- Ryan Allen Kelly appeared in last night’s dream. He was accompanied by a substantial part of the Palomar poets, among whom must have been Malinda Grace and Cynthia Leyva.
The setting must have been outside
of the courtyard from the dream that I had had two nights ago, although there is a chance that the events
may have befallen withinthe confines of this courtyard, or otherwise the
University grounds.The attribution of that prior image to the setting may very
well be a misattribution, however.
The setting was akin to Prague as I
would imagine it to appear according to
reading Kafka and the way it is portrayed in Sly 2. I had met with these poets
under the auspices of enacting social change, but it is possible, and in fact
probable, that, at least insofar asmy meeting with Ryan, the meeting was a
chance occurrence but one that by its appropriateness seemed divinely arranged.
I
met with Ryan at a bar. Either that had been so or we had met outside the pizza
parlour. He was amiable, with the demeanour of a boyish playfulness but,
disappointingly, a disillusioning perpetual disillusion and an embarrassment
that surpassed himself and accounted also others.
There was a giant boot that we, as
a group, were working to clean. Unless I am mistaken, we had to lick this boot.
There was a government that we were working to subvert.A flood interrupted our
effort. Our intent had been to move it.
Later on, the group remained
intact, although the sense of estrangement by virtue of cynicism from them
persisted. I was invited to present my poetry in a large auditorium as part of
a Reading.Ryan presented prior to me. The auditorium resembled in mood the
austere grandeur of the Viennese concert halls wherein Mozart performed in the
film ‘Amadeus’. This was surely a
testament to my tendency to have Romantic and Bohemian standards for my
self-image, in large part drawn from
searching for ontological meaning in films such as that one. The hall, however,
appeared larger, more open, and refreshingly more Modern and immediate.
Its general aura was obviously
taken from the atrium wherein I performed my poem protesting facebook in
Actual Life. The audience, which did not feel at all (and in fact was not)
crowded in number seemed regardless to have a Titanic presence of a kind of
gentle pity in temperament. There may, in fact, have been more people there,
but my focus was almost exclusively on the young, absent–minded Mexican girls
sitting at the front. They were a direct replica of the young women whose
presence I noted in the Actual audience at Palomar College, by whom in Actual
Life, I was taken aback.Their behaviour in Actuality was such a disinterested
collective poker face that I had felt a tinge of inconsequential but
nonetheless marginally substantial recrimination for what I took to have been an
insult to a pivotal tenet of their lifestyle.
- The latter dream from last night’s series was a relatively drawn-out and, as with all dreams pertaining to Dana Mohammad-Zadeh, direct allegory whose details cling to the memory with a vividity to rival the episode wherein Ryan had made his debut. There was a Multi-Cultural Faire of sorts which was characterized chiefly by a formality and solemnity(might it have been a ‘breath-taking solemnity’?) that would have been more appropriate to a Coalition.Representatives of a cornucopia of ethnicities had to stifle their rivalries and unmitigated but veiled hostilities to partake in a festival that was its own preparation and wherein the patronage was restricted to the workers (among whom were the organizers) and the activities supposedly never surpassed the labor. It was set in a warehouse arranged like a supermarket, much like the segregated nook of the Costco wherein the fruits are or were located, with towers of boxes of food items, usually if not entirely Crates, stood out like the monolithic Shelves one passes in the first level of Jak II(wherein Daxter teaches Jak the double-jump) against an impartially objective gray set of walls as their backdrop. It is difficult to remember how so and at what intervals, but the memory is incontrovertible of a substantial part of this immense array, which was also somehow outdoors, being partly flooded. Our task was to use tiny vessels to traverse the space, remaining chiefly in the shade of the monolithic towering crates.
The light was a penetrating amber
as morally demanding and sensibly anxious as Amber herself. I was charged by an
archetypal man both physically and in practical wisdom my Elder,like a stern
Zen master with less cleverness and illumined light-heartedness, with the task
of transporting three vessels of orange liquid that was purportedly Apple Juice. I was a
representative of the Arab race and nations, although I do not think that I was
Arab at all. The older man I remember from the Arab nation I was a part of may
have been the one to appoint me, but a more precise memory would probably (?)
disprove this.With certainty, however, I recall his unRomantic,Stoic gruffness.
Early on, we were instructed
to face one another in a sort of rectangular group circle encircling the open
space, like a courtyard that was unoccupied either by people nor by boxes at
the center of the fragment of this arrangement we all occupied. The ritual was
most akin to a religious ceremony, solemn, formal, and methodical.We made sure
to keep close to our towers.I saw Dana across the watery stretch, only
slightly,diagonally, to my Right.
She acknowledge me over the course
of this dream moreso than in any of her prior appearances, yet she ensured that
our interactions remain absurdly formal, as if we wqere strangers and our
companionship did not surpass our uncomfortable philanthropic duty.
Over
the course of the enactment of this duty, I struggled to fulfill whatever my
role had been,ultimately failing. Something akin to either a robbery or a loss
must have befallen, yet it may have not.It had probably been by virtue of an absurd
assignment, unreliable team mates, and incompetent leadership that I failed.
The dream culminated in a public restroom.A large
number of the participants from the faire had retired into these wide chambers,
if not most or even all of them.I took the opportunity, probably, to pursue
Dana.
There were Red stalls in a chamber
that seemed on the whole most akin to a transit station in interior design,
ample in space and with an alleviatingly Real darkness, like the sanctity of an
Ocean.
Dana approached me whilst I was in a stall.She was not Dana,
however, but another woman, with terrifyingly gorgeous features and the tantalizing
immediacy of a succubus.
She began to ask me questions, implying that I had
difficulty with women.I pointed out that I liked Dana, but she then asked, with
venom, why I had not been more upfront with Dana. I had been gazing to the left
of her and slightly downwards in contemplation of these questions and
accusations. Now I looked up into her eyes again, as though with slight
longing. I recognized her, then, as Ally Nicholson.
dm.A.A.
3.A group of very old friends, who may very well have been
my group of lunchmates from high school,had become reunited under fairly unromantic
auspices.
What is certain is that Jeff Carter was among them.
Dana stood before us, and, with my probable prompting, we
conspired and openly offered to entertain her.
We formed a human wall, an homage to the sort of blockade we
had made in our hallway towards the end of our Senior Year in high school, once
the bell at the end of lunch had rung.Whereas, in that arrangement, we would
only touch shoulders when one or another of our schoolmates approached, each of
whom had been a good sport, in this instance we were consistently clumped togetherm Jeff most notably at my
left. Our act involved allowing a tiny space to appear between two of us, as
though we were emulating the mountainous wall, with its crevasse, from Chris’s
childhood dream.
dm.A.A.
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