Tuesday and Thursday, June 14 and 16.

My dreams from Tuesday, 2022–06–14: Time flight.

First dream. I’m walking through a deserted themeless theme park near the ocean in like Florida with someone like my friend Tim Falconer. We’re supposed to go north a few hundred miles. I take his hand and use my flying power to lift us off the ground and fly. He says, “This is useless. It’s so slow.” I say, “Higher all the time and already filfty or seventy miles an hour.” By the time we get to those mountains we’ll be a mile up and going well over a hundred miles an hour. Tim’s still not impressed. He thinks we should have looked for a bus.

Next dream. I’m flying back in time with like a Turkish (though English-speaking) copy of Captain Kirk, holding hands. We fly near the metal and glass one-story office of a city park, where Nazis are meeting. Turkish Kirk wants to go down in there and fight them and kill them all. I explain about how that’s history and we can’t interfere. We circle the building and fly away over Fresno in 1968.

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My dreams from Thursday, 2022–06–16: Parts. Stranger toilets. Zombie problem. Not in the club.

First dream. I’m looking through electronic parts in cardboard boxes and little plastic cabinet drawers, all on a shelf in a carport. Here’s a sheet of paper with stickers on it that came from some of teh parts — specifications of a big relay, for example, probably /this/ one. Why did the labels get taken off the parts?

A strange woman is standing just outside, curious about what’s going on here. I start explaining what the different parts are and what they do.

Next dream. I’m in a water closet to fix the plumbing. The toilet, at first a normal one, has changed to be set into the floor. I do something vague with the pipes, step on the flush button and the flush action first blows water /PLOOOOSH!/ up out of the hole to get all the way across to the mirror, (I jump aside) then sucks like a vacuum cleaner. I guess whatever I did fixed it.

Now the closet is in the garage behind a house that’s like my high school writing teacher’s, but out in the country. My employer Tim and his partner Alice are here. Tim quizzes me on the task list. He’s making sure that, now I’m back from being away (?), I know what to start working on, but I can tell he really wants to point out all the things I did wrong before I left. Alice is vibing at him not to do that.

Next dream. A family lives in an overgrown suburban jungle of vines and trees and wet berry bushes like organic barbed wire. They have to go on a trip somewhere [for summer camp? a work trip for the father?] There’s a zombie problem. A gray-haired insurance salesman has come here, found that his son is a zombie, and now he (the salesman) looks like /he/ caught it too. (Dark circles under his eyes, nervous-looking.) /Oh, well./

I tell a zombie teenage boy that we’ll be gone for two weeks, and I’m firm about this: He must tell the other zombies to just stay here and wait and not eat or infect the neighbors. He’s like, /Sure, okay./ He will forget. This is no good.

The youngest boy of the family about to leave goes back to the house to get his things for the trip, and he’s taking his time about it, though everyone’s already waiting and the father has already honked the horn twice.

I become the little boy. I go around inside and lock all the doors against the zombies. I have to piss. The horn honks again. I run out the now-wide-open side of the house, dressed in my pyjamas, holding the pants down, pissing sideways as I run.

They’re all out at the car halfway down the tube-tunnel of foliage driveway. Before I get there, the father of the family yells at me that the others (brothers?) have gone back to see what was taking me so long — I’m supposed to go get /them/.

People are making pottery in a barn, like in a college class. They’ll probably all be zombies when we return. I imagine the conversation later, when someone will say, “Why didn’t you call the police?” Because then /they’d/ become zombies, that’s why. Again: /Oh, well…/

Next dream. I’m in like the apartment downstairs in the big green house in Caspar where I lived in 1982, but it’s partitioned into dry gray redwood office-like spaces for the different functions (kitchen, bathroom, etc.), and the people who live here are a club of new-age lesbian beatnik types who go back and forth to Germany for art projects and political parties and so on. I’ve fixed what I came here to fix, but somehow in the past I borrowed two chairs from them and never returned them, and this, coupled with that I’m /not in their club/, and that only one of them vouched for me to come into their space and fix things in the first place, is not boding well for our future mutual eneavors. /This is so normal for me in all things. It’s not any offense that causes the problem, it’s that I don’t take anyone more seriously than I take myself, meaning not very much./ (Like in /Catch 22/ when Yossarian just wants to be released from service to go home, and he’s become a political problem for the generals /because/ he’s flown twice the number of missions required and so /should/ be released. He’s a publicity liability for them. They say they’ll let him go on one condition. He says, “What do I have to do?” They say, “Like us. You have to like us.”)

It’s years later. I’m at the gateway of an abandoned county-fair-like place in a vast desert. People in the distance are getting closer on foot. Ricci Dedola of the Mendocino Theater Company shows me a tangible plastic printed page — it’s the private newsletter of the German lesbian club, that she got by mistake, and she says, laughing, “You need ta read this.”

I’m trying to read it, but just skimming because it’s club planning notes and not interesting. Part of it has type so tiny the words look like squiggles. Finally I find the part Ricci thought I’d be interested in: They mention me by name, and they’re still angry about the chairs. /Oh, did I still not give them back?/ And the people coming nearer are the German lesbian bohemian artists’ club. A further time: /Oh, well./

Even later. I guess the chair debacle blew over. Everyone’s in the communal food garden court of the fair. They’re all doing their thing. I find some odd garden plumbing of the post-apocalyptic future that involves a big blood pressure bulb pump-thing, which I pump up to see what it does. Apparently it pumps up another rubber bulb over /there/ to beach-ball size. Ricci Dedola comes over, happy I found that. That’s another thing she thought I’d find funny.