Category Archives: dream journal


[dream journal] 0517-0518: The Endless Sky Store

On a quest to find a guitar pedal I’d read about called the “Endless Sky.” It creates large ambient washes and textures from playing only one note on the guitar. Features a cowboy boot on the hand-painted graphic with lazy clouds around the six dials and three foot switches. One knob is labeled “reality fade,” the rest I don’t recall. Driving a desolate dusty oceanfront road, and come upon the pedal’s graphic on a supertall sign for a roadside-burger-shack-sized store on the ocean side of the road. Pull in.

Parking lot is dirt. Ocean breaks and foams over huge boulders behind the store (the vibe is El Rey de Pescado in Naiguata, Venezuela). Several sprays from crashing waves threaten to envelop the store, but the age of the small building conveys that it’s held the sea back for a long time, and a quiet serenity about the place gathers as I approach.

As I’m walking up to the store I feel like my thighs are really rubbing together. Looking down, I discover that my thighs have not ballooned, but rather, my pants have turned into Renaissance royalty red-velvet gold-seamed pantaloons.

Tattered screen door. Inside the store, there’s just a counter with four Endless Sky pedals sitting next to an analog cash register.

“One,” I say.

“You don’t want to try it first?” the proprietor asks me, without looking up from a yellowed newspaper.

“No need,” I say. “I know it’s perfect.” I look at the pedal and notice the brand.

“Thought this was a secret Strymon,” I say.

“Nope,” he says, still fixed on his paper, “it’s a Nemo. This is the only pedal they make.”

“Well well,” I say, “even better.”

{WAKE}


[dream journal] 0504-0505: underwater undercover

Walking underwater at a brisk clip at the bottom of a large body of water. Water is crystal clear blue like liquid sky, the sand is white and firm, and I glide forward with little effort. I breathe normal in the water – no oxygen tank, scuba gear or wetsuit necessary. There’s no doubt I’m in water, though, because exhaling or talking creates bubbles that float to the surface.

I am walking with a stocky and very tall partner, Gene, played by the late actor Ken Howard. We are underneath a superhighway. Huge light-gray concrete supports rise from the sand bed to the surface off into the distance of the body of water, which appears to be around 75 feet deep. The structure emits audible rumbles from the traffic moving on it and I feel the resultant sound waves shake the sand underfoot in regular, low-frequency sine-wave undulations.

The light refraction from the surface into the water is bending the light so much that we can see profiles of the cars and trucks driving on the highway. A large 16-wheel semi passes over. Gene leans down and taps me on the shoulder.

“That’s the one,” he says. “That’s him.”

I take a notebook out of a shoulder bag and write a couple notes. The book has a police shield on it. I realize I am a detective or some sort of undercover officer.

“How did undercover turn into underwater, Gene?” I ask.

“Stop asking stupid questions,” Gene gruffs. “Go see where we are.”

I float to the water’s surface and poke my head out. The superhighway rises another 75 feet over the water and ribbons off towards a city skyline about 10 miles away. I dive back under and head towards the bottom.

“We’re in Chicago, Gene!” I exclaim. “That is so strange. I thought we were in Pontchartrain.”

“Ah, Christ,” Gene says. “At least there’s Lenny’s bar.”

We arrive at a transportation depot, buzzing with people arriving underwater from all directions, and take an escalator up from the sand bed into a sprawling complex. At the top of the escalator, Gene motions to the right and we walk around a wall into a cavernous but skinny, empty, oak wood-paneled room reminiscent of The Campbell Apartment in Grand Central Station. I unzip my trench-coat, which is dripping puddles and leaving a trail of water behind me. My clothes underneath, however, are warm and dry.

“Thank God you’re wearing a tie,” Gene says, breathing a sigh of relief. “It’s that skinny stupid black shit you insist on, but it’ll do.”

We sit down at a table by the bar and the bartender, impeccable in a crisp white shirt, bow tie and black vest, looks up at us from polishing a highball glass, and smiles.

{WAKE}


[dream journal] 04.29-04.30: Aerial Silk Scaffold Deconstruction

Spent entire dream watching two nameless men dismantle six stories of scaffolding across an eighty-foot-wide apartment building. They worked for the most part in silence, communicating with hand gestures punctuated by the occasional “¡Mira!” “¡Cuidado!” or “¡Yo!”

The scaffolding was made of equal parts silk and metal. The men used the silk to climb up and down, raveling and unraveling themselves in an aerial silk performance to move in all directions. At times they also used ladders integrated into the metal piping.

Alternating working above each other, they released large pieces of scaffolding with the flick of one hand, then in the same motion, guided the debris’ trajectories downward. The awaiting partner below caught the falling pieces one-handed and stacked them on the sidewalk.

I was watching through an open window from inside the scaffolded building, feeling the air rushes created by the men’s silk dancing and the falling metal pieces whizzing by. The silk’s movement ruffled and flapped like sails coming-about in stiff winds. The synchronized work moved hypnotic and left me mesmerized, thrilled, frightened and satisfied – akin to watching a snowboarding half-pipe or big-wave surfing competition.

“They’re dancers,” I thought out loud, to no one.

{WAKE}


Dream Journal 04.26-04.27: “Full Archer Jacket”

Dream Journal 04.26-04.27
“Full Archer Jacket”

I paratroop onto a Chatsworth, CA, warehouse rooftop w/ another soldier. We recon with a tiny drone to find rebel militant locations in the building. They have dug an ICBM silo under the warehouse. We are here to shut it down.

We spelunk into the building through a busted skylight, pass all sorts of people, none of whom concern themselves with us. Find the rebel headquarters on the 1st floor. They think I’m one of them, bringing them my partner as a prisoner. Treat me like a hero, giving me a foot-long croissant and a huge gun with a Victrola Victor Talking Machine phonograph speaker-horn for a barrel.

“It shoots death frequencies,” the rebel leader tells me in Spanish. “Don’t fire it at the sky or use it at a zoo.”

The militants, who look like they’ve stepped out of the Archer Vice San Marcos jungle, keep giving me equipment (walkie-talkies, a Nespresso, etc). Over and over I escape out a basement door via a secret elevator with an apartment front door as its door. The rebels mistake me for one of them every time, and never figure me out. My partner never escapes.

The final time I escape across the street, the sun has just set, and the rebel commander appears on the warehouse roof. He shoots the Victrola phonograph horn gun into the sky as my commander yells “Goddamn!” in Gunnery Sergeant Hartman fashion.

A few seconds later a small yacht floats down from the sky, nose first. It appears about to crash into the grassy area of a public pool complex next door, but then does a loop-de-loop and drifts slowly, though clearly out of control, over the pool filled w/ raucous kids, between diving boards, into large hedge, hurting no one.

The rebel leader points the Victrola horn gun right at us across the street and yells something we can’t understand. A rush of wind picks up intensity and blows seagulls backwards by us, struggling to fly.

“Hold on, boys,” my commander says.

{WAKE}


Dream Journal 04.25-04.26

I’m the star of a reality show called “Surfin’ The Pole” where I tour the North Atlantic on a surfboard. One episode had me find a hidden river that led away from the ocean and took me through quaint Finnish towns.

The river was the de facto Main Street through all the towns, and I waved at people and stopped for food along the way, all the while never leaving my surfboard. The water was crystal blue, not all that cold, and looked like amusement park waterslide water.

{WAKE}


Dream Journal 04.24-04.25

Suburban Supermarket
(à la Harris Teeter or Piggly Wiggly)

I’m talking to my mother in the beer section, sitting on the floor with my back against a fridge door, looking up at her. Cases of beer piled high in the aisle lend us some privacy. I’m beyond agitated.

“All the meat used to convict these people had the same date,” I tremble and point off to my right. “They used the same packages! Not a single one of these people is guilty, Mom!”

In the distance, a “slow parade of the guilty” – six people shackled together, heads bowed – moves by a large deli case by the cashiers. Shoppers heckle, hiss and toss old cold cuts at them while onlookers laugh.

I flash back to a man (Samuel Jackson – type) in a hidden bunker letting me in on the secret, showing me clues on the cold cut packaging that unravel the mystery.

My mother says, “Get a grip on yourself, Dave.”

I point around. “But this is all a lie! Everything here.”

“Go buy some dinner,” my mom says. “Ease your mind off all this.”

I wander to the deli and prepared food section towards the front of the store. I feel exposed. In one case are two huge halves of red cabbage. They are so large that nothing else fits in the case. The next case has globular gray slabs labeled “World’s Best Chicken Parm!”

Seemingly friendly butcher says “Hey there! Hungry?”

{WAKE}


[words] Mall Kiosk Dreams 20170118.1700

​2 Quid Squid

  • British accented (Sheffield preferred) servers hawk deep fried squid served in mid-90s News Of The World replica newspaper cones

The Fry Friar

  • Belgian Trappist monk uniformed workers serve frites in take out clamshell bowls shaped like giant mussels
  • NO ketchup – only mayo + mustard

The Tweet Suite

  • Buy a 100% guaranteed tweet from an expert writer
  • Kiosk shaped like a church confessional
  • Customer and writer interact through a latticed privacy panel

[dream journal] 102616

Sitting in an old theater – Ziegfield-esque, worn red velvet seats, dilapidated condition. I’m fifteen rows up, center. Woman behind me leans in and says, “Isn’t this the worst film ever?”

“I haven’t really watched it yet,” I say to her without turning around. I hear her lean back into her seat and turn my attention to the screen.

The film is called “Toaster Test” and stars Kevin Spacey as an everyday shlub named Herb and Hugh Grant as The Devil. While making breakfast one morning, Herb sees The Devil materialize the reflection of his toaster. In the course of their interaction, The Devil shows Herb how he’ll die in a motorcycle accident.

Cut to black.

Fade in on lobby of a fancy hotel with huge circular banquettes arranged around tall, endlessly high columns at regular intervals around the room. The Devil lowers himself slowly from the ceiling haze and settles on a banquette next to Herb.

“Hey, Herb,” he says, low and slow in Herb’s ear.

{WAKE}


[dream journal] spiderticks

written upon waking…

My wife, Cat, and I, along with our dog, Sterling, are lounging in a tiny apartment, watching television. The apartment is a studio, so we are on a fold up futon/bed. It appears to be 30 or 40 years into the future. The television program seems to have something to do with faking people into eating wax fruit on the street as a joke. The host laughs very loudly and has a catch phrase – “See? People will do anything!”

“This show sucks,” I say to Cat.

“You put it on,” she counters. I nod, hitting the remote and flipping the tv off. Just as I do, Sterling leaps from the futon and begins to chase what looks like a giant hairy brownish-black spider (12-16 inches across, including legs) around the one-room apartment. Cat leaps up, opens the front door and catches Sterling by the collar, almost in one motion.

“Holy crap!” Cat shouts.

As Cat has the door open and dog by the collar, I chase the creature out into the hallway of our apartment building, the walls and ceiling of which are painted an electric red. The floor is white. A cable running along the wall has been chewed through and a section of it is missing. Walking down the hall a bit, I peer underneath a baseboard radiator to find the creature nesting, having built a shelter out of the cabling. It is visibly breathing.

“You and Sterling tired it out,” I say to Cat as I come back into our apartment and shut the door. She looks up from an iPad.

“I looked up the spider,” Cat said. “And it’s not really a spider.”

“Really?” I ask. “Then what?”

“It’s a spidertick. See,” she turns the iPad to me and shows me a picture of exactly what we just chased. “They can suck a small child’s blood dry if they put their mind to it.”

“Jesus,” I say. “Where’s Sterling?”

“Ay yay yay,” Cat says. “He went out into the hall again.”

I return to the hallway to find Sterling napping across from the creature’s nest. “Get out of here,” I tell him. He reluctantly skulks back into our apartment. I shut the door and return to the nest. I have a broom in hand and start poking underneath the radiator at the nest. I pull the broom out as a few hundred baby spiderticks scatter in every direction. Apparently I’ve punctured a mother spidertick, and the babies got released. A few dozen make their way up the broom handle. I fling the broom down and start running back towards my apartment.

…wake up


[dream journal] suppression / oppression

written upon waking

DREAM #1

30 or 40 years into the future. I am a cub reporter for a large newspaper, maybe the NYTimes or The Guardian, walking into a darkened overfilled, high-floor conference hall to await an announcement by the mayor. Entrance to the hall is a spiral ramp with no railings suspended over the commercial floor below. I have two older colleagues with me and we are met by a huge security goon and forced to sit in the last row of seats with him. We see more goons approaching from the spiral into the hall. They are all headed for us.

The head goon turns to us and says “If you publish your findings, we will take your Section Six Clearance badge,” then turns to me and says “since you’re the cause of all this, we’ll just take yours now.”

“He doesn’t have it here. It’s downstairs,” says one of my colleagues, a gruff Jimmy Breslin type in a porkpie hat. “Leave him alone.”

I am grabbed by the approaching goon and held in place. Tears start to well onto my lower eyelids. “What has be country become?” I ask. “Where has my country gone?”


DREAM #2

At the New Jersey house in which I grew up, also in the future – maybe 15 years. It’s on ~5 acres of wooded property; not a lot of views of neighbors. Moonlight filtering through the trees. Rumbles from outside keep interrupting dinner preparation w/ my parents & my wife. I am waiting on friends to show up to join us.

“What’s going on?” I ask. “Is that noise outside Leila and Jonny getting here?”

“I don’t know. Go check on it,” my dad says, putting on an oven mitt and slapping it on the counter twice.

I step outside to find two US Postal Service flatbed towing trucks idling in the driveway. I knock on one of the windows and ask, “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting to get into our lot,” the driver says.

“But this is our house, our driveway. It’s private,” I say.

“We can wait anywhere we want,” he snaps back and rolls up his window. I look up to see that the flatbeds have multiplied. There are perhaps 6 or 8 now idling in the driveway. I go back in the house.

My friends Leila and Jonny have arrived. She is a small Asian woman and he is a tall, blonde Dane. Leila’s shirt has a hole in it and she points at mine. “You have it, too,” she says.

I look down to see that my shirt also has a hole in it.

“What does it mean?” I ask her.

“Why should it?” she asks.

I head upstairs to change my shirt, but all of a sudden, a deafening noise rumbles from outside. “Our dogs!” Leila shouts.

I run outside to find two Armored Personnel Carriers, emblazoned with Postal Service logos, tearing across the lawn and woods around the house, destroying everything in sight. They run over a gardening shed while the dogs run around and underneath them. One of the dogs comes over to me and I am joined outside by the others. My dad leans in to me and says, “That’s the dog that wouldn’t get in our car.”

wake up


[dream journal] two four one

written upon waking

on a jumbo jet plane that lands in a vacant lot
“where are we?” i ask the girl next to me
“looks like we’ve landed in burundi,” she says.
puts her hand on my arm
“better gather your stuff”
exit the plane and everyone starts running as if trying to escape from something.
flight attendant calls out
“the passport office is across the street!”
i grab all my bags (three – two shoulder-mounted carry ons and a small suitcase w/ no wheels), run to the other end of the dusty vacant lot and enter a colonial house.
a woman rushes into the kitchen
“the passport office?” i ask, reaching into my carry-on bag to produce my passport.
“across the street,” she says. “Two One Four Seventh Avenue. This is Two Four One. Everyone gets confused.”
“Oh,” I say.
Leave the house. Get out to the street. Looking at the numbers as i walk .


Then, smash-cut to a restaurant with my family.
taking off my winter coat, i turn from the table for a second as I place my hat, gloves and scarf into the coat’s sleeve. i turn back to hang it on my chair and someone has taken my seat.
from behind, i recognize this person as a former neighbor who couldn’t stand me (the feeling was almost mutual, though i took the high road). he is now jammed in and making friendly conversation with my mother and brother.
“don’t worry,” says my father. “things are bound to change.”
“well, i gotta go to the rest-room,” i say, slamming my outerwear onto the table and heading to a set of stairs on the far side of the restaurant.
down into the dank.
slimed walls, blackened wet floors. steam everywhere.
find the unisex bathroom.
two toilets. one low and and dry. the other high (~3-4 feet off the ground), almost overflowing with a frothy blue milky gurgle, but the liquid is staying just under the rim in a bubbling cold-boil.
decide to use the high one though questioning the choice out loud to myself.
as i’m relieving myself, awkwardly, a crazy skinny nerd kid with coke-bottle glasses bursts into the bathroom, spouts out gibberish words, bends down by the high toilet and proceeds to drink from the frothy blue gurgle.
“filet of fish is a filibuster of french fried forgeries and fickle…” he just goes on and on
“hey!” i call out. “I’m using this!”
the kid suckles his mouth over the side of the toilet, catching a mouthful of the liquid as it splashes up to the rim, stands up, looks down and spits it all onto my right converse high top
“what the fuck!” i scream and jam him up against the wall
he knocks his head on the tile and begins to moan more gibberish
woman runs into the bathroom and pulls me off of him
“what are you doing?” she screams at me
“he attacked me with filth” i respond with force.

{wake up}


The Hinrinson (Disquiet0076-dreamsound)

More on this 76th Disquiet Junto project:
http://disquiet.com/2013/06/13/disquiet0076-dreamsound/

More details on the Disquiet Junto at:
http://soundcloud.com/groups/disquiet-junto

STORY:

I’m in Detroit. Or what I think is Detroit. Wandering around in the rain. I’m in town to play a show and I can’t sleep. Neon lights abandoned Main Street. Restaurants and artist studios nestled between broken glass windows and crumbling bricks. Harbinger or fossil? Hard to tell.

I pass a shaky-looking guy on the street.

“I’m looking for Hinrinson’s,” I say to him.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just walk up the hill, take the right fork and it’ll be right there on your left.”
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