Sunday and Monday, 2021–09–26 & 27

My dream from Sunday, 2021–09–26: Escape.

I’m with a strange girl who looks like the actress who played Leslie Winkle in /The Big Bang Theory/. We’re marked as rebels against a post-apocalyptic repressive cult nation that keeps freshly-captured people living outdoors in big pens of cyclone fencing and razor wire. /Big/ pens, the size of a rural hiking park.

So we’re in this fenced area with about a hundred others. There’s a legend that people have escaped by going down to a particular corner of the fence. We’re slowly moving that way, but Leslie sees the complication of uneven ground and the fence interacting with a storm culvert — that’s gotta be the place — and she breaks and runs for it, so I have to run too. The authorities are soon running after us. We find a rusty gate, twist it, get out, keep running. We come to the edge of a cliff that’s /cloud-high/ over a lake (or maybe a fat fjord). Leslie confidently runs straight off into the air, flops forward and glides, falling but very slowly. I go over the edge and discover that it’s not just a power she has, to glide, but it works for me too.

When we’re mostly across the fjord Leslie jackknifes downward and falls. I watch to see if she can pull out of falling. She does, a little, then bends and falls again. I copy and follow to fall into the water about a hundred yards past her.

We swim to shore and are greeted by people who happily but a little creepily welcome you if you escaped from the other place. We’re directed to an office in a Grange hall, where a curly-haired official man at a desk pulls out pertinent paperwork to read and think about, and he tells us to have a seat; he’ll review how to proceed and be with us in a moment.

It’s more like a country church than a Grange hall now. I wonder if this regime is just as bad as the other one, except with a roof over criminals. I guess we’ll find out.

The official calls us over. He thinks we’re here to get married. No. Oh, then go sit down again. It’ll be a little while more.

— -

My dreams from Monday, 2021–09–27: Editing demo. Time cylinder. Hurting my mother’s feelings.

First dream. I’m sitting in the empty road that goes parallel to the highway but behind the storage locker area just south of Fort Bragg (CA). There’s a coffee table with a strange but easy to figure out computer and mixing board, and I’m finding music and recorded people talking and making a funny radio show out of it, but in real time, so there are long periods of my just humming and talking to myself about what I’m doing, and figuring out how to do, while I find where to cut something against something else and edit music. It takes a couple of hours, from like two to four in the afternoon, /on the air the whole time/, to make a half-hour show and insert it into the automation to play tomorrow. This was a demonstration of how to make that kind of show, so other people will want to come and do it.

There a period of confusion here where the sound equipment and table are in the lobby of a hotel, sometimes at standing chest height and sometimes a little over my head, and a person out of the picture, a wizard or future-science person of questionable morality, but probably good, uses his psychic or techno power to send heat to a crumpled audio cable that goes close under the table and into the wall, so it loosens and straightens out and hangs down in a catenary curve; this is in aid of someone trapped upstairs in the building.

Next dream. A strange but vaguely dream-familiar Star Trek: Next Generation episode has Jordy operating an experiment to shrink (?) Data and put him into a meter-wide clear vertical cylinder. Thousands of years pass in there in minutes. City shapes rise and crumble. I have the sense that wasn’t fully expected.

My point of view moves to a room in a dockyard building inside the cylinder near the end of the experiment. A World War Two British officer is talking deferentially and with great respect to an old and rickety version of Data who uses a cane to walk. Data gives him instructions for an industrial process to make different kinds of liquor from cellulose (sawdust) and water. The Brit uses the information to quickly assemble a flat wooden pencil case made to produce liquor, a model to take with him, to demonstrate to investors. He says, “I’ll call it a… synthesizer.” I think, /An alcohol synthesizer./ He says, “An /alcohol/ synthesizer.” He has what he came for. He leaves.

Later some others from outside have come into the cylinder to finish gathering information. They’re too late to rescue Data. He’s gone.

It’s time to go, but I make them wait a bit while I cut a stick of wood to use for a shim in a single piano-key mechanism that fits across the base of where the cylinder was, to brace it to hold the very last little bit at the bottom of the sides up, in case someone else comes here in thousands of years and wants learn from it.

The base moves from a table to the ground. Two people stay behind with me and watch about 120 degrees of rounded stone wall, like a section of nuclear plant cooling tower, grow up to two feet high then crumble to dust.

And now I’m with people who come way later. They can’t see or hear me. They’re curious about the device. They see only that the people before sacrificed Data, sacrificed years of their lives, to the project. One of them says, “Did they do it on purpose?” There’s no way to know. They all shake their heads sadly about the poor past people and their unknowable troubles. /These/ people are for sure not going to turn the thing on.

After that, some people from the old Mendocino Community School are here, in a dirt-floor room, to have a ritual and remember the fallen. Steve Siler is here (he was the head teacher at the Community School for many years, even into the new campus). People move to stand on the line of a circle around the center and hold hands. Steve is on my right and a tall man a lot like Jason Momoa (but not) is on my left. Of course he reminds Steve of Jason Momoa’s Ronon character in Stargate: Atlantis. Steve says, “Where /is/ Ronon?” I think of the difference in time between Star Trek: Next Generation and Stargate: Atlantis and I say, “That’s ten or twenty years later. We haven’t met him yet.”

Next dream. Small pastel quirky little old artists’ houses are scattered around on headlands. My mother, at her real age, is living with her friend, a small, skinny, intense woman. I think I’ve been fixing their computer and printer; paper and supplies are strewn around on the floor by a table in a niche in the wall.

Somewhere in here I’m leafing through a whole ream of paper printed on both sides; theare are stories of dreams like in the dream journal section of my radio show but nothing is familiar. If this is from a recent show, did I start reading later on in the papers? That would explain why I don’t remember reading it aloud. Go farther forward… No, I don’t remember writing any of this, ever. Huh. Does someone else do this exactly the same way I do? Same kind of show, same font, same format?

I move the chair and computer and pull out loose papers and manila folders from under them, stack up the papers, straighten up the area.

Later I come from the garage into the house. My mother has been talking and talking at random; I could hear from outside. I’m not paying attention.

I’m alone in the house for a bit. I’ve taken a bath and I’m looking for my clothes. I say to myself, “Where are my pants?” Oh, I see, where they should be is instead a fancy pair of expensive looking dress slacks lined with white cloth, with a tiny hook instead of a metal button, and a weak front zipper like for a doll’s clothing. /My mother must have replaced my pants with these, thinking she’s helping./

I find my pants — they’re ripped jeans, completely ruined. There are no undershorts or t-shirt or anything. At least she didn’t throw my pants out.

I put the jeans on, rehearsing in my mind starting to tell her I have to get out of here and go home; I can’t stay here any longer. She comes in talking and stands there talking and talking at me; her friend comes in before I can get a word in edgewise except about /Thank you but I don’t need or want new pants./ (Where did she even get them? They’re like something my salesman stepfather would wear in 1972, from J.C. Penney’s.)

The friend says to me, ominously, balefully, Irishly, “You don’t know. We grew up with /husks/. Those who grow up with husks have a /demon/ for /sheets!/” I don’t understand, but I say, “I have some sheets.” (I mean, if she wants sheets, I can give her mine from my house.) She takes it wrong. She flashes her too-wide-goggle-glassed eyes at me, whirls around and stomps away. My mother starts telling me the terrible story that Marty died. I say, “What Marty are you talking about? You mean Marty, Dan’s brother?” (He died twenty years ago.) She says, “In a car accident in San Diego.” Oh, not that Marty, then.

I hate this. I don’t know why I feel this way but everything about being here is intolerable. I just want to go home. I try to stop myself from being cruel, but I say straight out, “I can’t stand being here any longer. I have to be by myself. I need to be able to /finish a thought/ without people /talking to me all the fucking time./”

She runs out of the room. Ah, shit, Marco, great. Well, make good on my threat to leave before I do any more damage.

My mother’s friend comes back in and says in an even thicker Irish accent than before, “[garble, blah, blah] outside [garble] you’d better [blah blah blah!]”

I say, “I’d better do what? Slow down.” She gargles insistently at me some more. I get the sense that she’s telling me something really awful, something that’s /my fault/. Did my mother go fling herself off the rocks?

The woman makes it hard to get around her to get out to go see.

(I woke up with /So Far Away From Me/ by Mark Knopfler playing in my head, and I felt groggy and awful and guilty.)

— — -



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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