Dreams Sept. 18–20, 2022
My dreams from Sunday, 2022–09–18: Showoff. Alien takeover from within. World of retired old drunks. I rescue a collapsed faker. Particleboard yard sale. Jump-scare.
First dream. This continues from a dream Friday of hand-sliding brown cardboard board-game-token playing cards and hand-size office supplies along Snakes-and-Ladders paths painted on a schoolteacher’s desk. I go into a vertical stadium indoor high-school hall from a tunnel in that is three or four floors up. Some snotty/know-it-all girl and boy students are having a picnic on a ledge just below. I fly out over the center of the space, zip around in the air for awhile, end up on a ledge at the narrow side of the hall, deliberately fall to just above the floor, and glide up and back to where I came in, not impressing anyone here by any of this, of course. I’m just another person who can fly and they can’t, so who cares?
Next dream. A miles-long IKEA-like shopping mall/school/line-of-movie-sets place. There’s a conspiracy of invaders from the Other World to take over bodies of people here and infiltrate. I and a local clever girl run back the way we came to go into one of the empty stores where we should have stopped before, because that’s where the enemy obviously would be coming in. We’ll be too late, so I apologize for being scary, and /superspeed/ us for a moment to get there. The person I’m with (?) vanishes because I sped us up wrong.
In the store are three defenders of our Earth; one is incapacitated already, on the floor, in a fugue state, either taken over (possessed) or about to be. I have a weird non sequitur conversation with her, learn a lot about what we have to do to stop the aliens, but can’t remember the first part of it. I ask, “What did I say,” meaning /What’s the first part?/ They won’t answer. /They’re all already taken over./ I back away, saying again, “What did I say?” so they won’t know that I know and maybe they won’t attack right away. They can tell I don’t trust them. I’ll have to kill them all, and then it’ll look like I went nuts and killed innocent people. /Fuck! Why does this always happen?/ (at the same time as) /Oh, well, this always happens./
Next dream. It’s the middle 1950s. Old church people and old community business-type people are having a barbecue and cocktail party at a country-club-like isolated house in maybe Cleone. It’s getting near five p.m. I have to find where the radio station setup is, to ID the station and shut off the transmitter for the night.
The table with the equipment might be outside the wooden fence around a swimming pool. A plank is loose. I break off part of it, toss it through the hole that leaves, go through it, myself, and look around for the bit of wood to put it back. There. Okay. Done.
The table is attached to the back of the fence farther along, but the radio equipment is gone, moved somewhere else.
I take the fence apart that I just fixed, go back in, fix the fence again. The party is winding down; the old people remaining are tired. Where’s the radio stuff? A man’s voice, loud and distorted, comes out of the p.a. system: “KMFB.” Ah, it’s by the sliding door. I go there, pick up the mic, switch it on, say, “KMFB Mendocino,” and switch off the old giant Altec mixing board KMFB used to have — ah, shit, right, there is no KMFB anymore, I just mis-identified KNYO. Everybody in the world besides me is old and drunk. Nobody even notices. I don’t belong here anyway. Just steal some food and leave. Pick a place to live where the people have died or otherwise gone away. There’ll be lots of places like that, with the Earth as depopulated as it is.
Next dream. I’m walking in hills and come to an isolated house in Cleone. They’re having a holiday party or a funeral gathering or charity food event. People are scattered around the house and down the hillside. Sunny day but no sun.
I step into the air, fly down and out over the hillside, just above people’s heads. A woman who looks like my employer Tim’s ex-wife shout/shrieks, “What did I say!” to her friends who are right next to her. She’s really upset; everyone’s worried about her. I turn around and fly back. She shouts again and collapses. I pick her up, carry her into the shade of the house and sit next to her with my hand under her head — which is wet — but it’s not blood and not water; I don’t know what the liquid is. Dish washing soap? No. It doesn’t smell like anything.
Now I’m sitting next to her at the other end of the house, on a ledge of ground just above a metal gate. Here are three old, corroded, decomposed hammers. The homeowner used hammers to wedge into the gate’s hinge/chain to keep it shut. I say, “So you were just faking?” (Meaning faking about being incapacitated, before.)She gets up angry and goes back around the house to go inside. Interview is over.
Next dream. Same place and one-story house but bigger, and there’s a decorative fence around the north side. This is a food event and charity yard sale, that’s also a moving sale — my real-life employer Tim is moving away and selling everything. In the stuff laid out on blankets in the yard are several guitars and ukulele-size guitars but on close inspection something is really unfixably wrong with all of them (mostly the wood is rotted, like the hammer handles in the previous dream). Here’s a two-tone (black and white) SG-type electric guitar, also ruined, but I look it over for awhile, thinking about using the lipstick-style coil pickups for a project. I want this.
Later, at night, I’m in the dark on the west side of the house. Everyone is gone but Tim, and he’s asleep inside — he always goes to sleep when the sun goes down. I don’t know why I’m here, but I should go into the room I’m just outside of and turn the light off. When I go in, Tim appears, shows me some lawnmower parts on the /dirt floor/. He tells me to fix the lawnower’s brakes and /do something else I don’t hear right and can’t understand/. “Do that first,” he says, meaning do it before what I was previously supposed to do, which I can’t remember, but I’m ashamed to say that, so.
Time passes. It’s even later at night. Some yard sale shoppers are here again now, but they’re quiet and self-directed, not a problem or a threat. I go into a big room in the middle of the house, another one with a rough dirt floor. Here’s an old record player that I’m attracted to that’s like Juanita’s. But its particleboard wood case is soft from having got wet. It /might/ still work. I plug it in, switch the turntable on. Now the turntable itself is missing, but the motor and rubber puck spin. I should get this for Juanita and use parts from it to fix hers…
My dream from a nap Sunday night:
I’m who I am, at my real age, in the garage of the house where I lived when I was in high school. The place is crawling with drunken 1960s middle-management strangers. A man like Dave Foley from Kids In The Hall wants to dance with me. /No, thanks./ But he staggers against me, drink in one hand, and starts trying to dance with me anyway. I say exactly this, “I don’t swing that way. I’m flattered, but /NO/.”
I said /NO/ in both the dream and the real world when the side of his face touched my ear; at the same time I woke up, opened my eyes and it was like someone at an office party had shoved their business card case in my face, but it was Juanita’s dresser drawers at the foot of the bed.
My dreams from Monday, 2022–09–19: Loops. Unfair death. Car guts.
First dream. I’m stringing Romex wire along, bending six-inch loops in it for slack to be able to put lights at any of the loop places any time later.
Next dream. This is a 1940s or 1950s black-and-white movie. The good-guy cops, hiding behind bushes under an oak tree, are ordered to rush the fugitive criminal’s car. There’s lots of shooting, none of it coming from our heroes but rather from invisible forces arrayed around the set in the dimness. Our guys get to the car. The criminal, Tony Curtis (or Ray Liotta) in his twenties, is sitting up on the ground next to it, all shot up but not bloody at all. His girlfriend and the good guys sit down and kneel down next to him, crying. He’s slowing down, dying, talking to the girl and the cops. He says, “Why’d [name of obsessed federal agent] do it?” Meaning, why did he send everyone to kill him when everyone knew he (Tony Curtis) was a good guy just /pretending/ to be a criminal? A cop says sadly, “He had to,” the way Mal says, “You murdered yourself, son,” in /The Message/ episode of /Firefly/.
They talk some more. The camera view goes in close on the shoulder and neck of Tony Curtis, revealing that the flesh is stripped away from levers and flexible tubes — he’s a robot. This is really sophisticated for a 1950s movie. The camera shows an X-ray view of his ear canal. Here’s a tiny transistor hearing aid… Ah, this must be the famous remake of the film. From 2013.
Next dream. I’m walking around a simplified version of Fort Bragg (CA), talking on the phone with someone about the TEAC 4-track tape decks I used to use, but in the dream there’s the sense that my studio is where Bernoulli’s Pizza should be, and I’m still using tape. I puzzle about this. Why use tape, when I’ve had computers and full-service multitrack software for 25 years? I can’t get it to resolve.
Now I’m lying on a bed in a barbershop on the northeast corner of Redwood and Franklin Streets. The man who owns the shop is lounging on a couch. Some other people are sitting around. It’s a barbershop scene. A buzz-cut car parts delivery guy shows us a starter motor that’s on the books as new but has heat damage, a little discoloration on the boilerplate; he recommends the man on the couch accept it because $15 is a great deal for this. Guaranteed? /No./ Couch guy asks me what I think. I say, “Maybe they got in a crash and it got hot. If it’s fine inside, then fine.” Couch guy pays for the part. I get up and go outside, which is now Lansing Street in Mendocino, where my dream-only 1950s car is up on a hydraulic lift in front of Mendosa’ s Grocery.
I see that at some point in the past (in this timeline) I replaced bad long wires with leftover house Romex. Near the differential I push at some of this Romex and bend it back on itself to /take up/ slack so it won’t drag on the ground or get caught on anything.
I follow the wire forward. Under and to the right of the engine the wire is against where metal gets hot and the insulation has melted a little — it’s still soft. There’s lots of extra plastic here that might have come from earlier melted insulation. I pull the existing wire loose from the metal to wrap electrical and then duct tape around it, but see that the end of the wire is cut off. This wire isn’t even being used. I’ll fix it anyway in case I ever need a wire there.
I woke up with generic 1960s Mexican music playing in my head.
My dreams from Tuesday, 2022–09–20: Dogs. Caretaker. A cloaked ship.
First dream. I’m nine years old, in a dim, bleak 1930s farm-town neighborhood, with my dream-only 9-year-old brother. We’re trying to catch a big lanky dog with an oddly-shaped head, to rescue it. We catch it and bring it back around the corner the way we came. A rough Fagin-like crook man catches us. I lie that this kind of dog is very valuable. He takes the dog. He won’t hurt it, he’ll sell it — but no-one will buy it, and /then/ he’ll hurt it. I want to go back and save it from him, but my brother hurries me farther away. Better the dog be hurt than us. /I want to go back./
Next dream. I’m in a dream-only family of four or five boys. We’ve been regularly sneaking into a house where a forty-something black woman lives with her family of white kids she’s taken in to care for. We go in when they’re all out. There’s always food here.
I’m in the bathroom, pissing, when the woman gets home. Her kids are still out. I flush the toilet, expecting it to not work right, but it works fine.
The woman brings her little dog into the living room from outside. I give it dry dog food — little star shapes in brown, reddish-brown and greenish brown in a bowl next to a hassock. The dog spills it. I pick it all up in the bowl and try again. It spills it again. I pick it all up, put the bowl on a rectangular tray on the hassock. The dog is too small to get up there, so, solved.
The woman’s kids come home in a car. They’re all teenagers now, disrespectful, mean, ungrateful. They only came here to say they’re going out again (probably to get in trouble). She wishes they’d stay home. As they drive away I ask her if she wants me to stop them. (I can stop their motor with my mind.) No. Let them go (sigh). I stop them anyway. I just wreck their motor before they even get out of the alley and around the corner. They don’t have to know I did it.
Next dream. People have a small spaceship hidden in their two-car garage. They need to get off the planet and to a stargate/catapult/window/wormhole-thing in space, to really get away. Enemy forces are always landing and taking off and patrolling. I’m in the little ship, watching, but no-one pays attention to me.
They think of a way to do it. They’ll use [tech-sounding-words] to thrust without using [other tech that gives itself away to patrols]. We zip up through the sky and get behind a small but round moon to wait for a good time to make a run for the catapult. So far, so good.
My phone’s battery-low alarm rang but I was waking up anyway. The song /Y’all Are Brutalizin’ Me/ (in Mandy Patinkin’s voice) playing in my head. Here is that, with lyrics, but without context:
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