Category: Dreams

I’m in some very cool, futuristic building. It’s spacious but there is that funny feeling of wealth and possession that makes me feel like I don’t belong. The man who owns it is a silver-haired old, fit guy with loads of confidence.

Everyone, including a lot of my family, are gathered around. A large chocolate chip cookie is being manufactured in a materialization device.

This is a futuristic device about 20 feet in diameter — that’s how big the cookie is. The spacious room, then, is about 50 feet in diameter with chairs for all to sit and watch the materialization. There is a nice architecture to the place: there aren’t doors, just a curving high ceiling to softly delineate hints of large rooms.

The cookie feels like it’s my cookie… that is, everyone is interested and taking part in its observation of the manufacturing and they are welcome to eat it, still, it’s being made for me and according to my specifications; this is despite the fact that I’m in a strange building, a lot of people are a captive audience, and, though I’m proud of feeling the cookie is proper, I don’t myself like the cookie: I’m not happy with it.

Now we, most of us, informally, of each our own will, move to another room, just checking out the place. Here, another broad manufacturing table is replicating an entire neighborhood. This is the rich, silver-haired, pompous man’s creation. Ugg, it’s really mostly a golf course with some houses around the edge’s of it. That’s not good for a real neighborhood… that’s not a real neighborhood. Wait. It’s missing a path from a house to one part of the course in real life. I wonder if it can be added on: that would be my path.

I live up near the Canadian border. I’m standing in a large line for something like a bus. There is a couple of people next to me speaking French. The woman talks to the black man. She’s in line for a Canadian passport. Then she talks of a special passport for a small region of Canada called the island of Good, though it’s just a region. The passport declares she has the rights of a citizen when shopping in that region. This island has this special passport for economic reasons. It’s mutually beneficial: it’s good for their economy and it provides foreigners who work in the vicinity access to goods that might be otherwise hard to come by. I make a mental note to apply for to those two passports.

Margrave was teaching an art class. In the school, I see a beautiful poster for it. Something like “Express yourself”.

I go down to the school basement. I’m enrolled to take classes with young people. They are wizards with a Harry Potter feel to them.

The next scene I remember is my station wagon skidding around — something like a PT cursor and a woody — having just left the main road full of battle. The dogs were safe. The back door and a side door ended up flung open.

I look around for spirits because I sense they are with me… as if we must have been working together or I’ve already seen proofs of their assistance. There, off from and behind the left-hand side of the car, was a golden spirit. She looked like a collection of gold ore, was human-sized, perhaps on the tall side; even her wings were of heavy ore. And when I say ore I mean rough, raw, lumpy, dark with chunky flecks.

The scene then jumps to her shutting the car doors.

“You’re going to have to get moving,” she says. To my pleasant surprise she stays, hanging on the outside of the passenger-side window as I turn around in the woodsy cul-de-sac and I pick up speed.

“You are going to have to learn Greek.”

And that was fine, because I was taking a class for Greek at school. I’ll just study extra hard. What a great feeling to be watched over this way. There was this familiarity of working together for good, casual, friendly work. The tiny, pesky, red, man-sized demi-dragons were making their course around the bend and my fairy casually, and with straw hat flapping in the wind, courteously departed.

I give a black man a ride. He tells of how he first arrived here from overseas. How he wasn’t given of the funding promised him when he arrived, so he had to make do.

We arrive at the doctors office. We sit down in the waiting room. Just then he gets to the part about ten-thousand Chinese with a thousand dollars between them. He becomes distraught; I get choked up. I think to myself, how am I going to be a good doctor if this gets me unsettled?

I’m called to the back. It’s a pleasant back hallway, reminiscent of a hospital hallway. I’m nervous and incredulous these folks are accepting of my taking a doctor’s role without any training or knowledge. I peak into an office room. In a small part of the room, I see a quaint sign with a medical serpent emblem saying something like psychic studies. This reassures me. I’m called to see a patient. This will be interesting.

As I walk down the hallway, a woman walks beside me and hands me a book. It’s white with metallic blue letters and a simple golden snowflake (a hexagon with lines continuing out). She thanks me for the book. I don’t understand what she means. “You and Chelsea and Elsie (the two doctors here) wrote it.”

Hmm. I look at the writing a couple page back from the bookmark and the conversation we are having is in the book. This gives me a good, wholesome feeling — a special, cared-for feeling.

Somehow we are turned around. Elsie comes into to see the patient just as I was about to begin with him or her.

I go to the lunchroom with the woman who gave me the book. It’s more significant than a lunchroom: there is a feeling of home and that this is the center of many cultural activities; still, it’s normal-sized.

There is a nice, wide table of unpolished, comfortable wood. The woman and I have a seat. Doctor Chelsea sits across from us. There is a feeling that a presentation is going to begin, but the atmosphere is that which precedes a family member presenting to a family without any feeling of business obligation.

Elsie sits down besides me to my right. Again, there is a family feel here, one of immediate acceptance, as if we’ve been doing this together for a while, or, it’s the comfort of being happy with what one does and being involved with a thoroughly solid and good and wholesome practice. Elsie settles in as though she’s about to tuck into a good sandwich. “Oh, mom’s here too,” she says with a grateful nonchalance.

I’m the director of a high school play. The play is being held in an amazingly vast and spacious theatre, much bigger than any professional theater would accommodate. It’s very professional and high class. All or most of the seats are taken, despite the hugeness. I’m looking at this from above.

In the same wise as this detached hovering, I’m beginning to walk down a very long and spacious hallway. It’s equally well appointed with shiny hardwood floors. It’s here I consider myself as an actor rather than director. I remember trying out and acting for the high school play Working. I realize it’s not a matter of talent: talent is honed over many initiatory experiences. The ability to remember lines, itself, is something that an actor learns over the repeated exposure to the demand of memorization. So, it made sense for me to give a try for a little part and for a director to inquire about one’s resume as a matter of course to get a feel for whether the heft of experience meshes with the heft of the role.

I’m beginning to approach the front desk after walking, floating, down this long immaculate hallway. I feel myself become nervous as I hover towards it, anticipating a face to face with a beautiful clerk; yet, I abstain from going to the front desk. I go ahead past the desk right into the backroom where the hotel owner is. I disregard a feeling of entering into great danger. My brain seizes, processing what I’m about do to: I strangle the owner.

I’m in a department store. I walk around with a lady. She’s a friend and a store manager. They have hidden items that you would only see when wearing special glasses. These items will eventually be visible to all after a time. We talk about Christmas decorations; I mention the fact that a place like Wal-Mart will be stuffed to the gills with Christmas decorations; she laments this. We pass by this store’s little bit of Christmas offerings.

Something about a narrow hideaway shelf that I’m really glad is there because then I can put this printer like device that fits well there and is out of everyone’s knowing.

I’m taking classes. I realize I don’t have my overalls on. I must have left them in the bathroom. I excuse myself from class (which was a drag anyway). No they aren’t in the bathroom. So, I walk around in boxers, which isn’t so bad.

I go to the mall of the campus which functions like the Johnson center. They are going to be filming for a political rally. Some university staff asks me to refrain from entering that area because of my lack of pants.

I go outside and try another building module. This is a large, square empty room several stories high; the feel is of being in an abandoned silo. Here there is a metal stairway that’s torn and out in places; it’s just a broken stairway to nothing. I try to climb the stairs and it becomes an athletic struggle until I see the wrecked part of it. A couple of sophomoric guys come in an taunt me; eventually I realize are trying to get me to repeat a movie scene.

As I leave the building, the guys continue taunt me. One throws shit at me and it lands on my face and hair. “I’m a human being, too.” I say to express hurt feelings. A little later, I guess it’s clods of earth rather than shit.

I go into a little restaurant attached to the university. I’m not impressed with the place or the food I get. The guys there are stuck in their jobs, bleh.

I’m about to go on vacation with my family, but we only go for a day instead of the whole long weekend. That’s good because I have two papers due of the 24th.

I’m in a parking garage. I’m renting three cars at the same time and use one key for all three of them… because they are the same make. It’s important I have three going at the same time in order to accomplish something.

I’m on a ramp facing traffic. There is a police officer checking the speed of the cars as they pass. I turn the key. My car battery is dead. The police officer starts to drive over to give me a jump. I start ignition again. The car starts. It’s important I keep going to avoid having to accept a jump.

Without checking traffic (and right in front of the policeman) I go onto the street. My seat is schwounced up and my face is almost pressed against the window shield. I can barely move to steer. This is embarrassing just in front of the cop and even worse if I get into an accident.

GI Senators in the 50s created an every increasing military bases government, leading to a very warlike 2nd half of the 20th century. Actually all the modern wars are result of the explotative capitalist governments since 1850.

That’s what Grandma Anderson and I discuss. I leave to town to pick something up. When I come back grandma has killed herself. A large puddle of bright blood stands on the floor. She lays on the ground. I call 911. I get the hospital’s hold muzak. Then a newspaper lady reporter comes on the phone, one I had met earlier at the hotel. She has come to visit and is at the front door, which explains how she broke into the phone call.

I emotionally yell “Grandma is dead.” She feels bad, apologizes, hangs up, and leaves. Then grandma, with a bright smile, raises her head and says she’s alive. She flexes her body and it seems very taut and fit indeed. And the large puddle of bright blood goes all the entire width of the floor… how and still alive? But this is good. I put my attention back to the phone call. I here a message from a doctor explaining he’s to busy to take any calls at the moment. What?!

I’m in college taking a losy-goosey class on websites. The technology and students are both so green that students just do anything — kind of fumbling around, but not necessarily lazy — and that’s fine. There is an aspect of student government involved; they have some students from my team pose for a cardboard cutout poster to represent something to the students.

It’s the next morning. I’m busy with little things to get ready for school and I’m late. When I get to school I realize I’ve forgotten my books. I’ve also forgot something of Brian’s. Rather, Brian forgot something and I feel responsible for helping him with it. I don’t want to go back and bother with it. “Can I manage without going back just today?” I wonder.

The Asian in our team committed suicide. So, there are more important things than stupid school. I’m early to school. I have gobs of time before class. I’m still deciding whether I have to go back. Meanwhile, I dispose of the guy’s clothes (or my clothes). I throw them on the concrete floor. This classroom resembles a home depot garden center.
Oh wait, they even have a yellow dispensery for clothes. Good, I can put them there. They’ve put an out of order sign on the cardboard cutout and blackened out the Asian

Back in my dorm room, I see they’ve rewritten the html text. It was a big book even before the revision. They’ve added a couple sections on evolution. This is the school’s paltry attempt to address the existential crisis brought on by the suicide. Lame. They are ought give it up and honestly take up spirituality to and completely face the chasm along with the studentry.

Perhaps I do go back. But then, I don’t get the books there anyway or the books don’t amount to much — one of them is for American History (I’m reading Zinn at the moment) .