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Just a two days’ dream journal post this time.


Allow me to repeat: I’ve been keeping my dream journal again and reading it on the radio during MOTA. I’ve been on-and-off sending my dreams to the MCN Announce email listserv, but some people get the Digest version, and posts longer than a paragraph or two clutter up their entire trip, so it occurred to me to just put it here in my weblog and send only a link there. It worked fine last time, so. If you want me to read your dream journal entry, or anything else you write, aloud on KNYO-LP Fort Bragg (CA), my email address is in About And Contact, above; just send me your work and that’s what I’ll do. I usually read the dream journal section later on in the show, meaning after 3am but if you want me to read your work at a time of your choosing (the show is 9pm to 5am every Friday night), say so and I’ll try to comply. Thanks!


Mic cables. Event.

My dreams from Monday, 2020-12-07:

First dream. I’m walking on a bleak-feeling, remote, high-desert-like version of Albion Ridge Road. I turn down the driveway to my employer Tim’s place. It’s all rustic but well-kept up, like a camp in a state park in the past or future but not now. Here’s my dream-only car, the powder-blue Oldsmobile my mother had in the early 1960s. The trunk has been open all night since I left it here in the back-story of the dream. Standing up in the trunk is the green bicycle I had in high school. There’s a microphone wire splitter like a cat-o-nine-tails. Someone is to my left but I don’t look there; I’m interested in how the trunk is not growing but is somehow bigger all the time until it’s the size of a house porch with the lid as a porch awning, and there’s a wall-to-wall tangle of long mic wires filling the space with the bike still standing up on top. (I just realized this image is like the back of the geophone cable truck of the company I worked for in Wyoming and Colorado for a short while in 1979.)

I go to the cluster of little buildings (the office, library, Ethel’s house). Madeline, who used to be a bookkeeper here, is sitting outside the office, her back to me, at the center of a long table of not financial books but regular books (hard and softbound, all different sizes).

I’m supposed to work on something here but I don’t know what. Ethel’s house is open to the air, with louvers and porous, colored fiberglass panels. People are talking inside. I stand on the step and knock. A strange blonde woman comes out to tell me something or give me something. I back away into the driveway, having forgot to wear my mask. Madeline’s daughter Caitlin, who I last saw in real life in the early 1990s when she was fourteen or fifteen, comes out of Ethel’s house and slinks away between the buildings, hiding her face, comically embarrassed at not being young anymore but more like in her forties now and shaped like a bag of clothes. I feel sorry for her feeling like that, but what can I do?

Next dream. I’m walking on a rural two-lane highway. I dither a bit about leaving the highway, but decide not to pass by visiting my old dream-only high school on their open-house graduation festival day. I’ll look around everywhere and refresh the memory with everything the right size and distance, to tell stories about it better.

I’m in the high school, where I’m reliving when I taught there (this starts vague but clears up) and showed a future-movie-star girl how, when running from an attacker from the pool, wet-barefoot on the tile-floor corridor, to put her hands up to hit the doorjamb and use her hands and arms to stop, to turn into the room and get weapons or phone for police instead of slip-crashing into the doorjamb and being hurt and even more vulnerable to the attacker guy. She’s here, grown up now, Italian-looking, long straight black hair shot through with gray. I take off my shoes, step in the water to wet my feet, run in and down the hall (carefully and slowly because I’m old), put up my hands to stop myself at the door. She says thanks, for teaching her how to do that so long ago: it didn’t necessarily save her life but it helped.

We go to a room where present-day high school kids are sitting around making cutting and taping cardboard together to make props for the graduation pageant. I think one of the boys here is the woman’s son.

I go back out, around the corner, up a hallway as big as an airport concourse, to where a marching-band parade crosses. This is just before the convention-hall-size cafeteria where they’re already bringing out the food: hundreds of big pepperoni pizzas, and cardboard-and-wax-paper serving trays of piles of hot meat: fat steaks cut open to show how juicy and red they are inside. I get a doubled paper plate of French fries practically swimming in fryer oil (I can excuse it because of the scale of the event), and I get /two/ steaks. I’m really looking forward to this; I can’t remember the last time I had a real steak. I’m ready to eat with my hands but here are open boxes of plastic knives and forks.

It’s crowded. When I find a place to sit at a bench, a wiry little gray-burr-haircut man calls out, “Marco!” and he sits next to me but facing outward with his back against the table. In the /way/-back-story of the dream, years ago in the house where I lived on Highway 20 I let him and his older, bigger-than-him girlfriend and her deprived hillbilly kids stay for two weeks, sleeping in the main room, and then I didn’t actively participate in getting the man arrested but did side with the woman and didn’t help him, because I’d come to understand he was a serial criminal fuckup who dragged others into trouble with him and would not reform, and also he hit her at least once. At the table now he’s philosophical about it. He’s not angry at all. He’s happy to see me. He’s not a criminal anymore.

Except, darn it, he is. He was just involved in one last crime before he’s about to escape the South American country where all this is happening. It feels like a Gabriel Garcia Marquez story.

The dream ends with a song very close to /Mame/, of English-translated Morse code radioing out to the freighter/passenger/rescue ship of the failed little man’s old friend captain to /not/ stop for him but just pass by outside the harbor because the man screwed up again after all this time and got caught up in his old criminal ways.

I got up and went in the kitchen and was humming it. It turned out, /Mame/ is one of the many songs from Juanita’s childhood that she still knows all the words to.

Here’s /Mame/ to give you an idea of the sound of the little criminal man’s radio song. Mentally insert Morse code beeps and change the lyrics to mean the new story you know now.


Sex. Mission to Pluto. Woodwind flute. Ceremony. Missed connection. The big pipe.

My dreams from Tuesday, 2020-12-08:

First dream. A rare dream of sex with Juanita. Just like real life but muffled in all aspects. No story to it.

Next dream. An Asian version of Juanita’s and my friend Jason is one of three or four of us on another planet at night. A menacing alien silvery-smoky-white translucent living robot creature modeled on a long lizard, with a deadpan human face etched on the glass underside of its triangular head, has been ordered or programmed to hunt and destroy us. I have the idea to lure it into the house from outside through the downstairs (downhill) laundry room/mudroom. Asian Jason is our weapons and fighting specialist; he goes down there, pulls the door shut after him, there’s some thumping and bumping, and he comes back up carrying the creature, which is now immobilized with heavy bent metal pins impaling its hips/hipbones and the hipbone-like flanges at the bottom of its head (the cheeks of the etched-on face).

I’m relieved. I was afraid he’d kill it. But we’re still in danger. There’s a pall of danger over everything.

Next dream. I’ve been negotiating about job or the price of something in a department store in a closed-in, snowed-in Midwestern shopping mall. Later, at the entire other end of the mall, in a big supermarket, where the checkout counters for all the stores are (and the exit doors into a wall of snow), I put the end part of a flute (but dark wood not metal, and belled like a clarinet, down for the clerk to see or scan, as if this part is the check stub to collect the rest of the instrument, but it’s just what it is and I don’t have my receipt. Juanita’s with me. We confer about how to proceed: Go back to the other end of the store, miles away, to the girl I bought it from? Or did I buy it /for/ her? And will the rest of it be there? or what?

Next dream. A future-hippie-era San Francisco-like bay waterfront place. I travel along the street, a little back and to the right of the subject I’m documenting: a musician/historian on his publicity tour/stunt to take a handful of guitar picks to to other end of the street. He stops there at the mouth of a river, turns and goes back, gathering a crowd of followers as he goes. (It’s working. I didn’t think it would.) He walks on a thirty-foot-long single-plank footbridge over a swampy place to the center support and continues down a second plank to the other side.

At a place like where you used to go out onto the dock to watch the KFOG fireworks show, he looks out at the bay as if standing respectfully for a flag song. Everyone else stands still too. I imagine, instead of this, playing /All Right Now/ over the rooftops on electric guitar at top volume. Everyone would like that better than just standing here. There’d be a street party. But no, that’s not his vision of the event. It’s his show; let him do it how he wants to do it. /All Right Now/ would really work, though. It’s dead easy to play. Two chords.

Next dream. A Southern gentleman alien supernatural spy character like from a comic book is fascinated by a flattish-headed catlike blonde woman who lives in a hotel under the Bay Bridge (close to the dock of the previous dream). I step into the action as the man and, instead of the way he’d show off his magic powers, I /don’t/ demonstrate that I can fly, but rather just make arrangements with the woman’s suspicious jealous butler to meet her later. After a dream jump-cut past the early part of the relationship, the woman and I get separated and I end up waiting around in the street on the water-side of her long thin house (that’s like my grandparents’ restaurant when I was little). We must have gone right past each other. There are no phones here. I go in the back way and it’s another building entirely. This is not the same world. Oh, well.

Next dream. I wake up from sleep in the dream on top of a small utility trailer made of pipes and sheet metal. I’m in the middle of the intersection of what I think of as Bank of America Street and Crown Hall Street in Mendocino, but it’s a strange version of Mendocino. There’s a fenced-off deep excavation for a park project where the Mendocino Hotel additions and the water tower should be. I pick up the tongue of the trailer and push to parallel-park it against the fence and leave the tongue in a shrub to make it all look less prominent so no-one steals it. I open the top of the trailer to make sure I’m not leaving anything valuable or important, and the inside is full of lawn waste and open putrid bags of garbage crawling with wet flying termites that billow up into the air, into my face. I slam the lid shut, slap at the air, run back out into the street. The bugs fly-squirming around me and away have left yellow slime on my arm and my neck and my t-shirt front.

At least I’m dressed. And I have my wallet and various cards. I can find out how much money’s in my debit card by buying something /like a bath in the hot tub place/ (if it’s where it’s supposed to be).

The wallet becomes a big manila envelope with papers and forms and things in it besides the cards and some money, and receipts and notes to myself; I’m here for an investigation. I hire a hippie-ish but serious-seeming local as a guide, who finds me a metalworker to cut open the end of the hockey-stick-shaped park swing pipe I suddenly have. But the metal man’s job is loading people on an amusement park ride that goes underground about where Alphonse’s bookstore used to be. It’s okay, just let him get these people on this next bunch of cars and he’ll take a look at it, no problem.

He brings out a cutting torch on hoses, lights it and is about to start cutting off the six-inch shiny stainless steel end of this otherwise yellow-painted heavy iron pipe. I say, “I changed my mind. I’m sorry. Stop. I’ll pay you for your time.” I give him five dollars from the envelope. He insists on my taking one dollar back and says a cheerful smart aphorism that I didn’t get to keep.

Now I’ve acquired a second local helper man. We all go up into an dark, claustrophobic old apartment building to try the clue address I have. I remember the previous time I went this way (?), when the woman who answered the door was like the blonde girl in the /Oasis/ episode of /Star Trek Enterprise/ where everyone else in their village, except her father, turned out to be holographic artificial people created so she wouldn’t grow up lonely– but I knock on the door and it’s someone else. A blonde woman, yes, but not that one, and she’s nervous of all these people standing around. I tell the others to go downstairs and wait, give me some space.

I woke up about to ask the woman if she recognized me at all, knowing she’d say no but not shut the door.

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