Dream Journal Forty-eight.

This was from two night after the previous entry, rather than one night after.

The details are muddled in memeory,but hopefully the pen will illuminate them.

In fact, it  does at this very moment.

I am reminded ofan observation that Maria made one night that my Energy was like a puddle with various disparate objects  within it, among which was the air of Mexican culture. This seems incredibly important to note because  of the Mexican character of certain scenes throughout the dream.

I will begin not chronologically but in terms of memory. What comes most immediately to mind is Doug Martsach of Built to Spill. In a probable homage to the grim prospects of a film  coming out about J.D. Salinger, part of the dream seemed to be a trailer without a witness for a biopic concerning Doug’s life.What little sense of ego identity waspresent seemed leant to Doug.

            In a probable contrast to his actual,down-to-Earth personality, Doug appeared  more akin to Kresten in temperament.One shot of the film,  a black screen withawhite caption at its center that was almost definitely drawn from the stills taken from the Salinger biopic, described his past,alluding to his frequent use of cannabis. One day, he decided tostop.The next shot showed him driving a car down a long desert highway at  night. It had been at this moment that he found the gumption to start Built to Spill.

 

The dream seemed oddly centered and at-peace.A stillness like summer vacation spread throughout the entire landscapeandpermeated the biosphere.Perhaps it is the naïve, childish venture to Get The Most Out Of Summer that puts my mind at rest only when a sense of obligation returns to the mind(s) of the multitude. I should feel no recrimination for being tossed about by the whims of my fellow man,but I do.More fortitude is necessary on my part, if not more frivolity.

 

My sister and I were still onour ongoing quest, but the change leant a character of 

Sanity tothesky.

 

We  had successfully traversed the Battle level, though our victory still had the quality of defeat.We had to flee before more monsters came.Strangely, I think we might have fled to high school.It was night-time.The dream then began to repeat symbols from the dreams in the Ally series. Although, as in those dreams, I felt, in the back of my mind,  as though it were the Author’s Tone  in stern juxtaposition to the protagonist’s unreliable narration,the sense that my preoccupation was Absurd.

Without a doubt, this is a comment upon my recent habit of brooding upon my innermost thoughtscompulsively, embarrassingly unconfident in my most intimate and subtle intuitions and fearing rejection around every corner. My sister’s own insecurities and the stubborn confusion of my fellow man, coupled with a fascistic Fear of Wisdom, does little, of not a negative sum, to assuage this Anomie and Shame.(although forgiveness would suggest ‘guilt’ as a gentler and more proximate diagnosis, in my case ) . Thankfully, my light cannot be submerghed.

My sister and I got separated come nightfall at the high school. Prior to the arrival there, he had to pass through three Trying levels.The first was on a mallthat had turned out to be a space vessel.It may very well have been the recurring Mall from Dream #47. We had to escape the vessel before it exploded. It was already in space.

 

Finding the portal, I emerged in another dimension.

            We were separated at this instant.This was one of several times that we were separated, unless I am mistaken.The episode of the Three Trials might have, in fact, followed the high school episode,or the story  may have been Non-linearm like the design of a video game.

 

There were two other trials. One involved passing through the same un derground  passage that had been blocked by the negative Anima in an earlier dream.

This had probably been how we escaped a  certain ship.Aboard this vessel, the same wherein my sister had surpassed me,and where I was Guybrush Threepwood, there was a competition in effect.It had probably been aboard this ship that the Reality television program was staged.

We were among the contestants. Somehow, I was in the labyrinthing corridors of Graziano’s again, hearkening back to  ‘Water for Elephants’in Romantic style.It was practically  a repeast of one of the Ally nightmares.

I don’t recall How, but it was probably by a change of perception analogous to the shift between ‘That is Not how Life/ is built’ and ‘That is  Not how Life is built’that I appeared in the same room of the Sixth chakra where I was accompanied,as I had been in earlier dreams whose mystery I had given their due, by a group of students anonymousto me in personality.We had to work together, likea film team, to resolve an assignment for a class, The leader of our team came and went.We were on the sixth floor of the mall, but somehow I  did not feel at liberty to  leave the Room.One man lounged about  confusedly; another, a girl,fit Franny Glass’s description to a T, slumped in a half-fetal position between to pieces of furniture.

 

No progress was made,but flirt-ation and gossip befell.

 

By the end,our group had agreed to pay visit to a theatre production.This was because the mall was beingtaken over.

 

Of course, the shelter of the theatre was no good because of the zombie apocalypse.We had to flee over the Sierra Nevadas to a refuge.A city  had been erected or transformed  into  a safe haven.

Our van  stopped  outside a grocery store.It could have been either the 99cstore or North Park produce, if not both.

I worked at the store for some time before the leader of our group instructed us to leave. I drove others in a car to a safe haven. Our leader had betrayed us to the zombies.