Dreams Thurs. through Sun. 2022–05–01
My dreams from Thursday, 2022–04–28: Escape party. Drebil drebil. Gig work.
First dream. I’m underneath an overhang of metal sports bleachers or maybe stacks of metal fencing in a big dim enclosed abandoned space. I’m threading inch-thick steel cables that somehow are flexible through a hole at the bottom edge of the metal pile to get power in here to run lights and a movie projector for a party for a mobster who has just escaped from prison.
Just outside, at night, in like Sacramento at Arden Way in the 1970s but also like the bleak edge of Fresno in the 1960s, at a park bench, a not very smart but just dangerously competent anti-gangster officer comes snooping around. He sees the note that’s /our/ clue to find a witness girl who can exonerate our guy, the escaped man. But the girl’s name is obscured, so he can’t make trouble for her. He came here because his headquarters sensed the electricity use of the movie party. He goes away, but a whole army of cops will come, so we spring into action to evacuate the place.
As the army is arriving, some women are smuggling an important mob boss woman out in an enclosed coffin-like bumper-car with a push-cart handle. They’re struggling to maneuver it. I take over, push it around an indoor 1960s car and into a room where the boss woman can sneak away on her own through a hole in the sheetrock.
Next dream. In a green tree-canopied place like where I used to mow the lawn for a neighbor when I was in high school, an Asian woman is held and comforted, rocking back and forth on a bench with her grown granddaughter. The old woman sings/recites the dream-only nursery rhyme that all Chinese children learn, that tells them what to do in case of a house or apartment fire. The last words of it are “drebil, drebil” (it means /fire, fire/). She’s crying about something that happened a long time ago, maybe a disaster that happened because of a misunderstanding, like the real life retarded boy who witnessed a policeman talking his normal but troubled brother into giving up his gun in a tense standoff. The retarded boy screamed, “Let him have it!” meaning just give the policeman the gun, but the cops heard that as /shoot/, and they all did, in what they felt was self defense.
Next dream. A South American princess has been kidnaped to a cross between 1930s Ohio and the second place we lived in Fresno when I was 10. I find her in the wood-fenced yard and establish that she wants to get away and go home. (You never know, she might have gone with the kidnapers willingly.) The goons come out of a 1930s house, all proprietary of their captive. I fight them, bust them all up, swing each one by an arm or a leg against this brick wall or far over that fence. Again I make sure that she wants to go back to her country and not stay here.
I go to the pay window for a small public swimming pool and say the prayer that begins, “I wish I may, I wish I might,” that’s the password to get heart-of-gold U.S. gangsters’ help with a job like this, getting a princess out of the country. The man in the window motions with his head to the man on an Adirondack chair out by the pool. That’s the guy to deal with. I go over there and we chat about the state of things. There’s no business here at the pool anymore. Nobody comes to swim. So… How about it? How much to help the princess?
Later, after the job (?), I go to a 1950s church dinner-dance in an old neighborhood meeting hall with bench-tables all around a central boxing ring that has no ropes. The ring is a raised square that’s the dance floor here when there’s no boxing. A white Italian Ray Charles is happily singing, swinging his head from side to side and banging away at a piano. Old people are dancing. At the end of a song they slump gently down onto their backs to relax, get their breath, get up and dance some more. /This is community./
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My dreams from Friday, 2022–04–29: Swamp island breakout. Airplane. Nazi time-quest.
First dream. I’m on a dark swamp island in a class of oppressed men of all types. It’s the night of the big break-out. The local power, a manager/boss/slave-driver guy who we hoped he’d be away, is here, so I push him down, step on his face so it flexes like rubber as I grind his head into the wet sand. He should have stayed away.
This all changes to a dangerous game where I and a strange dark-haired woman are fleeing, being tracked and followed. We go into a building and into a dead end room, but we sneak out through a panel high in an inside wall. (I help her up and over and then I jump up and clamber through.) This is another room; how does this help? How close are they? Go out to the hallway and go away the other way? /I’m bored with the story. I stir it up from outside it and disperse it.
Next dream. There’s a rural dirt road with another smaller dirt road next to it, trees on the left, grass fields on the right. A tanker truck rolls past and away on the left-side road. A a 1960s white pickup truck that’s also somehow a small airplane rolls away on the right-side one, trying to keep pace with other truck, but if it goes fast enough to leave the ground, that’s no good, so it’s being careful.
The person we’re (?) chasing has gone into a roadhouse Guild Hall/bar place. My men and I split up to go in there from three sides to catch the enemy guy. Everyone has a pistol out, stubby little revolvers.
Later someone like my mother, but not, expects me to fly the little airplane to get us to a meeting 600 miles away south in Mexico. I’m like, “Mom, I’m not a pilot. I can take off and land but I can’t navigate us to someplace I’ve never been to, and certainly not at night, and I don’t know where any airstrips are there, and what places to go wide around because there’s air traffic or an air base.” While I’m explaining all this, it’s too late, Four or five of us are already in the plane, in the air, going south in the dark, and I’m faking it, flying and navigating, sure to fail. I mean, I can fly over L.A. and San Diego and into Mexico, but then what? Where even is the meeting? I say, “Where’s the meeting, exactly.” Someone says, “In the mountains.” The mountains. Oh. Well, that’s all right, then. Oy.
Next dream. A fat old Nazi officer (in Nazi uniform) and his subservient theater-dresser-man character have been together for like forty years; they’re more like an old married couple than fugitive war-criminal master and servant. Having never found the secret thing they’ve been searching for all this time, the old Nazi lies down on the bare wood floor of a crappy motel to die, so the toady-wife-man character must lie down to die too… but a signal sound comes that /the thing they were looking for and waiting for all these years is coming to them./
I’m like a cut-rate Doctor in the Doctor Who show, where my time-travel house is just a couple of white rooms, like bare theater sets. I and my assistant — who I never look directly at so I don’t know who it is — land in the Nazi character’s time and city. I want to find them and help them, because their quest, despite the guy’s being a Nazi war criminal, is essential to the future of the human race. I’m thinking over just going to the authorities here, telling them who we’re looking for, and trusting them. Why shouldn’t I do that? It’ll probably be fine.
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My dreams from Saturday, 2022–04–30: Pedal car. The secret of antigravity. Printer repair trick, alien infestation and the beach art racket.
First dream. Juanita and I are in a Ford-Model-T-like quad-bike car that’s both motor-powered and pedal-powered. Tall thin bicycle wheels. I’m steering us through narrow pedestrian alleys. Modern Victorian-era-/costumed/ people strolling around watch us pass by. We’re fleeing from some kind of trouble, but it isn’t a big deal, just normal-level trouble, somebody who wants his money or something like that. To fit between two close curbs I run the left wheels up one side, tipping us nearly over and then back to thump down level again. I shrug about it and Juanita says, “You’re so cute.” I start to cry because this /isn’t/ Juanita. Juanita said that to me once a long time ago when I did a funny thing, and I liked it.
Next dream. There are peripatetic international pre-World-War-One negotiations in a big grocery store like the FoodMaxx in Rohnert Park. I’m a diplomat/sidekick of a man like Kaiser Wilhelm but here he’s not crippled.
Now I’m disgusted and bored with my boss, another Kaiser Wilhelm-like person from like France or Brazil. I wander over to get the attention of a /third/ Kaiser Wilhelm-like person — this one’s the fop king of England. I tell him I have an invention to show him that will tip the scales in his favor. He and his retinue of chuckleheaded rich Brit college boys follow me out the door of the store and directly into a big-box hardware/lumber store place (like Lowes or Home Depot). King Wilhelm sees his wife, Helena Bonham Carter with her hair dyed blonde, shopping for lumber; she wants his attention but he says, “Busy now, Aleesh,” and goes right past the aisle she’s in.
A couple of aisles farther, and here is Wilhelm’s prostitute/mistress, my mental image of a woman the main character picks up in a bar in the book /The Difference Engine/, beery and sweaty. He grabs her up in his arms and they’re kissing. This is the aisle where my stuff is. I say to Wilhelm, “It’s right here whenever you’re ready.” I open a tall cabinet and start taking things out. Eventually Wilhelm and the college boys pay attention. One of the college boys is neither stupid nor a boy nor vacant-looking; she’s clever, alert, calculating, one to watch out for. She has short brown hair and big round black eyes; she’s the actress who played a girl with a ray-gun for a right arm in /Killjoys/.
I’ve got a surfboard-size gray-black indoor-outdoor carpet silhouette of a stretched-out person on the floor. I paint it with invisible, intangible material from a bucket. They all jeer to each other about how stupid this is and lead the king away through the aisles back toward the grocery store. (The clever girl has vanished.) I stick the magic-paint-treated rug-person silhouette onto a regular surfboard, lie prone on it, fly it up into the air (!), through the warehouse, over the heads of the idiots. I call down, “You fucking idiots. I’m giving my invention to the /Germans!/ Soon there’ll be space battleships bombing you from so far up you can’t even /see/ them!” The king and his sycophants are sheepish and rueful that they doubted me (or rather doubted the character I’m trying out being). I should do it — I will; I’ll fly out the high side doors and go to a totally other country, it doesn’t matter which one, and give /them/ antigravity, somewhere genius is appreciated. It doesn’t matter who gets it first; everyone else will have it in fifteen minutes anyway.
Next dream. In a place where I used to work in QED Press but a much newer, whiter suite of offices, I’m here to fix their computer printer. For some reason this involves putting a live gray-green slug-snail in it. In another room there’s already a slug-snail inside each printer. There are lots of printers, some up high on shelves in a closet. There are too many slugs, more and more wherever I look; I guess they multiply. Now I’m moving an aluminum ladder around, climbing up, taking slugs out of open printers (with my fingers, blech!) and throwing them down onto the floor. I try getting them out of the printers with the hose of a shop-vac. The wind from the vacuum somehow pulls a slug deeper /into/ a printer’s mechanism of turning gears. I drop the hose, spill the whole printer out and shake it, worried about hurting my back doing this. This leaves an extra-big slug torn in two on the rug. My reaction in the dream is: /I can’t tell Juanita I did this./ (She hates it when things get hurt. She imagines it happening to her.)
Now some of the slugs are foot-long stretched-out octopuses. I’m pulling them out of printers and throwing them down, worried that they’re intelligent and this is horrible of me to do, worse than mistreating a slug. And they start to have bones and partial exoskeletons, now. The first /really/ big one I see is the boney kind; it’s as big as skinny ten-year-old boy, lying along the top-back of the highest shelf over the cupboards on the left. I have to kill that. I throw the ladder over there, rush up it, and the octopus, now like the alien in the first /Alien/ movie, flexes and /springs/ all the way across to the top shelf on the other side of the room! I’m like, /Shit! I caused all this!/ (It was a printer repairman’s gimmick, the slug thing, but now it’s a menace, and I’m sure to be found out as having started it all.) Fuck! …Well, what now? /Attack it with the ladder itself. Just use it like a lance, be brutal… SMASH! POKE! SMASH, SMASH!/ (I’m completely trashing my back. I probably won’t be able to get out of bed tomorrow.)
Later, out in a beach-side parking lot outdoor-art-gallery place, an old man who was poor all his life but recently won a fortune in the lottery is buying art with loose stacks of paper money set out four-stacks-across on a tray. His twenty-something girlfriend is worried he’ll spend all his money on this worthless art and have nothing again, so as they go from art to art, every time he buys something she skims a few bills off the tray and stuffs them in her maid-apron front pocket. I hope he doesn’t detect this and run her off for stealing, because she’s saving him from himself.
I woke up with the Todd Rundgren song /Caravan/ playing in my head, but they were not singing, “Love is a mirage, only a mirage, dancing on the desert sand,” they were singing that love is a /garage/. The last of the dream made it feel like they meant a garage somewhere in the seaside town where all the knock-off art came from.
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My dream from Sunday, 2022–05–01: PDP: Private detective plumber.
In a rural Eastern Europe version of my bedroom when I was in eighth grade, I’m here to fix the toilet (the toilet is the only piece of furniture in the bedroom; there is no bed). I’ve unbolted the toilet from the floor and moved it out of the way. Underneath, set into the concrete foundation, is a complicated arrangement of nested white plastic food buckets with other pipes coming in from the sides, from other drains elsewhere in the house. Why? And… what’s wrong that I’m supposed to fix, and how would I fix it? Everything’s set in concrete.
Now there’s a bunkbed frame against another wall with another toilet inside that, already unbolted from the floor. This one also had buckets-in-buckets underneath. But there’s clean blue chemical water now in the first toilet drain-buckets thing, and this new one has brown and gray septic-tank liquid in it. Someone’s wallet or purse is in there. I roll my sleeve all the way up to the shoulder and reach all the way down into the sewage to get it out. That was the clog; it all spills out down the holes and refills with water. I don’t have the blue chemical to put in. Bleach will probably work. I need bleach water anyway to sterilize my whole arm and under my fingernails.
The room is in California now. After I’ve got all the plumbing bolted back together, I and someone else, a generic friend, are supposed to get hundreds of miles north to Laytonville or Garberville to a giant indoor stadium that’s there (?), because the job is to find an expensive ring a woman lost. A message comes to my tablet, saying the letters and numbers of the section in the stands where the woman was when she lost the ring, to start searching there for it, and there’s a picture of what to look for: it’s a thin gold ring with a diamond on it the size of a pea. The message hopes we get there soon, because the venue will fill up with people and the concert will start and then everything will be much harder.
Meanwhile, elsewhere, two professors are rivals, like rival professors in a James P. Blaylock book. (They’re friends as well as enemies, but they might still kill each other over intellectual differences.) One of them is evil and one is at least trying to be a good guy. The bad one is in a bathtub invention he’s made, with electric lights and some kind of appliance motor thing attached (a jacuzzi?). The bluish chemical water is the right temperature and full to spilling over, so the evil professor gets out of it and declares it ready. He says, “Get in.” I’m only watching the story at this point, not in it, but I’m thinking, /No! Don’t!/
He’s gonna get in. It’ll shock him to death. Sigh. I take over for the innocent one, step into the bathtub but make it instead a big birdcage that I’m supposed to fix for the old lady who lives in this apartment (?). It’s just too small for me to get all the way down inside to work on whatever’s wrong in the bottom, and it’s flimsy and not balanced properly. I’m ruining by trying to fix it. I get back out and straighten the wires and bars I bent, making it worse and worse… At least the evil professor didn’t kill the good one; at least I prevented that.
(I woke up with Kevin MacLeod’s song /Scheming Weasel/ playing in my head. That’s the music I use for the opening and closing theme of my radio show when I’m doing it by remote from Juanita’s place.)
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