Crust Punk Dream

Tuesday, 3 February 2015

I’m look­ing for my dog on the “cam­pus” of a “col­lege” but every build­ing should ba­si­cal­ly be con­demned. The on­ly peo­ple who use any of them are crust punks, an­ar­chists, and re­al­ly grumpy old peo­ple. They live in them too. 

I go to a DIY art gallery/​house show and one half of the house is sole­ly com­prised of func­tion­al but re­al­ly gross toi­lets. There are no walls, re­al­ly, just sup­ports where walls used to be. People keep chal­leng­ing me with disin­gen­u­ous ques­tions about my thoughts on very speci­fic is­sues of so­cial jus­tice like: “Why do you sup­port the de­claw­ing of baby seals!?” And I’m all “Where’s the art and/​or bands and have you seen my dog?” And some la­dy comes by fling­ing some sort of liq­uid on peo­ple and say­ing some­thing about holis­tic earth bless­ing, ex­cept it burns me and turns my flesh pur­ple. Everyone looks at me and the la­dy says it’s ar­senic wa­ter and that I’m a trai­tor. I pre­tend like I’m al­ler­gic and wig out so I can get the hell out of there and con­tin­ue look­ing for my dog. Everybody calls me a liar.

I head to an­oth­er house where I had left my pants, be­cause I fig­ure that’s where my dog will be. I’m try­ing to find a bath­room, but there aren’t any. I know my dog is here some­where, but I keep run­ning in­to ex-girl­friends who tell me what a bad per­son I am. I’m all “What the hell, I’m just try­ing to find my dog!?” I go back out­side and there’s my dog, so I go give her a good scratch.

Then I woke up and went to the bath­room.

I think this dream is about how I am an­noyed by my per­cep­tion that I’m re­quired to take a stand and act up­on every in­jus­tice when I’ve got my own prob­lems that I’m try­ing to take care of, along with a dis-ease that I’m the white mod­er­ate that Martin Luther King, Jr. talks about in Letter from a Birmingham Jail.

Groundhog Dream #2

Tuesday, 13 March 2012

One of the most in­ter­est­ing things about dreams is how we can hold them ful­ly un­der­stood in our minds but, when we try to write them down, the struc­ture col­laps­es. This not on­ly il­lu­mi­nates the im­per­fec­tion of writ­ten or spo­ken com­mu­ni­ca­tion, but al­so, more sub­tly, in­di­cates the nat­u­ral il­log­ic and un­rea­son­able­ness of our minds. A dream with that kind of clar­i­ty would be in­dis­tin­guish­able from re­al­i­ty.

I’m call­ing my newest re­cur­ring dream the Groundhog Dream, be­cause it’s a bit like Groundhog Day, in that the gen­er­al me­chan­ics stay the same while the specifics al­ter with each rep­e­ti­tion. First the dream, then the in­ter­pre­ta­tion.

The dream al­ways starts out in a place like Whiskey Island but much larg­er in scale, with many oth­er peo­ple. We all trav­el to the shore to hear a rous­ing speech about fight­ing some kind of Evil. The Evil caus­es a shift, or glitch, in re­al­i­ty and every­thing is chaos. In the first in­stances of the dream, I was al­ways in a waste­land with­out food and with com­pan­ions who were just as con­fused as I was. The rest of the dreams would con­sist of wan­der­ing around look­ing for sus­te­nance. Kinda OT Biblical.

In this lat­est ver­sion, my lu­cid dream­ing kicked in a bit and I made sure to pack some food be­fore go­ing to the speech. This time the glitch still af­fect­ed me, but Neil Gaiman was al­so aware that it was go­ing to hap­pen and had me and a few oth­ers fall in­to an al­ter­nate re­al­i­ty on­ly tan­gen­tial­ly like the Harry Potter uni­verse. It was more like Harry Potter by P.G. Wodehouse. We end­ed up in this or­rery where Neil Gaiman ex­plained what the Evil had done, if not why (no one re­al­ly knows why). The solv­ing of the glitch in­volves help­ing as many peo­ple as pos­si­ble find their way back to their prop­er place and do­ing it your­self in a cer­tain amount of time. This is a bit like a video game.

We go to a train sta­tion where the on­ly way to sum­mon a train is to lie down on the tracks (kind of like how the eas­i­est way to get sick is to men­tion how you’ve not been sick) Tootle the train shows up and hauls us to an­oth­er sta­tion, where, in pre­vi­ous re­cur­rences, I know that we’ll learn that one of my com­pan­ions will die. So does Neil Gaiman, so we all take a bath­room break be­fore walk­ing past the mu­ral that de­picts this death.

Meanwhile, I find a pile of col­or­ful con­struc­tion pa­per cards and de­flat­ed la­tex bal­loons, and ex­cit­ed­ly call every­one over to eat. These are sort of like the cards we’d have to make to send to nurs­ing homes when I was in grade school, but were sent to us as sup­port in­stead. We have to eat them be­cause the longer we’re away from our right­ful world, the more pale and life­less we get, and the more we hunger for col­or and joy. We’d be­come un­wit­ting joy vam­pires. When we eat the­se bright­ly col­ored stuff we be­come more hu­man for awhile.

Paper and la­tex aren’t easy to eat though, and I find the bal­loons too hard to chew and get nau­se­at­ed. At this time a new group shows up and joins in our feast. A girl I had a crush on in col­lege ap­pears, ob­vi­ous­ly with an­oth­er man, who turns out to be an al­ter­nate uni­verse ver­sion of me (though we look noth­ing alike), which is con­firmed by the fact that he had the same web­site URL. This makes me feel lone­ly and I re­al­ize that my son Abraham has been af­fect­ed by the glitch too, that he’s out there alone and needs me, and I re­al­ize just as there are mul­ti­ple ver­sions of me, there are mul­ti­ple ver­sions of Abraham and even if I can’t find my par­tic­u­lar son, may­be I can find an al­ter­nate uni­verse ver­sion to care for.

That’s it. I woke up and it was time to get ready for work.

There’s all kinds of stuff go­ing on here, and I feel that I can iden­ti­fy both the foun­da­tion­al feel­ing and re­al world ref­er­ences to ex­plain most of it. The foun­da­tion­al feel­ing is one of search­ing for a place I be­long and be, in con­fi­dence and still­ness. The train stuff is be­cause Abraham talks about trains con­stant­ly, but it’s got a lit­tle bit of Stephen King Dark Tower go­ing on as well. I can’t iden­ti­fy the rea­son for Neil Gaiman’s pres­ence, but the bal­loons and con­struc­tion pa­per is re­lat­ed to Abraham again. Alternate re­al­i­ty stuff is due to The Man From Primrose Lane. The game-like na­ture of avoid­ing im­pend­ing traps and the re­cur­rence are prob­a­bly re­lat­ed to the fact I’ve been re­play­ing Dragon Age 2. The crush is due to a crush.

I think this dream could be turned in­to a fair­ly good tale, but I’m cer­tain­ly not the one to write it.

Dreams, Lately

Tuesday, 29 January 2008

A cou­ple of nights ago I dreamed I was at a Guns ‘N Roses con­cert; they were play­ing Bön Jovi cov­ers. In the dream, I kept try­ing to fall asleep, but kept my­self awake be­cause I didn’t want to miss the mu­sic. I end­ed up wak­ing up ful­ly be­cause I tried so hard not to fall asleep, while I was al­ready asleep. I’m as­sum­ing that I was try­ing to switch be­tween sleep stages but not let­ting my­self do so.

Last night I dreamed that some im­por­tant guy had cre­at­ed a new, puz­zling, ad­ven­tur­ous world to ex­plore; one of the puz­zles was fig­ur­ing out how to get in­to the world in the first place. I fig­ured this out be­fore any­one else; it was as sim­ple as ask­ing the man for the key. Once in­side the world was Escher-like, labyrinthine and full of junk. You had to sort through all of the junk to find the use­ful items for the jour­ney. I fig­ured out fair­ly soon that al­though the world was so large, none of the paths you fol­lowed got you any­where. I re­al­ized that this was al­so an in­her­ent puz­zle to the world. Upon fig­ur­ing it out, I could leave and get a true ad­ven­ture from the man. Having proved my­self, I did so.

I’ve been play­ing both Portal and Half-Life 2 late­ly, so I think that gam­ing fired off that par­tic­u­lar dream.

New Recurring Nightmare

Friday, 5 October 2007

My new re­cur­ring night­mare places me in some­thing like an Egyptian tomb, at least in terms of dec­o­ra­tion and dan­ger, and the low ceil­ings, dim light, and def­i­nite sense of tons of weight over­head. I’m part of a team ex­plor­ing this place for its trea­sures and dan­gers. There are many rooms, each with its own par­tic­u­lar trap and the doors to the room are of the se­cret pas­sage­way re­volv­ing sort. In the first room each team mem­ber be­comes fas­ci­nat­ed with one triv­ial as­pect to the ex­clu­sion of all oth­ers. This is bad as the chances of sur­vival for one per­son alone [me] are vir­tu­al­ly nil. I try to res­cue them but the door to each room clos­es af­ter a cer­tain time so I have to leave or be caught. I go to an­oth­er room, in­tend­ing to res­cue the oth­er folks even­tu­al­ly, where some sort of de­mon crit­ter tries to over­whelm me, I es­cape from here as well. Now all the rooms are open­ing and re­leas­ing their crit­ters who are af­ter me. I run back to the orig­i­nal room where I’m cor­nered. I’m try­ing to keep all the­se dudes at bay and man­age to creak open the orig­i­nal door and yell for my team­mates. Right be­fore I’m over­whelmed they show up to be slaugh­tered but al­low me time to at­tempt es­cape. I don’t make it, but al­ways wake up be­fore get­ting sacked.

I’m pret­ty sure this is just the 2.0 ver­sion of my old night­mare [men­tioned in pass­ing here] which is pret­ty ob­vi­ous­ly about aban­don­ment, trust and be­ing fright­ened about in­de­pen­dence and my abil­i­ty to cope with things. I know when I have the dream that I’ve had it be­fore, but in­stead of lu­cid dream­ing my way out of it, I just try to beat my sub­con­scious at its own game.

Groundhog Dream #1

Monday, 13 December 2004

I was dream­ing last night that I was falling from a cer­tain height over and over and over and over and over and over again. Falling and land­ing, hard; a bel­ly flop on­to the ground. I felt a bit bruised, I must ad­mit.

I of­ten have dream where I am in­jured, tor­tured or even killed. Sometimes the pain has a pur­pose be­hind it, like my re­cent body-switch­ing dream, but oth­er times, like last night’s falling dream, it has no con­ti­nu­ity or struc­ture at all. Most of the time I am pow­er­less and just have to ex­pe­ri­ence the tor­ture or death or grav­i­ty in the most re­cent ver­sion.

What do the­se dreams mean? That I am a masochist? That I am rid­ding my­self of guilt sub­con­scious­ly? That I am an ill ju­ve­nile ca­nine?

I bought some more crap for my apart­ment this week­end. I’ve got noth­ing else to say, re­al­ly.

Goth Dreams and Continuity Editing

Thursday, 15 May 2003

I had this dream the oth­er night, where I was in this goth club just mind­ing my own busi­ness lis­ten­ing to some kick­ass dark­wave, when some dude start­ed some­thing.

Apparently I was not suf­fi­cient­ly ‘goth’ to be present in the club [i.e. I wasn’t dressed very gothy.] He said some­thing along the lines of ‘You don’t look goth, you’re not wel­come here.’

To which I replied with my char­ac­ter­is­tic ra­zor dream-wit ‘You aren’t very goth your­self if you think it’s some­thing on­ly de­ter­mined by style.’

Before he had a chance to re­ply, his goth girl­friend, all fired up with her black make­up, red fish­nets and flut­ter­by wings de­cid­ed to de­fend her mate. I con­tin­ued to sit placid­ly lis­ten­ing to some Dorsetshire. She ap­proached and told me to [I’ll para­phrase] ‘Fuck off.’

I po­lite­ly de­clined.

To which, en­raged, she then told me to fol­low her out­side where she os­ten­si­bly was pre­pared to kick my ass. I said: ‘Fie! I am al­lowed to choose the weapons.’

Briefly puz­zled, she con­ced­ed this point. I chose swords, and since she was goth and swords are suf­fi­cient­ly gothy she ac­cept­ed. So she took down two rapiers from the wall and pro­ced­ed out. On my way out, I grabbed a cou­ple of full ash­trays. Stopping by the door, I re­moved the butts and com­bined all the ash­es in­to one tray. Then I spit a big gob in­to the ash­es, mixed it to­geth­er and smeared it all over my face. Out I went.

Needless to say, I looked a bit goth­ier, and goth girl was a bit tak­en aback. She hand­ed me my sword with a flab­ber­gast­ed look that was quick­ly re­placed by the old anger. Most of the club was out­side now, ready to watch her kick my ass. I as­sume they as­sumed that since she was goth she had an in­nate knowl­edge of sword­play, where­as t-shirt and jeans guy [me] wouldn’t know jack.

‘I’m ready,’ said I. She lift­ed her blade high, yaw­ped, and fol­lowed this up by rush­ing me. Her flut­ter­by wings flapped be­hind her. She was some sort of de­ment­ed fairy.

When she got close enough, I cut the blade out of her hand.

‘I used to fence in col­lege.’

In my dreams I switch back and forth from POV shots to high-an­gle medi­um shots [in­clud­ing medi­um-close, and medi­um-long]. Thus my dreams are quite like movies. I won­der if oth­ers’ dreams func­tion in this way. If this is so, I see two pos­si­bil­i­ties for ap­pli­ca­tion with­in film the­o­ry.

  1. That the de­vel­op­ment of con­ti­nu­ity edit­ing styles is di­rect­ly re­lat­ed to a sub­con­scious un­der­stand­ing of dream-func­tions. The im­pli­ca­tions that this would have up­on ideas of psy­cho­an­a­lyt­ic film the­o­ry and su­ture bog­gle my mind. And:
  2. That im­mer­sion in tele­vi­sion and film ex­pe­ri­ences has changed the way peo­ple dream. I don’t even want to try to get my head around that.

Dream Rules

Saturday, 15 March 2003

if you ever find your­self in one of my dreams al­ways re­mem­ber this. any­one drink­ing tea has been or is about to lie to you. that in­cludes you and me. if you are drink­ing tea, you have been ly­ing to your­self about some­thing. when i drink tea in my dreams it is al­ways Earl Grey. and if peo­ple are drink­ing in my dreams, it is al­most al­ways tea. no one ever drinks cof­fee, be­cause i don’t like cof­fee. some­times some­one will be drink­ing wine, but the wine tastes like a cran/​grape com­bo even though it re­tains its al­co­holic ef­fects. the­se winedrinkers don’t lie any more than reg­u­lar folks. Tea drinkers al­ways lie. the­se tea drinkers some­times use hon­ey in their tea. when this hap­pens they are about to tell an es­pe­cial­ly good lie. so be­ware. nev­er go to Britain in one of my dreams.