Thursday and Sunday, June 9 and 12, 2022
My dreams from Thursday, 2022–06–09: Science.
First dream. I’m in a college-like secret-project atmosphere. I’m called to go get one boy scientist’s gray notebook in an open bag in his storage garage. He gives me directions, says it’s unlocked.
I go to a deserted storage place, find his garage door, open it… There are lots of things here but only one bag — a plastic bag with stuff in it. No notebook, gray or otherwise.
Go through everything again. Same result. No notebook.
I hear someone coming, thumping car-stereo music. A small dirty-blonde-haired mousy woman drives up in a big old 1970s station wagon. She says /she’s/ here to get the notebook. How do we resolve this?
Next dream. I return to my house after being away for weeks. It’s a dream-familiar trailer-house with some wide-open walls and a deck along one whole side and on the end. Several young scientist-mathematicians have been staying here; two of them are a couple: Hamish Linklater from /The Crazy Ones/ and someone like the station wagon woman from the previous dream. I go straight to my computer to see if they messed with my backup hard drives. No, they didn’t.
They’re all finished with their work and getting ready to leave. They have to decide whether I can be trusted to keep their secret. (Their project is dangerous and they haven’t told the agency about it.) One asks me how I feel about attempted suicide. I think he’s talking about the youngest one here who tried that, who doesn’t like that it’s being brought up. I talk at length about suicide and what I think about it, ending with, “If that’s what he wanted, then it’s none of my business.”
They’re satisfied. /Bye. Thanks./ I say, “Good luck.”
Next dream. This is a continuation of the previous two dreams. It’s years later. I go to an abandoned lot of empty warehouses. In one that’s got fresh concrete there’s a swimming pool obscured by foamy steam. The scientists from the trailer are all here, older, in their fifties and sixties. They’re meeting here by a kind of psychic/technological conference call that their government bosses don’t know about. The last one to arrive from under the water in the pool is the mousy woman from the storage locker place.
All along I’ve been the normal, not-genius one from the normal world who helps them. The transmission medium they’re using operates by all of them watching pornography and somehow synching up. I say, “Can’t they detect that? I mean, how likely is it that you’d all be watching pornography at the same time?” They’re not worried. They have it figured out. They’re so smart, I guess they know what they’re doing. (In other words, something bad is about to happen to all of us from their hubris or chutzpah or whatever the right word is.)
My dreams from Sunday, 2022–06–12: Antenna farm. False alarm. Excursion.
First dream. It’s dim and/or my sight is impaired. I’m bumping and brushing past spindly four-to-six-foot-high antennas that are jagged caltrops arrayed on a fenced concrete yard like an Xmas tree lot. I’m fleeing recklessly through here with a time limit. I get to a gate in the fence, get out, continue fleeing between temporary office trailers. /I can’t believe I did that. I could have ripped a leg open or lost an eye back there./
Next dream. I’m walking with a big strange friendly dog down a straight street toward the sea, and at the same time I’m watching the story of a girl here, exactly where I am, who’s worried about her old artist man friend who lives on the beach. (He isn’t answering his phone or returning calls. He might have had a heart attack.) The girl is about ten years old but has weird stiff-looking gray hair.
I take over for the girl and hurry by leaning forward to waft up into the air and glide down the now-much-steeper street on ground effect, ten feet up. the dog runs underneath, barking happily.
I’m on the ground again as the street becomes a hallway in a modern abandoned one-story hotel wing. Here’s a door. Locked? No. In the room at the very end, is the door out onto the beach locked? No. Another old artist man is sitting at a table in the covered porch here with his girlfriend, having their Sunday toast and newspaper meeting/date.
The little girl is frantic because of /her/ friend. The old artist from the table runs with her along the beach, then uphill. It turns out that the girl’s friend is fine, no problem, he just doesn’t have is phone with him. The table old man is not even winded from the long run in the sand. Where’s the girl? She’s continued through her friend’s surprisingly clean and organized beach shack to throw up from exertion and stress in the sand on the other side. She’ll be okay. Is there water? The table old man goes to the kitchen to get some water for her.
Next dream. I’m in a strange family that’s my family in the dream. We’re on an excursion somewhere. (In real life whenever we got lost or a trip in the car took too long, my mother would say, “We’re not lost, we’re on an /excursion/.”) We’ve stopped in some kind of new-age health-food community built around an abandoned shopping-center parking lot that’s gone back to green grass (but it’s still a parking lot).
My dream-mother (like my mother but totally different because with a cigaret) comes out of a cafe with a drink in a glass for me that’s gray-green sandy health-food glop. She’s like, “Come on, let’s go.” Meaning, get in the car. /Don’t I have to bring the glass back?/ She says nothing. I get that you keep the glass, here. When you buy the drink you get the glass.
Now I and someone like my (dead) stepbrother Craig are lying on our backs at the edge of the lot, feet up on the side of the car, which I see now is a 1950s station wagon. I’ve still got the health glop in the glass.
There’s either a plaque or a radio ad or a brochure about how this spot, or one of the shopping center buildings on the other side, is where the Continental Congress met to ratify the U.S. Constitution. (This is Missouri, so no. But it’s their community publicity project and therefore their story; fair enough.)
I’m anxious to get out of here and get where we’re going, wherever that is. Now I’m who I am, at my real age. I go with my step-sister Jamie, who here is rather a smart but skittish gay man who walks with a cane, to the motel room where my mother is. She hasn’t even started getting ready to go — it’s like she’s /moved in to stay here/, possessions and clothes spread around and draped all over. I say, “When are we going?” She starts talking about going to a department store in this town — it starts with a G… Gummings, Gorbutts, like that — to pick up /something/ [a coat? galoshes?], she says we’ll leave when it gets dark, or maybe tomorrow sometime (!) and she points at an alarm clock and says, “Will you take a look at that for me? I think it’s broken.” I say, “I don’t care about your goddamn alarm clock.” My sister the gay guy gasps at how mean I’m being /to our mother/ and runs out. I say to my mother, “Get all your shit gathered up so I can put it in the car and we can go.” She gestures, /What’s the hurry?/ I get that she intends to stay here forever. Fine, then, stay. That means I don’t even have to carry all her stuff to the car. I can go right now.
Much later, same 1950s station wagon but a wreck, different grass-park motel, even more rural. Bigger, stranger family. I’ve been working on the car to make it run again. I get it started and somehow drive it from behind with the back gate down. I’m on my back on the grass, hanging on with my fingers to the bumper, pushing pedals up inside it to brake and steer. It gets away from me so that I’m thirty feet behind it but still pushing pedals in it as it goes without me. I can’t steer. Pushing the clutch doesn’t entirely disconnect the engine from the transmission and I can’t shift it out of gear, so it’s idling at better than walking speed and turning this way and that, miraculously missing running over picnicking stereotypical hillbillies and missing trees and motel cabins. I can’t let up the pedal and run after it to get in and shut it off because if I let up the clutch pedal the car will speed up and I’ll never be able to catch it, and I’m getting a foot and leg cramp. I push down on the left foot with my right foot, and my right foot starts getting a cramp too. I can’t keep this up forever.
The outline of a funny old demented Italianish hillbilly man is in the driver’s seat. So that’s how it’s (barely) avoiding crashing into things. That’s the ghost of who used to own the car, protecting it, but also causing the problem of my not being able to control it in the first place, by being a second control source.
(The song playing in my head when the wind outside — and a foot cramp — woke me up was /Hummingbird/ by Seals and Crofts.)
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