was lost in the main ship disaster. But he wasn’t lost — he’s in the line! He runs forward, happy about the mistake, saying, “That’s me!” because now there’s a copy of him and that’s the perfect present.

The boy’s in the shop again, this time to bring the shop men some blueprints he recovered of a spaceship with flowing, feminine-curved lines. Again, the men see that what the boy brought them is really meant for him.

Now I’m in the action, though insubstantial, simultaneously near (outside the window) and inside the control room in the top-front of the ship, which is on its side on the sand (making the left-hand wall the floor). They’ve used recorded data to reconstruct this /second or third/ lost ship. But a supervillain with the aspect of evil David Tennant from /Jessica Jones/ (though with some other power than his) has broken the security so he’s, like me, outside the front wall of the bridge and also already inside. The copy of the very competent ship’s captain seems overconfident that this isn’t a threat — because the evil David Tennant person is now right up against him, as if slow-dancing, and about to take him over and steal the whole thing.

But the captain wasn’t overconfident. I take over for him and bash and /bash/ at David Tennant’s head as he gets bigger and more doglike, and his snout extends into a grayish version of the Coyote character from the webcomic Gunnerkrigg Court. David Tennant realizes that he has overextended himself and has lost. He slumps over, defeated, but as I put the captain back inside himself I gesture to not stop bashing, because David Tennant does this — he fakes being beaten. You have to really drive it home.

Next dream. The whole planet has pretty much been reconstructed. I’m in a place like the North San Francisco Bay but it’s industrial like the Oakland port. There are rail lines through a muddy place with a lot of car traffic on a road just out of sight to my right. It’s night-time. I’m on foot.

I come to a guard station made of shrubs for two people, or maybe robots, standing their watch against creatures like David Tennant, which are natives of the planet and so they can never quite be made safe. The robot cops come out from behind their shrub and stop me to check me for contraband or evil powers. One is young and one is old.

The young subservient one is using a handheld device to, uh, run my numbers, I guess, and I have a mechanical finger-like mechanism (perhaps a cigaret lighter or a nutcracker) that I think came from the /old/ cop/guard robot who was just here, who I’ve somehow managed to disassemble and /become and impersonate/ because /I’m/ a leftover part of the evil David Tennant character, who after all /wasn’t/ sufficiently bashed to death.

I hand the finger part to the underling robot cop. This takes /him/ over so he practically salutes; he commandeers a whole tram-train engine car for me, and I race in it toward the city to do whatever further evil I’m going to do.

Next dream. I come to myself in an apartment bedroom with a glass wall that looks out over a future city of tall buildings and lots of light at night. There’s a bunch of clothes here that seem familiar though none of them are really mine. I find jeans and a sweater that look like they’ll fit and put them on. I have to struggle with the sweater; it turns out that there was another sweater bunched up inside it. That solved, it still feels weird; it won’t drape properly; I keep pulling it and straightening it but one shoulder or the other is either too far down or up or forward or back.

I go out into the hallway, go left. Here’s a hub of rooms, in the leftward one of which is a crowd of pleasant multi-ethnic people who I don’t know, but they all call out, “There he is!” I realize I’m a reconstructed person where the process didn’t work right. There’s nothing wrong with me, but I don’t know who I’m supposed to be here. I say, “I’m sure I’m interrupting your dinner. Can you show me a way to get data about who I am and what’s happened to me?”

They don’t share my urgency. They’re just happy to see me. They’re like, /Get something to eat./ I say, “No. A data port or library or however you do it here?” The sweater is really wrong. I tug at it again.

(I woke up slowly, gradually thinking more and more of the problems with my car and Juanita’s cars, and being anxious about not having finished the sound effect job for the theater yet, and how late it must be already in the day and having to do something at work that I really hate doing.)

The song playing in my head for this was the Frank Sinatra version of /They Can’t Take That Away From Me./

My dreams from Wednesday, 2022–10–26: U.N. events. Bedroom water. A new sport.

First dream. Refugee Midwestern white people are traveling across Mongolian grasslands in a tourist bus. They stop at a tiny grocery store that’s like the one where Ben meets the Lobster Boy in the teevee show /Carnivale/.

There’s a United Nations event out in the low hills of grass and rocks, with a semicircular stage area (just the area, no walls) and, behind it, a cardboard kitchen-cabinet/counter row. When performers make music by tapping on the cardboard, three horsemen in the distance come closer, like cows moving toward the dirndle girl playing a trombone in the famous video. They’re Mongolian cowboys.

Later, in the evening, in the Gypsy camp of blankets hung on ropes across tent-poles, there’s a contest/show where every entrant/performer does a different variation of his own invention on a tootsie-pop stick with a nearly hard dollop of bluish uncured rubber on it. I take my turn, blow /really hard/ on the stick (now hollow) to inflate the rubber, and I realize that my trick will be to just keep blowing and blowing until it’s four or five feet across, like the trick I played in real life on one of the other teachers at the Whale School in the late 1980s with a giant balloon and the vacuum cleaner with the hose plugged in the blow end. “Now what do I do?” she shrieked. I said, “Just wait.” The kids were delighted. Eventualy it popped, of course. What’s-her-name was a wreck by that point, but that was great. /This will be like that./

Next dream. Juanita and I are in a strange new apartment with all new paint and rugs and everything. She’s in another room. I run water from a two-foot-square water tank on the bed to wash my hands, and the water is directed off the edge and onto the floor by a black plywood plank.

Next dream. A beefy black man in a fancy red tracksuit swings a heavy metal bike-wheel-size internal blade thing over his head on two eccentric rim-mounted knobs and runs across this under-freeway construction-dirt corridor place to /fly/ about forty feet and land like a gyrocopter flaring and landing. Other black men in similar red track suits stand around or rest lying on the dirt and rocks. I’m here to write an article about this new sport. The main guy hands me his blade-wheel, gestured to me to try it. I swing it around but stop and take it a little away the others because, as I say, “I don’t wanta hit you guys with this.” I mean, what if gets loose from my hands.

There’s something here about some thick white zipcord being a miniature mental model of a project elsewhere in the city to take power from “deep within the Earth.”

My dream from Thursday, 2022–10–27:

I’m in the FoodMaxx grocery store at night. I find the green plastic manhole cover on a tube through the floor to the Other World. Miette from /City of Lost Children/ has already found it and gone through it, scouting there for our mission, whatever it is. She’s the boss.

Now the cover is gone. I find a scrap of plywood to put over the tube so no-one will fall in.

I’m stuck in this store, in this world, and making the best of it. I’ve become a cook here. The line of freezer cases is one aisle forward, where the bread aisle should be, and it’s not freezers but all different kinds of kitchen grills, like from restaurants I worked in when I was a kid, and they’re all hot and ready, but there are no customers. A high-school boy in a paper hat is my trainer. He knows I don’t need to be trained but that’s how they do it here; you have a trainer and there’s a training period. I cook him a perfect rectangular hamburger on thick-cut French bread toasted on the grill, dry, and I say, “Next time I’ll put mustard on it. The time after that, iceberg lettuce, and then fried onions, and tomato. It’ll just keep getting better and better.”

The song playing in my head when I woke up was Stevie Wonder singing /Isn’t She Lovely./

My dreams from Friday, 2022–10–28: Shopping with Juanita. Doctor.

First dream. I’m shopping with Juanita at a store like Beverly’s craft store but bigger, more spread out, and entirely outdoors on green grass. As usual, I’ve been waiting for fucking /ever/ and wandering around, and now I have to find her again, which as usual in a dream I’m sure will never never happen, but there she is at one of the checkout counters along a row of rocket-shaped trees. The checkout woman is patiently waiting for Juanita to either put something on the counter or ask a question. I say to Juanita, “What do you want me to help you decide?” She says, exasperated, “/I/ don’t know.”

Now we’re in another giant store, this one like Target, and this one has a roof. I’m wandering around, waiting some more. At the end of the store that has the row of checkout counters and lines I notice a man is waiting behind me. I say, “I’m not in line.” He apologizes and goes around me. I say, “That’s cautious,” meaning, if I had been in line I was leaving a lot of space in front of me to avoid disease. I was twenty feet away from the counter.

I go back through the store looking for Juanita and finally find her at a single checkout counter in the very /back/. She’s sitting curled up in a shopping buggy, ravenously eating Chinese food. Next to her, piled up as high as her shoulders, are open tupperware containers of the whole table of Chinese food that was next to the checkout counter before. I think they were throwing it out because they’re closed now and just gave it all to her and went away. Either that or she found where they were gathering it up to throw it out and climbed in with it. She’s not embarrassed or sad or happy or anything; she’s just eating noodles, pulling them out a foot high and then eating downward back down to the container.

Next dream. I’m in a depopulated office that’s the whole ground floor of a big-city building, waiting for Juanita to meet me here. Someone’s coming who I should hide from. I run to the back of the place and leap thirty feet to /just tick/ the light switch down (off) for the whole floor with just the tip of my right middle finger. I go through a doorway, up stairs to the next floor, another depopulated office space. Now I’m looking for the bathroom. Hundreds of people could work here. There has to be a toilet somewhere.

Some vignettes happen here. Something about my grandmother, and a scene where I’m standing in my doctor’s office with my mouth open and Dr. Budman is gingerly, at arm’s length, touching the bite surfaces of my teeth with her finger, making faces like she really doesn’t want to do this.

Time has passed, After whatever adventures we just had, Juanita and I are with a new Doctor (of the Doctor Who show), in the future after he or she has done his or her two or three years of being the Doctor and is retiring. We’re standing near a little balloon-on-a-stick-shaped tree in a courtyard between tall big-city buildings. There’s no-one else around. I can’t see the Doctor, to tell who it is — it might be Juanita’s friend Ghereg and it might be a grownup Billy Piper (Rose) if somehow she got back to our universe and they let her be the Doctor (which is a nice thought). Everybody kisses everybody else goodbye and I’m going to drive the Doctor to the bus station in my car — and it isn’t here and I don’t even know what car I have now because it’s the future. Apparently there’s no car in my future. Everything feels bleak and over.

The song playing in my head through most of these dreams and afterwas as I woke up was Rod Stewart singing, “People get ready, there’s a train a-comin’. Don’t need no ticket, you just get on board…”

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Marco McClean

Memo of the Air: Good Night Radio all night every Friday night on KNYO-LP Fort Bragg CA. Info about me and the show via https://MemoOfTheAir.wordpress.com