Blue_Opossum

Morning of October 19, 2018. Friday.

Dream #: 18,932-02. Reading time (optimized): 2 min. Readability score: 58.



In my dream, I am in an unfamiliar field, though it eventually seems to be modeled after the playground of my elementary school. A boy is playing soccer with older males. At one point, there is an accident. He gets kicked hard by others and falls so that his body vanishes. (This is the typical nonsensical “dream logic.”)

There are other people present making comments about the situation, saying that the boy should not have been there in the first place, implying the team members should have been within the same age range. It had been late in the afternoon, but now it is getting to be nighttime, and people are still debating the event.

An unfamiliar male (the preconscious avatar of this dream) picks up one end of a sidewalk. (This would be the northwest area of the West Elementary playground, but my dream self is only vaguely aware of this.) I lift the other (west) side, and we pick up the whole section, though it remains mostly diagonal. The body is not underneath it. I then start talking about how the season and the temperature relates to the level of difficulty in lifting sidewalk sections. I consider that we may be checking under all the others, but I wake after this scene.

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In the study of tens of thousands of my dreams on a day-to-day basis since childhood (for over fifty years), I have unlocked the recurring function of the preconscious helping my non-lucid dream self to resolve enigmatic space and return to consciousness. An aspect of this is “finding the sleeper,” which stems from the obvious subliminal thought of “Am I sleeping?” as well as “Where am I?” or “Where can my conscious self be found?” (to return to real life, not from the philosophical standpoint.)

The RAS simulacrum is lifting a sidewalk section to look under it, and I decide to help him (choosing to participate in my potential wakefulness). This process stems from childhood lucid dreams, where I would deliberately evade the RAS process and its avatars by sinking into the ground and chanting “invisible, invisible.” (I would find myself in an underground cave. I used to use devices, such as canes and bracelets with buttons, to augment my intent of sustaining my dream.)

The location is the same area where I deliberately sank under the ground in childhood lucid dreams, to sustain my adventure and the dream state after emergence into its vivified form. (Now, I mostly use doors, staircases, and virtual melatonin reinducers; water splashes and Naiads.)

The reticular formation’s simulacrum lifting the sidewalk section is modeled after the lifting of a trapdoor, to remind me that my waking life identity can leave the essence of the dream world. The falling boy was the vestibular event. My location and orientation in contrast to the preconscious avatar’s were the same as in those early dreams. (Ultimately, I am, at least physically, no longer a boy, so that property will not necessarily emerge during the waking process.)

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Morning of August 4, 2017. Friday.



I am not of my conscious self, though there are a few threads in which I am aware of a few facets of my identity. I am not sure of my implied age; perhaps it is only about twenty. Mostly, I am only aware of my mother. My mother has recently died. However, I think I can talk with her by initiating some sort of will.

The scene is distorted and my memory is askew. My mother is in the baby cot of our present address, though the baby cot unrealistically accommodates her full height. I do not see it as my present address (even though it is) as I have no discernible memory of my conscious self’s present living location. I speak to her, trying to will her eyes to open, on thought alone. It seems to work at times, but is she really okay with this act, or is she angry at me for “waking” her? Holding her eyes open by my mental will alone eventually seems a bit strange.

I go into a room that might be considered to be my room in Cubitis, last seen in 1978, although I have no memory or viable association with Cubits and the room is different anyway. I realize that keeping my mother’s remains in the box from the Barnabas Collins “Dark Shadows” board game is proving to be problematic. I do not even consider that, realistically, my mother would never have fit in this little pretend coffin of cardboard. By way of a false memory, I know that other people are known to keep the bodies of the deceased around their house. It is not unusual; it is a tradition, and yet, a part of my mother’s remains have leaked from the bottom of the box, like acid from an old battery, reminding me of my Kenner Easy-Show movie projector being ruined by leaking batteries so that I could no longer repeatedly watch the same short Thor and Flintstones cartoons on my Cubitis bedroom’s south wall. (My mother had told me to throw out my movie projector, which had been a combined birthday and Christmas gift from my older sister Carol, and to not touch the leaking batteries that had ruined it.)

The gore may be toxic and I am concerned that I had better not eat or touch my face or mouth until I wash my hands, so that no decaying syrupy gore poisons me. I spend a very long time washing and rinsing my hands under the bathtub faucet. The light is bright and I am actually in our present home, though I am not my conscious self and I have no clue to my real life status. I still have to find a place for the Barnabas Collins cardboard container with the plastic lid, which contains my mother’s remains, even though it is just a little box. I have to bury it somewhere. It is in too poor a condition to keep in the open now.

There is some sort of temporary offset dream, where I find myself living on Barolin Street. Two unfamiliar men seem to think that I have taken their truck. They come in through the back way without even knocking. Apparently, the truck was at the front of my house. I certainly did not steal it. I was not even aware of it. These imposers annoy me. They come back a second time as if I had put it back and taken it again. I certainly had not taken it and tell them so. I do not even know what it looks like.

I have to take care of my mother’s remains in the little Barnabas Collins “Dark Shadows” coffin. Her whole body somehow fits in there, with room to spare. She is on her back in this toy coffin from a board game that I had not seen in real life for many years. I decide to bury it inside a set of concrete steps in the Loomis Street backyard, which is also somehow the Cubitis front yard at the same time. The small set of steps does not go anywhere in particular.

For seemingly a long time, as long as it took me to wash my hands, I dig with my hands in the sand. I feel the sand flowing through my fingers. I do not question how a step in a set of concrete steps could be or become sand, but this is where I will bury the toy coffin.

I dig and dig with my hands, and the oblong hole keeps filling back up, not being quite deep enough for burial. Still, I persist with confidence.

The concrete steps have somehow separated, and have transformed into, or have always been, small cardboard boxes of mostly paperback Gothic novels. The area of the ground I had been digging in looks untouched, and it is now normal soil. Will this work out?

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Morning of August 26, 2015. Wednesday.



Dreaming of walking on the surface of the ocean (or in some cases a lake or river), in both lucid and non-lucid dream segments, was more common when I was much younger.

In the first part of this dream, my family and I (as we are now) seem to be living in a large apartment building. It seems to be a very old building which has not been maintained by the owner and is seemingly in a larger city (possibly in America though this is not certain). There are a few other tenants but not any I recognize to any extent, other than getting an impression that Leonard S lives there, perhaps across the hall. I eventually falsely “remember” that we are also renting a small house somewhere in a less urban area (reason unknown - it may relate to either place being randomly problematic at certain times). There is a vague concern about having enough money to keep renting both places (in real life we have only done that in the process of moving and perhaps that is implied in my dream, though the back story is vague).

I am walking through the long hallway at one point and keep noticing, here and there, old hair ties of various darker and lighter colors; some thicker, some thinner and in various stages of wear; that had been dropped. (My hair is presently short so I do not use them for a ponytail, though my hair has usually been very long throughout my life.) The hallway also has a lot of dust and looks like it has not been swept for a long time. I decide to pick up some of the hair ties and also think about sweeping the area as there are also small bits of paper and other debris. When I am in the apartment though, I hear someone else sweeping and get the impression of an older lady starting to maintain some of her building for the first time in years for whatever reason. I also get the impression of dust somehow coming through the mopboard (skirting) area into our apartment though this does not concern me, especially as I vaguely realize that it would not be possible (ironic since I am flying after this).

Later on, I start flying around over various buildings with no particular destination in mind at first. Eventually, I come to the ocean. A huge creature that looks like an orca whale though much bigger emerges vertically from the water and remains upright and mostly unmoving (and is no threat). It does not seem to have any eyes or other features, only the smooth cylindrical body (slightly too long for a real whale). I cannot decide what it is. I still fly around in the area. I eventually walk around on the water near a large dock that borders a building. (I get a vague idea that I created the “unfinished” creature as well as bringing up small islands in the distance beyond, but these vague impressions are not reconciled, including with a subtle secondary unseen presence I am not sure about though I seem to be communicating with “her” somehow as I am flying around - though “she” seems to be everywhere and much larger than me somehow.)

In the last segment of my dream, I remember that many of my relatives have died, including Carol and Marilyn. However, I find myself with an unopened thick small plain envelope that was apparently sent to us by Marilyn just prior to her death. It dawns on me that (due to its atypical thickness for an otherwise ordinary letter) it may contain money, though that is not what I notice when I open it. I take out a large Japanese fan (that is then too large to have fit in the envelope though I do not consider this distortion) that is mostly white. At one point I get an impression that I can talk to her but only because time is quite distorted (and I am not sure where I am in time). It seems extraordinarily odd that people can cease to exist. It does not seem to make any sense of how this is possible, though vaguely, I am also aware of time being in “layers” where people still exist in certain layers and scenarios and I am trying to remember what “time layer” I am in and whether or not I can talk to or visit certain people.

Morning of October 13, 2014. Monday.



There were (among other dreams on this date) three dreams that slightly ran into each other. The last one was extraordinarily lucid, of the type of apex lucidity I do not usually post online, though there is a humorous side here. I enter the state somewhat slowly, being aware of the various environmental features which come into focus and which I know are solely in-dream (which is typical of this state since earliest memory). Finally, when I am in the full-body state, having arrived, so to speak, I notice it is a version of my sister Marilyn’s house, being similar to her living room. This was probably residue from the previous longer dream (which was non-lucid). Within a short time, with no need to mentally will a scenario, a goddess-like girl appears, seemingly a younger version of my wife but dressed somewhat atypically. (The Loomis Street house is where I was staying when she first wrote to me in 1991.) I am fascinated with the realism and reach out for a full embrace. She seemed to have walked from around a corner, although technically there was no corner and it was more like walking from behind an invisible prism of human height. I am amazed by the clarity and the beauty of the imagery. However, I am also aware of environmental noises at times (in the real environment as I am sleeping).

I decide to leave the dream state to make sure my real body is in a comfortable position. However, when I “wake”, I do not notice right off that I have had a false awakening into another dream (though I am not lucid now) and in much the same environment. Eventually, I do come to realize that I went into a less vivid dream rather than really waking up, which seriously annoys me, so then I do wake up.

Previously, my earlier dream was a typical “search” type where I just look for old documents and such. I had wanted my mother’s old letters to my sister to do more research on my life that I had not documented myself, as she wrote quite often to Marilyn from mid-1967 to mid-1978. However, after my sister died in real life it was the typical fiasco where one person (not even a relative, but a supposed “friend” of hers) decides to throw everything out with no consideration for anyone else in the family or even attempting to communicate with anyone. In my dream, though, I actually see a younger version of my sister walking to one of her dressers and she seems slightly confused by how everything has been put into bundles, with almost everything in her house in stacks (including clothes, books, personal documents, and so on). I do manage to find some letters, which I believe are the ones I want. There is also a scene where a box has been put aside with certain things wrapped for my oldest daughter. There are many manila envelopes in the front room that seem sealed, some apparently related to comic books I had made for her (far more than in reality).

In another dream, I am seeing most of humanity as a different “species” than myself, which is no surprise. People, that is human beings, start out as some sort of chimpanzee-like being and as they grow older, they turn into a creature that resembles a baby elephant. This is possibly a play on how “apocalyptic” elephants came from representing my childhood fear (pachydermophobia developed out of real-life events) to representing people falsely promoting soon-upcoming worst-case scenarios (doomsday or judgement “trumpeting”).

Morning of September 28, 2008. Sunday.



I am back in one of my old apartments at the King Street boarding house, this one being the larger middle room on the eastern side of the hall (on the second floor). I am involved in some sort of unusual semi-lucid “ride” which takes up much of the central area of my room, which is being in the second train-car of a small black train, which at one point is more like being inside a larger solid box that tips and moves - and with me being unsure of my destination - there is a very vague awareness (but not a fear or stronger concern) that it is coffin-like. At one point, the miniature train (about the size of one at a park for children) moves out beyond the east wall, seemingly out into the night or very early morning, yet not falling. At one point, there does not even seem to be a wall. There is a vague awareness of how the little black train is “death” in reference to the Woody Guthrie song which I had listened to a lot in the recent past. However, the unusual orientation does not seem that eerie or ominous in-dream. It does seem unusually familiar at one point. There is no one else in the dream. The movement of my train seems automatic.

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On one level, this is probably just a metaphor for the dreaming and waking process itself as many dream events are in addition to just being a song association.

Morning of November 26, 2007. Monday.



This dream (which continued after partial sleep paralysis) had a really unusual focus; it was an incredibly vivid dream, but had a strange state at one point of being “locked” between being awake and being asleep, somewhat uncomfortable and annoying, but not frightening in any way.

During the time I am almost fully awake at one point, I am gazing at the wall. I see some sort of writing that looks like it was carved into the wood at some point in the past. I think that the writing has just now become more visible, because, even though it was “fixed” in the past, some sort of wear has occurred again, making the writing visible (dream “logic”).

I am trying to read it, but my head cannot stay up for very long - as I am “locked” in the sleep mode and cannot quite fully wake myself up even though my eyes are wide open. There is something about the year 1938, I think. Some sort of distortion takes place and it looks like some sort of animal or creature (a mouse?) in the middle of the hall but I focus into a more awake mode and see that my perception is seriously screwed up and that I had been looking at the metal toolbox by the front door of the hall and that it is somehow of “reversed” 3-D imagery so that it was concave-like into the wall instead of being a box. This annoys me so much that I keep pushing myself awake by looking into the hall, but fail, and my head falls and I sleep an hour or so longer with mild sleep paralysis. This would be a potentially dangerous state if physical action was really required, I think, although it is probably likely I would be fully awake if there was an actual potential threat.

In the continuing actual dream state again, when my eyes are again closed, there are two intense perfectly circular beams of light coming down from the sky, which reminds me a lot of the special effects in “The Frighteners” when souls were supposedly going into Heaven. I am in awe and wonder as if it means the “end of the world” - in “some ways” (but oddly, not in a bad way, though there is a sense of loss and sadness). I get this overwhelming feeling that the whole Earth is moving in a different way or not being where it should be, like going out of orbit or something (but oddly, perhaps not “physically” out of orbit - hard to explain). A little later, I am walking around, looking for the rays, but I cannot see them now…

This was one of the last dreams in my old online journal from 2007, just as it was written other than with only minor edits for grammar and spelling.

Three days after this dream, I heard of an older brother in the USA dying. Another older brother died after that in June of 2008. I am not sure why the number 1938 seemingly appeared as they were both born in the 1940s (1940 and 1947 to be exact). I had no clue this would happen as I did not have that much contact and when I did, they were doing fine.

Morning of September 7, 1974. Saturday.



I am in a mostly empty room, seemingly in my middle school, but yet a bit unfamiliar. There is mostly only a folding table, I think, and about five or six folding chairs. However, that does not seem quite right as the chairs (only at one point) have divided legs - the two parts of each silver leg are very thin but meet at the bottom and at times seem they would collapse if someone sat on them (though I remain standing). I do not think that there is anyone else around. However, for a very brief time (only a few seconds) I seem suddenly fearful of an “alien presence” or perhaps ghostly (may relate to classmate MG’s unexpected death earlier this year) though that seems odd due to the room showing no direct signs that anyone but myself is around. This slight “terror” passes fairly quickly. (I get the vague impression that Susan R and I had been playing checkers, but this may or may not be residual memory from an actual earlier scene - seemingly somehow related to whether MG lives or dies, like a false memory from before the event).

Still, I seem to think there is someone else around who follows me unseen (MG?). The scene shifts to the front of a fancy residence. I am walking into the unfamiliar house but am not sure why. For some reason, I get the impression that someone (MG? - or possibly Kip B, the only other male around at the time when MG wanted to fight me that last day) is talking about being in the “right frame of mind”. Apparently, you need to be in the “right frame of mind” to be “worthy” of being in this high-class-appearing residence. I do not actually see whoever has apparently said this. Instead, I see myself from a disembodied perspective (about six feet away) as the “other me” turns around and angrily states, “…assuming you even have a frame of mind!” which seems to be sarcasm at whom now does seem like Kip B only in thought, though it could relate to my own uncomfortable mental state relating to MG’s unexplainable passing (which lasted for about a year).

Night of March 15, 1974. Friday.



Flashback to real life. He was thirteen. I was thirteen. Walking from the southwest exit of the school I was surprised by his attack upon me, knocking my books from my arm but not touching me directly. “You’re evil,” he said, “How do you know so much about what’s going to happen?" He seemed so angry and I had no clue what he was referring to other than the fact that certain classmates seemed suspicious of me for no particular reason (likely due to my ethnicity and little else, though many thought I was Asian). We were about the same size. He was born in Queens, New York but came to this small isolated town a couple years before. I never knew this. Until 2014. He was a Catholic. Another thing I never knew until now.

I was totally confused by his unexpected behavior. He had rarely even spoken to me before that day and I did not recall ever seeing him angry before or even that annoyed by anything. I was the last classmate he ever spoke to. I did not know until later. The calmer and friendlier I remained, the angrier and more out of control he got but we did not actually fight or make physical contact at all. He remained standing about four feet away at the closest, facing the entrance of the school, seeming nervous and hesitant. He did not move as I picked up my textbooks and notebooks. I did not have a clue. "Get'im, M,” said another classmate walking by on his way to the bus stop at the end of this school day.

I caught myself absentmindedly giggling as one would laugh at a lunatic on a television show…and of course, this made him even more angry, his breathing more and more coarse, almost as if he had been running for a long time. Eventually, he walked off westerly on his own and off the school grounds, never looking back. Two girls, to my right, the only others around, leaning against the outer wall of the school perpendicular to where I was, gave me an amused look, one whispering to the other and the other shaking their head and looking back at me.

This…made…no…sense. At all. How could a thirteen-year-old boy act so angry? And why?

My dream. It was lucid and almost overpowering. Susan R kept “pushing” at me mentally. “Are you thinking about me?" She kept saying. "Don’t think about M. Think only about me. Please." The imagery was somewhat kaleidoscopic. Her head, her essence, almost seemed like it was on a Ferris wheel. "Please. Are you thinking about me? You must only think about me." It went on for about two hours. I felt dizzy and strange for a time and felt like I was replaying "The Chrysalids” in my mind later on, and actually slept on the living room floor near my door that night and for some reason felt as if all my energy was gone. I was not angry or upset. I was just very puzzled. My mother did not wake me. I had slept there a few times before during a bad storm.

Night of March 16, 1974. Saturday.

In my dream, Susan walks up to me with her arms crossed over her chest. There was a knee-high mist everywhere. “M’s gone…” she informs me. She lowers her head and cohesion is lost.

Night of March 19, 1974. Tuesday.

In reality, I did not return to school on Monday, but on Tuesday due to a mild illness. That was when I learned that M had died suddenly on Saturday; no explanation. I learned this when I asked Roosevelt where he was when I noticed he was not at his desk, only asking because of the previous week’s events - otherwise I probably would not have regarded his empty seat. “He died,” he said sadly. Nothing was said of him after…ever. I did see his photo in a frame in the bank where his mother worked.

A thirteen-year-old should not have so much hate and anger and then just die without cause. This event, for many years, made me even more passive in my communication with people. I thought about it way too much and of course, it took over a year to put it farther back in my mind. Although it was not that often, when people seemed angry with me for no reason, I felt relaxed and calm. In fact, in the back of my mind, I decided that if I were to become angry or aggressive, I could just die suddenly. I have grown out of this way of thinking over the years, but I still do not hold anger very long. It is as if I had been conditioned. In fact, I have learned that even when I “sound” angry (including in writing), I am not, as if people cannot “read” me correctly.

In my dream of this night, I was at my middle school in the homeroom classroom. It is seemingly after hours. I am the only one around, it seems. The room is of an eerie semidarkness.

My attention is brought to two shadowy figures under a large table (almost as if they are indulging in a game of hide-and-seek). They are seated on their knees and clasping hands in silhouette - which I believe is imagery borrowed from a version of “The Newlywed Game”. It is very strange. I sense the female on the left is the “mystery girl” yet I also contemplate it is Susan. The one on the right is “me”. I am watching myself - like an older future version (or perhaps “revision”) of “me”. This seems to be some sort of eerie occult ritual even though it is just a silhouette of two people at the beginning of marriage, perhaps.

A disembodied voice comes through the doorway. “It is alright that M died because his family killed horses!" The voice declares this ominously. A suffocating horse writhes and dies in the classroom directly in front of me, its eyes bulging. A disturbing sound emanates from that area of the room.

I wake in terror…and a year later, I was more at ease.

Night of March 16, 1975. Sunday.

M appears in my room. There is a pale glow all around him. He seems happy. He says things are okay now.