Dream Journal Sixty-one.

1. There was, at onesubstantial point, a gathering of old friends at an apartment. I do not recall whose  apartment it was; its owner was never divulged.

The group consisted predominantly of an intimidating conglomerate of peers, all having graduated college very recently. The majority were boys. Most noteable was Nick Scatteregia, whodirected jibes at me directly, as though he were the ringleader of the group.Dana Mohammad-Zadeh sat on the floor to my right  in one vividly memorable moment. She was cuddling with her beau, never once, if memory  serves, separate from him. She was intent on paying me no attention.

The architecture, internally, was most akin to those features which Eric Pan’s apartment shared in common with Amber’s. A custard ray of light from a window in the far – right corner leant the group light, illumining the stale blue interior.Dana sat closer to this light source, on a carpeted floor, in the corner of a car – peted apartment just be yond the arched doorway between this nook and the kitchen on whose floor I sat.

            Everyone knew of my love for Dana and the social infraction I had permitted.Nick, in particular, was championing, with a college kid’s subtlety, the group Stigma against me, speaking as though to imply that my  idiosyncrasies were symptomatic of a  longstanding illness.

The architecture externally was immediately reminiscent of the Observatory that my family visited in Los Angeles.The narrow passages,lined on one side by a parapet and,on the other, by a stark stone wall with slight windows, overlooked, like a cathedral circum-venting it, a courtyard that evoked the mixed sensation of austere bourgeois glamour and,by virtue of the same impersonal impenetrability, small promise of escape, the fields were overgrown with tiny, magenta roses, coating it like a blanket only an inch high. Cement paths, designated stringently for walking, permeated this largely austere garden akin, without question, to the Huntington Library garden that I had visited with my family the same day. Tiny detours offered some subtle chance of escape, as though they were sink faucets that had been left turned on unwittingly.One of these must have been a direct reference to one of the cement sideyard paths lying just beyond the gates that I had been so tempted to cross, at night – times walking Pumpkin through our neighbouring gated community during my Alan Watts period of rapturous mystification. They ran past rectangular pillars, passing a wooden grate upon which hung a grape vine and through which emanated a subdued but golden glow.

Something in Zachary the security guard’s gentle attempts at congenial humour withstrangers renders the same effect.

 

2. The remainder of that dream is  difficult to recall.The atmosphere was of course one of Romantic tension. I kept secret, at great pains, my knowledge that she reciprocated my feelings, partly out of consideration for her and partly from fear of reproof.

The social interplay seemed tobe almost a direct illustration, like an artist’s depiction, of this absurd habit of bullying as a trend in social groups, by virtue of which individuals ‘climb social hierarchies’*.

The predominant, underlying and, in fact, victorious emotion was one of an overwhelming drama and the ardour of love and passion.

 

* I had watched a CNN special hosted in earnest by Anderson Cooper, having reposted it to facebook after finding it on Rancho Bernardo  HighSchool’s Bullying Precention Forum.

 

3. What little I talked to Dana seemed restricted to glances that instantly culminate din  the slighted disregard I had become accustomed toseeing in  Marissa Alexandra Myers and Alexandra Nicholson – the same tactful dismissal. It was a chief trick. I was unnerved, but the peripheral events of our social group’s awareness, according to whose frame of reference our ‘petty’ emotional concerns were peripheral, served as a diversion. I soon appeared on a series of public transit forms in the pursuit of some quest.A train conveyed me to an ornate city that must have been modeled after what I took the workings of Wickes’ mind and most INTJs to be. The architecture was what Cal State San Marcos would look like were it subsidized by Apple Corporation as a valued resource or object of fancy.

I met Oleg outside a modern art statue where the buildings spilled out onto downtown streets as though they were the Convention Center in Long Beach werein the second tier (State) Robotics tournament was held in 2009.The buildings overlooked the same stark,restless rapture of perpetual novelty that that city had been.

I cannot immediately remember what Oleg tried to tell me. He had the demeanour of having been dogged by something or another, having escaped, and, having assuaged the phobia, he was trying to impress upon me a fascinating piece of imperative information:An emotionally sterile  break-through.

The other forms of travel brought us to a desert landscape that seemed as though it had been taken directly from Outpost XII  in the third Ratchet and Clank game. There was a playground that must have been a re-visit of the motif that had been so common during my occupation at Joann.

The memories are muddled.At some points, I was not taking a train but an alternate conveyance.