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Tom Roberdeau through space and time.


Gangster torture lav. Breath. Excusable fresh-zombie patriotism. Folklore skin miracle. X-quisition.

My dreams from Wednesday, 2020-12-09:

First dream. I’m in a new different country, in a shipping/air/entry port. People are waiting everywhere for their immigration and/or business interviews. I really have to piss. I find the bathroom, but it’s just the waiting room for the bathroom. Sounds come from the inner room, of questioning and torture. I just go straight through the waiting room and go in. It’s a normal airport restroom except it’s furnished like an office torture-hospital run by 1950s-style gangsters, with a reception desk and with small cot-beds that fit in the toilet stalls. The main gangster, an office-manager-seeming version of filmmaker Thomas Roberdeau, looks up from slapping someone with a silent /What can I do for ya?/ expression. I can’t use a urinal if there are people all around, and there are beds over the regular toilets. I apologize for interrupting and leave. There has to be another bathroom in this building; there are thousands of people here.

Next dream. I’m in bed in a strange room, lying on my left side. Juanita’s in a chair behind me, sleeping (I only sense this). A tall rangy woman like the mother in the famous Great Depression photo crawls into bed with me, gets her head down under the blanket and /breathes/ on my dick, which of course stirs (like the hairs on Data’s temporary human arm when the Borg Queen breathes on it). I politely discourage the woman, climb over her, out of bed, and go looking for my clothes and the shower. I don’t know where I am but that’s not a big deal because Juanita will tell me, except, is she here? or did I just imagine that? (I never looked at her, never actually saw her there.) Am I demented and this is a place for demented people? I have a flash half-memory of masturbating in someone else’s house where I was visiting and getting it all over everywhere like throwing a bucket of cake batter, but that can’t have happened, it doesn’t work like that, don’t worry about that. Just find the clothes, take a shower, go back to the bedroom and make sure Juanita’s really here. If she’s not, get out and flee until whatever they’ve drugged me with wears off and then figure out what to do next. Pretty standard.

Next dream. There’s an ongoing-for-many-generations ancient or future iron-age European war of tall thin soldiers all in white-enameled metal armor. When a soldier is killed, they re-up him so he’s still useful to fight but mentally different from the person he was before. In a long narrow stone room of rows of benches on risers with the two sets of risers facing each other, soldiers wait to be called back out to fight. One freshly-dead-and-repaired soldier, a tall, thin, young Medieval or post-apocalyptic-Medieval version of filmmaker Thomas Roberdeau, is shouting proudly about how patriotic he is and how much he wants to get out there and defend the realm, and /Why are we all sitting around when there’s /fighting/ to be done?/ and so on. The other soldiers just quietly wait and ignore him; when someone’s brought back from the dead, when they’re freshly a soldier again, they often act like that. He’ll settle down after awhile.

Next dream. There are cafe tables scattered around the parking lot in front of Safeway in Fort Bragg (CA). I walk there and see filmmaker Thomas Roberdeau, who used to teach at the Community School, sitting with his dream-only new wife. Tom looks about 50 or 60 years old, and his wife, the same age, seems faintly familiar to me: pretty face, big flat wide-set sharp blue eyes, black eyebrows, long, thick black hair, but skin problems of both a young /and/ an old person, like movie-makeup radiation damage. I say to her, “I can help you with your skin. I’ll give you a list of things to get and you can do that while I talk with Tom, and I’ll write instructions for how to make it.” She’s skeptical, because Tom has skin problems here too, not as bad as hers, but why wouldn’t I offer to help him? I gesture to convey that /It doesn’t work on men/. But now I have to invent ingredients you can buy in a grocery store to make a magical radiation-damage/acne treatment. Just relax and let the lie flow. I always have paper in my pocket. Tom gives me a pen.

Next dream. A sinister religious inquisitor character and his entourage show up at a gray old cathedral/monastery/nunnery place in green hills. In this world they’re hunting down people with odd powers to persecute them. This inquisitor is specifically looking for Thomas Roberdeau, who in this place and time is a mysteriously superpowered four-year-old boy. The nuns are protecting him; they have him hidden.

One of the nuns steps a little into the air in plain sight, like skipping but not quite coming down, but the inquisitor doesn’t see that. The nun climbs/flies up a giant tree-branch-like filigreed rusty black metal clock hand to hide behind the tip of it up near a high window. That’s part of her power– not only being able to make herself light like the people fighting in the bamboo tops in /Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon/, but also to go unnoticed by your enemies in short intense bursts while doing something astounding.

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