Dream Journal Seventy-five.

What immediately resurfaces is the  extensive episode with John Lara.  We were at asocial gatherng of some sort, if not a school function or, as is most likely, a compulsory scholastic event such as a class or course.

The dream was one of the most vivid and ornate dreams that I can recall having had recently.

Its imagery  was  also markedly dark,as though it werea returntoand of the  miresand, in fact, terribly amoral confinements of being an atheist in early high school.

 

John kept offering me psyche-delic mushrooms. He was part of a sizeable group of maybe half a dozen ofhis peers,or so. The chief wing  manmust have been Bobby Sharp.

 

The  event had  been a party, yet  a pervisive dogma of scholadtic rigour seemedto overshadow the event. I had arrived at the event under the presumption that,were I offered anything, I would take it. Yet I became  wary.As we sat in the room of a building that looked like something  with the austerity of the Emperor’s New Groove but the brisk,gentle wonder of the Ice Trial level in Atlantis,the Lost Empire,I asked him about what the possible ramifications and detriments of a ‘ bad trip’ would be. He was deceptively vague as to the effect and what I wouldsee. It was near that moment that my sanity was aggressively challenged.

I shrunk away from John and his fellow stoners in Fear,for each one became menacing to look at. John’s eyes in particular seemed to portend the horrifying  solipsistic impression that everyone’s eyes were  merely  amirror for my own true identity, as though their behaviour could never be trusted because they were all merely fragmented forms of Me whose volition was merely a manifestation of their own confusion,which was really simply My self - deception.

 

I would not believe it,with – drawing into what I knew from Buddhism of the Anatman principle. Yet all my rationalizations and The serenity of my logic could not assuage the terror of everything dissolving and my seeing, as  one dream  character had put it, that ‘ every – thing is One Thing .My companions continued to pester me.Finally, I snuck away from them,but John and several others followed me, catching up after some  time.

                        dm.A.A.

Dream Journal Seventy-four.

I dreamt that I was at home with my family. The time of day must have been no later than the mid-after noon,yet the gray sky had a quality of dreariness to it that felt almost unending and permanent in its constancy,as though it had the comfort of serving an ashtray. It felt bleak but dynamic in its sterility, forgiving in its very impersonal and objective detachment, yet looming as though behind the black pepper-gray veil of the sky lopomed a whirlpool.

I was in the nook of the kitchen. My family accompanied me, although I only really remember my mother and father.*My sister’s involvement would have been so affected that it was at most insubstantial and,at best, she was absent;therelative vivdness of my parents’ appearances underscored this.

*vividly

A grizzly bear had appeared in our back yard. I saw him from the patio outside the nook. I might revise that statement to say that We saw it. He (I presumethe bear to have been male)did not appear vicious, but he acted with a  primal authority resembling nothing of our civilised manner. He evoked strongly Ali’s  wolf; he was only a menace to  us by virtue of an impersonal natural pattern. Were we bears, we would have probably had no conflict with him.

We rushed to lock all of the doors and windows. He could not reach us once they were all secured, which we accomplished promptly. He had nomalicious intent towards us; in fact, he appeared quite innocent,though his power and  status were of intimidating superiority. He wanderedabout beyond the glass that would look out on the back yard. I glimpsed him from the kitchen.He was mere centimeters from the glass window in the television room. He was aimless , but wild.

An anxiety lingered among us, naturally, in juxtaposition to our sense of assuredness and security.We found Pumpkin to be safe when we had closed the windows, but only after we had done so. He kept barking.

 

The dream sequence repeated after something or another distracted mefor some short time. Maria had with certainty been present in the house,but she may have made no appearance visibly.

When the sequence repeated, we did not get the window-doors closed in time.

A long and elaborate set of transitions took  me to the setting of an independent rock concert. Unless I am mistaken, some peers and I had fled near dusk to a beach. The steep stone wall from Kresten’s recurrent dream stood behind us. The beach was populated by predominantly people ourage but, inclusively, people of practically all ages taking part in a celebration in spite of total anarchy as though in the midst of an unsteady truce with a fascist ic force.

            Prior to this or following it, though probably prior, we were aboard aship that was, in retrospect, probably Kresten’s vessel. It was populated by a crowd,however, that formed a kind of disorganised mo nastic order of punks and other people with the  demeanour of lower-class gruffness. I say ‘monastic’ because of the stringency with which the members of this group,most akin in dynamic and function to the cast and’crew ‘of a theatre, enforce d social expectations amongst their crew which were of almost Kafkaesque ambiguity and absurdity. It washard to tell who was running the event and who was a mere spectator,though the leader was very clearly distinguished. The overall operation must have been to transport this vessel of fugitives.A  concert was going on this entire time. It was a battle of the bands. I had made an effort to assemble a band, taking up the bass guitar.

We pract iced little. I was ultimately left on my own in the crowded cabin venue to play my bass guitar.I tried joining a band on bass.A minor riot from the audience  interrupted, if memory serves, our awkward set.Soon, the cabin was as desolate as the gray walls of its interior.The riot may have  been caused by the arrival of our  captain,the aforementioned feared leader.

The riot was not by any means a revolt against him,but something he had either wittingly or unwittingly prompted.

 

By another bizarre chain of segues, I wound up in Rancho Bernardo. The settings and event might have been a mirror image, in particular least, of my long ponderous walk with Pumpkin. My  at tention envelope d all the seedy, amoral aspects of  the Carl’s Jr.  plaza that  my  waking consciousness like to omit. As though to elucidate the Shadow of my wak ing  mysticism  and  idealism, a treacherously godlike glow overlooked the intersection of what I will call Sivrita and Venusto*like a  mechanical eye glossed over with a film like soap in the midday Sun.

Kyle Mylonakis accompanied me along this path towards a lawn.I maintained a dialogue with himthe  ntire time.

Ultimately, he had me confront a  dog that was entirely white and  had a wolflike snout.He had her on a leash. She tried to attack my

 

*In Actuality, far from Sivrita, I am referring to the intersection that, coming down a slope, one is met with a small but captivating grove of trees reminjiscent of a forest and a small bunch of houses, like the head of a horseshoe crab, enclosing a slope running deeper down into a gated community to one’s left. The The Rancho Bernardo Community Center is to the left and ahead diagonally, its entrance justdown the road one meets.

Crotch.I  had tried, prior to  our arrival at the corner of the  intersection just past the  Community Center, to count the b eats in a melody of my own composition to see if it could accord with one of,I think, Kresten’s . This was a mirror of conscious neurosis – a replica. Upon attack by  the  dog,I admitted to Kyle that I was repressing sexual desire for my mother. He grinned.

Our dialogue continued as a stream of consciousness after I  passed into the waking world, becoming more and more muddled until mymother looking  into  my  bedroom submerged it definitively.

 

                                                dm.A.A.

 

            3:00 am            Oct.31,2013

Dream Journal Seventy-three.

I was Philip K. Dick.

I had arranged a kind of competitiveevent, much like a celebrity who is central to a reality game show, amongst a covert group of strangers.These were predominantly businessmen of some shady variety. There were several women that were involved in this enterprise, even if only, at times, I think, in a hands-off way or as spectators. The most important of these was an archetypal girlfriend who was stern but gentle as a motivator– in short, what I had asked Sahar to be for Stanlislosh with regard to the conception of the Poetry Club.

The dream could be divided in two parts, although in this instance no solid or justifiable line could be drawn betwixt them.

In the first part, the goal of my arrangement was my own education. I was compeled, by virtue of the agreement, to master, or at least to learn, a plethora of distinct attributes, among which was the proper development of electronic music.

Financial and other such concerns may have belonged to the list, al-though this may be an extrapolation.

            The basis of the arrangement, as was only beknownst to me and my Lady MacBeth, was that it was a hoax.Yet my ambition,as in MacBeth, always sagged, and for this reason she was often disappointed. I had to hide a good deal from her to avoid her pestering. There was a very vivid image I can recall wherein I stood at the top of a long slide that descended into a backyard. The event was most lucidly and vividly reminiscent of one of the parties that my parents’ Russian friends would hold and to whichI would becomepeledto go as achild.

The girlfriend(orspouse), if I am not mistaken,stood at  the top of this slide or to the side, compelling meto ride it. However, she might have stood at the bottom. The latter is exceedingly likely. It must have been at this point that she took the form of Brianna. Given that realisation, her position at the top of the slide, juxtaposing the prompt to descend but with less irony than fate, would appear surpassingly veritable.

The second part was a direct continuation of the first. The transition was seamless. The entire focus of the dream and its pivotal (and,really, singular)theme became money – seamlessly, as though that had been the truly underlying matter all along.

            The businessmen wereall entrepreneurs of mafioso character. The lucidity of the dream enhanced as I approachedthe waking state.As though in a twilight-zone between dream and waking intellect, I gained control over the events,although, with almost dramatic irony,the danger of preoccupation did not feel any less stressful.

            My plan to dupe the business-people with my cleverness became elucidated and clear, although in retrospect it is still dubious.

We had all agreed to deposit money in one place:A warehouse that I either ownedor was renting. Like East Egg or Republic City in the Legend of Korra, I could see this plain gray building from across a bay,  although this bay was markedly less concave than either the bay  (?) in The Great Gatsby or the water body in the Legend of Korra.

Each of the participants would contribute a sum of his money and store it within an individual  safe designated for that  participant. All six of the safes were in a small chamber within the ware-house.In truth. The entire warehouse may have been no larger than this chamber. It may, also, have been just barely larger, with a narrow corri dor circumventing it, akin to the first building in‘Bioshock’.

            Each participant would be free to add however much money he wanted to to his vault.At no point was he allowed to withdraw. This was done over the course of a week, I think.At 10:00pm on Friday, I believe ( 10:00 pm I remember having decided upon, Without a Doubt)the bank would be closed.At 2pm the following day (probably, on second thought, Friday, if I am to draw parallels between my plan for this week and the dream, according to which the closing time would have been 10 pm  on  Thursday),the money would be counted. If the sum of all deposits were to exceed one million USD, I would lay claim to them all.

I knew that my ruse would not catch all of them unawares. I had my own safe as part of the arrangement, and, as far as I can remember, this was made clear to the others.

            The one who caught onto my plan was the most burly and uncompromising of the crime lords.His personality was probably most akin  to (and most probably drawn from)  the mafioso persona Jeffery Carter wore in his elementary and middle school years.

I must have known, intuitively, that he was my greatest threat, but the concern I had seemed insubstantial.

At 10:00pm, having returned home in time, I entered a secret underground(and presumably, in retrospect, underwater)tunnel that ran  straight along a prismic passage from my small beach home to the warehouse.

No one, presumably, knew of this passage.If they realized that they had been cheated or otherwise simply recognized that they had lost, regardless of whether or not they knew that I had been the one to deposit an inordinate and decisive sum,they would surely try to confront me about this injustice or otherwise simply steal back their money before 2pm.

Counting predominantly on the latter possibility, I endeavoured to make off with my winnings early. I did not intend to flee with the money, if memory serves. I would merely show them the million-plus dollars on Friday as proof of victory.

As I crossed over to the safes by tunnel at 10 pm, the mafioso businessman crossed the bay by motorboat, intent upon the same destin-ation. As the observer of these events, I saw this, but as the protagonist in the tunnel,true to dramatic irony, I did not.

            Within seconds of my arrival within the muted amber walls of the warehouse interior, smashing from the starboard wall indicated startlingly that my rival was trying to break through.

            I held him off briefly by sheer but futile physical force. Finally and quickly, I took the money and ran, realizing at that moment that the corridor I had dug and was now running along would lead back to my house incriminatingly, hoping to hell that my rivals would not scour the warehouse and find the trap door.

                                    dm.A.A.

Dream Journal Seventy-two.

I dreamt that my mother had died.

 

The dream, as far as I can remember, began again as I got off of a train, although in fact an d exquisitely and Arabesquely ornate storyline stretched out  prior to this.

What little I can recall of my adventures by train will probably become available to me again when I have spent more time riding the buses and the Sprinter.

All that sticks out in memory is a supermarket interior whose deceptive appearance of tranquility in making life had been replaced by the demeanour of the more warlike markets I had encountered in lower-income communities such as Freddie’s neighbourhood and the supermarket  in Carlsbad. Some sort of battle I know to have broken out in one of these markets, ifnot in last night’s dream then in an earlier one.

The thoroughly optimistic mind tends to draw attention to the beautiful and convenient and to leave the ugly for the Unconscious.

 

The first part of Mother’s episode began with my use of my old debit  card.I cal it ‘old’ now because its funds have been exhausted. The atmosphere of the environment was neither the exciting and unbridled sincerity of the Escondido Transit Station in Actual Life, nor the splendor of a balanced mind. There was something eerie and Kafkaesque about how bright and soaplike the Sun was, as though I were being prepared for a disturbing Anime that began on a morning that feigned serenity only to under scorethefact that suffering, tragedy, and terror could befall even on the brightest days.

 

The remainder of the dream was set within a house of shack-like quality but mansion proportion. This house was shared by my family, yet it felt as though we were merely staying there as though it had been leased to us. The only detail prior to the events pertaining to my mother’s death that I could remember as vividly was standing before a machine that mist have been taken directly from the ticket machine at the Escondido Station. It must have been situated on acement partition  between two roads, on the other side of which (to my left) shopfronts over-looked, although of this I am uncertain.

 

We were aware that mother was going to die. In fact,prior to our withdrawal into the house wherein the death would take place, we got wind of it whilst running errands desperately on the streets.

 

As mother paced about,most akin to Kitara as opposed to anyone else, serene and uninvolved, I struggled most with my guilt. Trying to enjoy her last moments in my Life, I could not assuage my phobia of the Oedipus complex, a suggestion that was byfar more numbingly depersonalizing than liberating.

 

Mother died and I was numb to the passing, as though a bomb had gone off miles away and we knew that it would but me could see neither it nor the countdown. The dream continued afterwards.There was no one to console and little pressure to do anything.Life went on, but we did not know in which direction it was heading or what our place in it was.

 

                                    dm.A.A.

Dream Journal Seventy-one.

Last night, I revisited the pizza shop.

It was in a new form now. The main theme of the dream seemed to have been my old lifestyle of exhausting all eight hundred dollars of my earnings from Joann on fast food.The dark demeanour of night-time reminded me strongly of the scene in ‘Goodbye,Lenin!’ where in the protagonist’s sister sees their father passing through the drive-thru of the McDonald’s where she works. The worlds of Alyssa Siegman and of especially Brianna Love seemed to have woven the tapestry of the landscape ( in fact,cityscape).

When Brianna called her mother and asked if she and she could ‘go to Greek,’ it seemed to have become cemented in my minds. The Athens Market café, McDonald’s,and Boston Market, seemedall to have been  leant as inspiration to the dream. Starbucks, in that respect, must have been central, as the basis for the pivotal pizza establishment. The atmosphere was comfortingly most precisely like that of  ‘The Secret of Monkey Island : Special Edition,’ most probably taken from the scene wherein Guybrush is approaching Elaine’s manor for the first time and one can see her tiny attack poodles from the distance of the path encircling the mountainside, whoseconical peak, in the game, always feels absurdly and anticlimactically close.

                                    dm.A.A.

Dream Journal Seventy.

1. The night was interrupted between two dreams by a harsh awakening.

The first dream I shall never forget.It was so vivid, even in memory, that chronicling it appears superfluous. The dream culminated in a colossal atrium like the library in Avatar:The Last Airbender and strongly reminiscent of the Observatory in Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time, if not also the broken bridge in the Summer Forest level of Spyro the Dragon: Ripto’s Rage.A circular platform was suspended over a wide pit that appeared bottomless. From this platform, two bridges extended towards each of the wide open arches that faced  

out in opposite directions, running diametrically across the chasm, interrupted only by the indent of the platform, which hung only a few but critical yards beneath the surfaces of the bridges. One had to climb, from the platform, along a ladder in order to reach these bridges, which then sloped downwards, forming something like the surface of a hill with a  very shallow well at its center. Along the perpendicular axis, two bridges extended outwards on the level of the platform,but the portals that they led to were smaller, markedly, and they presumably led astray.

            I had arrived by car at the entrance to this temple, driven by a somewhat older man who resembled Doug Martsch and Jesse. We had fled by a mountain road to the top of a hill.

The road was bordered to either side by green grass that had become dreary in hue. Night was setting in.I was fleeing a space alien. I was possessed of a paranoia of surpassing grimness.

            There wasatiny black  Toto dog that had comeby car with us.

He ran after us.In fact, I am unsure as to whether the dog had come in the automobile with us or not. I must have been flying from the dog at one point because I was worried that it might be the alien pursuant. I kept asking my companion for corroboration about this dog, who had been taken, of course, from the music video for ‘Run Around’ by Blues Traveler, was  ‘probably not an alien’.

The architecture was stony and most akin to the Gothic elements of Prince of Persia, sprawling and terrifyingly impersonal.

I was about to return to the outside, traveling in the direction of  where the car was parked, after a long and arduous attempt to escape into the tower. My comoanion told me to Remain with him. We were on the platform. I had begun to suspect that he was the alien from whom I had escaped.

The suspicion still felt unsubstantiated.

I began to climb the ladder, but the exertion of energy was either too great or I knew that  I  would  not overcome it in time.

            I told him that I would remain on the platform with him, coming back down. He grinned. I stood near the edge of the platform. He stood diagonally in front of me and to my right, in such a way that he could have blocked my passage should I have tried to climb the ladder again.

He cast me a look of malicious engagement. He held two hands out, facing one another by the palms as though a half-foot ruler were betwixt them. His hair was scraggly yet not entirely unkempt, as though he were a well-groomed homeless man. His eyes were manic in their calmness.

He pressed his hands against my stomach and, with a malicious start, rotated them as though he were turning a wheel. I felt intestinal discomfort.

He kept grinning. His teeth were jagged, Like those of Jason Brown, but he on the whole seemed to be most akin to a vampiric clown.

                                                dm.A.A.

 

2.   The second dream involved…

The memories seem to evade me as though there were no subconscious impulse to summon them, which is likely.

What I do recall is that I was charged with a task that I failed to complete. There was a familiar area whose structure, vertically, was dispersed over three levels.

I had descended to a platform in the middle level. The contents are probably superf - luous now,however. My child like intuition suggests that the matter has been unconsciously resolved, yet hopefully this is not hubris.

 

                                                            dm.A.A.

 

            I recall that I was a fugitive.I had to flee a terrible arrange-ment. I had been enlisted, so to speak, or otherwise contracted to participate in a company that was stationed in a complex very much akin to the shopping-mall arrangement that I had described in a prior dream as ‘what CSUSM would look like if it were subsidised by Apple’. The dream was set in the midst of this array.It was either so in reality or as the array appeared on a map that the buildings were light blue with light magenta neon signssignifying each building’s function. Ultimately, I had to flee because  I was no longer satisfied with my occupation.

This was probably by virtue of a scruple. I had to escape the complex. It was very akin to Palomar College in  its design.In close proximity to a guard, I escaped by findinga path that bordered what must have been tennis courts. I had been admonished against passing through the fence that encapsulated the array from the edge because it led to a cliff. I was unawareofthis fact. I was all ready being chased,or, more precisely, searchedor, within the mall when  I stumbled down the sideofan exquisitely steep cliff.

The evening sky was deep indigo with only the spirit of a jaded sapphire in it.  I propped myself up between the mountainside andtwo stone bars,mercifully outcropping.

I kept slipping, only able to slow my fall by keeping two limbs in these tiny grooves.The limbs must have been my arms.I did not see, ultimately, either how steep the mountainside had been, how close I was to falling over the edge, or what the bottom looked like and how far away it was.

            I ultimately regained my footing and escaped.

 

                                                            dm.A.A.

Dream Journal Sixty-nine.

Last night's dream was set again in a world much akin to the tremendous extensions of the Jak and Daxter universe.Whether or not the dream was Collective is dubious, but a pervasive anxiety that has been consistent for the past several nights was regretably not absent last night either. The dream was foreboding and challenging as an existential novel or, more probably,essay.

 

                                                            dm.A.A.