Blue_Opossum

Morning of October 4, 2017. Wednesday.



A task is given to me but the backstory is unclear. I find myself with two cans of paint and I believe I am supposed to paint two chests of drawers, one bigger than the other. I am painting (or apparently had been painting) in a sloppy way. There is a large uneven horizontal streak of orange paint at the bottom of the front with the drawers apparently being a bluish color. I notice that I had accidentally combined the two colors (dark orange and a darker yellow) into the container and I try to think of a way to separate the colors (which of course is not logical). However, I end up stirring the colors together even more, and as I do this, several other colors are seen in the mix. It then seems to be more of a dark blue and green color (which is illogical, as orange and yellow certainly do not produce any shade of blue or green). I think that maybe I will just use the one color, though the person who owns these apparent antiques might be dissatisfied. At one point, one chest of drawers has an uneven coat of an ugly dull blue color. I am annoyed, as both of my paint brushes are sticky and thick with paint, making them difficult to use competently.

I think about this situation as being of the wrong thing to do, as I consider that the furniture looks much better in its natural wood grain. It turns out I am right. The male who had given me the work to do did not want the chests of drawers painted. I do not talk to him directly, but I see him from a distance. He reminds me somewhat of the teacher I had for wood shop classes at WWTI, but also a little of the owner of the pawnshop in the same city (La Crosse). It is a different (unfamiliar) male of about twenty who tells me the other male did not want them painted, but varnished.

There is an unusual change in the situation without much thought about what had happened. Now it seems that I had not painted the chests of drawers at all, though this is actually a reset of my dream.

An unknown female (of about forty) is showing some people some furniture, mainly chests of drawers (all of them of a natural wood grain) in a sequence of about eight or so in an unknown location. I start to point out how great one of them looks. It is fancy. It has brass handles on all the drawers and narrower scroll work all around. (It does not look like any furniture I had seen in real life, at least not recently.) Two of them, including the fancy one on the right end of the series, are apparently the ones I had originally been painting but I do not consider how I reset my dream due to being annoyed. The other one I had been painting is about the fourth left of the fancy one.

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The tendency to reset or “start my dream over” when I am dissatisfied with how it is going is of a curious type of non-lucid dream control that I have experienced naturally since early childhood.

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Morning of July 14, 2017. Friday.



I am in an unknown residence that has a lot of rooms of which are filled with junk that I plan to get rid of. The first setting seems to be a basement (or like a basement), yet is seemingly not underground, though it seems to have a dirt floor at times. There are large long shelves in a number of locations. Much of the junk seems to be parts of picture frames, nails, and documents I no longer need or want.

In one scene, I seem to be in the northernmost (northeast) room of the King Street boarding house, where I have not lived (in reality) in over twenty-five years. The bed is aligned lengthways along the west wall, head to the north (an orientation never utilized in reality). For the first time ever in a dream, my mother (July 14, 1916-October 2, 2002) is associated with the King Street boarding house as living there in my dream. (Although my wife Zsuzsanna and I have been together in many dreams since we met in reality, including as implied to be living in the King Street boarding house even though she has never been to America, I find it astounding upon realizing my mother had never been in this dream setting as far as I presently know.)

I had found an outfit (combined sweater and pants) for my youngest daughter and had brought it into the room. My mother seems angry that someone else had apparently thrown it out but is glad that I had retrieved it for use for my daughter’s benefit.

Later, there seem to be a number of other (unknown) people going through the miscellaneous junk. The actor John Larroquette (as he appeared in the television series “Night Court”) makes an appearance in the final segment. It is mentioned how no one wants most of what is presently sitting about in the large basement-like room.

“In that case, I’ll take these portraits,” he says, picking up two large slightly damaged portraits of himself (which may have originally been left there either by him or someone else).

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Our daughter was somewhat restless this morning. Her clothes appearing in my dream without her was a possible indicator of her being awake while we were sleeping.

My mother seems to be the precursor of my emergent consciousness in this case even though my dream self did not recall that she had died in 2002.

I believe that a dream of cleaning or getting rid of junk is sometimes biological symbolism relating to cellular processes in real time, possibly including a need to get up and use the bathroom.

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The final dream event features coalescence waking symbolism (projected, neutral preconscious). This stems from an analogy with coalescence meditation, of where viewing infinite selves by looking into a mirror on each side is metaphorically resolved as internal unification by then looking forward into the mirror reflecting the one self (in whole consciousness).

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Morning of April 14, 2016. Thursday.

Dream #: 18,014-02. Reading time (optimized): 2 min 30 sec.



My dream starts as a typical painting and maintenance dream. The setting is a version of our present home with a fictitious open room between the lounge room and dining area where a big wardrobe against the west wall is between them.

I have clarity as I enjoy my work. I have an occasional concern about paint dripping on folded clothes on wardrobe shelves and the floor. It is light blue paint that changes to a cream color and back to blue. It occurs (several times) when switching back and forth to the different rooms. At one point, I am concerned by the thicker ridges caused by having slapped on too much paint.

Above our bed, a short distance from the ceiling is an artistic feature left by the former tenant. There are red ribbons in a trailing frame pattern that partially enclose a large and rectangular piece of tinfoil that blocks about eighty percent of the view of the ceiling. I try to paint around it.

I see a large and ancient painted tapestry. The paint seems to have expanded and blurred over time. I recall that all I have to do is touch something to refurbish or perfect it. I feel the upper right corner of the tapestry. As a result, it becomes beautiful and more defined as I watch, more detail clarifying the image in a slow sweep from right to left. I think I will finish painting the walls this way. Even so, the walls paint themselves in a light cream and blue pattern as the previous lumps and minor cracks smooth out.

I summon a haunting (regular in dreams since childhood). I pretend the room is haunted, knowing if I concentrate, I can bring about a haunting. I read various large letters and word clusters on the wall. An unknown female, a professional investigator, who reminds me of actress Helen Kleeb as in the 1970s, writes down what I say, most of which is gibberish I spell out for her.

Eventually, I say, “Oh, it’s a name.” It is Rosemary Berry (unfamiliar, but it reminds me of other rhyming dream names, such as Tony Karoni). I report “Ms” appears before the name. (It is possibly an association with “MS. Found in a Bottle” by Edgar Allan Poe, or Matisyahu’s “Message in a Bottle.” I have recently listened to it and made a version. However, the “MS.” of the Edgar Allan Poe story supposedly means “message” in only some sources and “manuscript” in more credible sources). I am glad signs of a ghost are present even though I am aware it is the result of my pretense.

Suddenly, I am a little boy of about eight years old, and I see an unfamiliar friendly boy (a ghost of a former resident) walking up to a jagged hole in the wall. (This “doorway” is a haunting feature, and other people who are present cannot see it.) I am aware his name is Hamlet. The investigator is supposed to be my mother now. (Helen is the name of my wife Zsuzsanna’s mother). I tell her about Hamlet. She says, “Oh” and remarks with seeming frustration and disappointment, “You’re just dreaming!” She thinks the Rosemary Berry incident we shared previously was a dream. I feel her condescension, but as I am a child, there is not anything I think I could say. She towers over me to my right, and I feel like a child in size contrast.

We walk through a parking lot (for liminal modulation, typically the last setting in a dream). After looking at documents she was carrying in her bag, she cautiously says, “Oh…Hamlet was one of the former residents…” (with attestation emphasis on “was”). She looks at me curiously as I wake slowly.

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Morning of August 14, 2015. Friday.



My dream starts in an unknown building which seems to be a two-storey halfway house for both troubled and homeless youths and adult recovering alcoholics. Richard B (have not seen him in over twenty years) is leaning out a window on the second floor and hammering nails into the outside of that window frame for weatherization and is being filmed for some sort of instructional video. (I am not sure why he is doing it from the inside rather than having a ladder set up on the outside; it would be more feasible, and in fact, to complete the job would be impossible from the inside.) I clean up a room fairly quickly and there is also some painting of at least one room going on.

At one point, I am lying on a mattress in a large room. I get the impression that my mother (deceased) has kept me awake all night from moving potted plants around and doing other things (such as preparing business letters), which is problematic, as I am too tired to get up and go to some sort of school event or other scheduled meeting (though I am aware it is near the last day of school). However, I am also aware that my going to this event is not necessary or I may be wrong with what I am thinking as I may not have to go after all.

Later, I seem to be about twenty years old or younger and am in a room where the house mother (a male that seems to be my foreman from my old Ford Taurus manufacturing job) is writing on a chalkboard. (A “house mother” is typically a strong stocky male that oversees a halfway house.) He has written on the chalkboard (in cursive handwriting) a message concerning about seven or eight new tenants. I read the writing and note that it starts with “Let us all welcome the new tenants, two of whom are from the Karaoke and Lansing tribes” and this is followed by about seven or eight surnames including mine being about the fourth one. I do not sharpen my focus to read all of it, so it is probably not relevant to remote viewing (although the term “Karaoke tribe” actually does exist, oddly enough - which is apparently a group of people who go around singing in various venues and based in La Mirada, California, which I had not known of previously).

Later, I am in the same room, but only one other tenant is present other than the house mother. I say fairly loudly and clearly, “I am going to test if this is a dream.” The two others do not seem to mind. I focus and, while standing, lift both my knees up and hover in the air, rising to the ceiling in eventually a standing position. “Well, it looks like this is a dream,” I say casually, and the two others nod, smile, and agree.

From here, we all fly out from the building through a window on the second floor. However, I fly too close to the building and bang the right side of my head on the eaves. It does not hurt that much, but I feel a strange vibration, like my head is a bell and has just been rung. I note that the others have flown off elsewhere.

When I fly around, I am astounded by the beauty and clear detail of the fictional setting. I then start to think, well, it is time for an outdoor romantic interlude. I fly down near an area where I notice a younger version of my wife in a turquoise bikini, though there are two young males around that may be her younger brothers, though they do not seem familiar otherwise (in other words, not resembling any of her real brothers). An older chubby lady keeps coming out of the house and going back in (and Zsuzsanna does a couple times as well). I am not sure why my wife is seemingly living here at the time. The lady reminds me of a young version of Clara Peller (from the “where’s the beef?” commercials). Eventually, I take my wife behind a shoulder-high hedge that runs parallel to the house’s property line on the right side of it, but annoyingly, the other three people keep coming out and randomly walking around the hedge. I try to shoo them away, but eventually give up and just do what I had intended. Briefly, my wife seems to transform into a part of the hedge and back again which seems a bit strange, but I do not focus on it, and I fly off again shortly after fulfillment (which is quite visual).

From here, I explore another building with amazing clear details, seemingly on the second floor again. I walk by a room that has a low table (about knee-high) that has an image with a teddy bear on it (and there are many other clear details). It looks painted or like a very large decal. The image is quite complex and I am almost certain in afterthought that it is the print of a postage stamp (though I could not find any image close to it anywhere). The teddy bear is in a sailor suit (blue with thinner white stripes) and there is a lot of blue and beige in the image including a beige border. It is sitting near other toys, including a pull-toy of a duck. Exploring other rooms, the visual clarity is almost overwhelming. (My wife reminded me of a cross-stitch design she did similar to the image that was on the table.)

After all of this vivid imagery and flying around and sensual movement and sharpening my focus at least four times throughout my longer dream (with a strange concern about my in-dream breathing at one point, where I have to stop and catch my breath a couple times), I decide to let it go, as my head is starting to feel a bit in “overdrive” and I wake immediately.

Morning of August 7, 2015. Friday.



A child is at a door and cannot quite reach the doorknob (which is atypically high). I only see her silhouette.

“Here, let me get that for you…” She is gone. I hear the sound of the beanbag chair breaking. It is, as always, remote viewing.

I hate to interrupt an artist. Carroll (who looks eerily like my brother-in-law but only from some angles and only at certain times) acknowledges my presence with a respectful nod.

“What do you see?” He asks.

I find myself in a continuously changing three-dimensional landscape that is like a “real” version of “Zoo Scene”. I see what looks like giant butterflies fly about in and out of the structure. I enjoy the imagery for several minutes.

It becomes the real version. I see something that, once I see it, I cannot “unsee” it.

It is a “shark fin” within the structure that is in reality, the road going away from behind the structure. “A predator…” Carroll acknowledges me respectfully and nods.

“You are not to blame for every disadvantaged soul…or for any life ever taken,” he says.

I would tend to agree. Love and respect. In every place. In every time.

Morning of July 2, 1989. Sunday.



I had been painting the larger bathroom on the second floor of the King Street boarding house for my landlady. It is a sort of greenish lighter teal color (much the same as in reality).

After I finish painting, a large crane fly suddenly appears and lands on the north wall near the sink at about shoulder level and with a sudden splat (creating the impression of very small droplets of paint flying out from the surface of the wall), creating a strong focus on tiredness. There is also a sense of disgust that is close to literal nausea.

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Induction factor: water (man-made; bathroom sink). The setting is known and realistic and somewhat public (shared boarding house bathroom). There are no other characters. I seem to have a physical body as I had been painting. Return flight factor features as a crane fly. The mood was primarily of a sense of annoyance and disgust. Additional coalescence factor: paint (fluid), coalescence (as crane fly hitting wall) undesired; seemingly “blocked”. Possible explanation: being subliminally aware of something on my face, possibly my own hair. I also tend to dream of insects in a negative context when being too warm or too cold in addition to being overtired.

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Night of September 26, 1969. Friday.



I am in some sort of museum or art gallery, seemingly late at night, and no one else is around, not even my parents. I go up to a painting of a colorful landscape and the closer I look, the more “energy” I feel. After a short time, it seems I am moving into the painting and then hovering above a very large crowd of men who all look very similar, all equidistant and uniform - each about a person-width apart from each other, seemingly in a huge featureless room with a smooth white floor. They all seem to step forward and are waving a paintbrush in the air and are singing. Each sweater and beret they are wearing matches the color (or actually is the color when zoomed out) in that supposed “drop of paint” in the original painting - and it is as if I am looking at the painting at a very highly magnified level. Also, it seems this may only happen at night. I feel a sense of peace and joy in seeing this unusual “closeup” of the magnificent painting. It is like a wide miniature parade of living colors and reflects a deep feeling of comfort.

Later, my dream decays (or shifts into a different dream state and awareness) into a scene where I walk around looking at lawn mowers in some sort of large garage, but which still seems to be part of the art gallery or museum.

The original dream journal title for this, even when transferred a few times, was “Picture It Strange”, which was, of course, before I learned more about grammar. There was also a stage where it was titled “Pingere”. I wanted to make this into a story and started to when young, but could not think of a plot foundation to “explain” the main events.

Morning of February 5, 1969. Wednesday.



There have been numerous dreams throughout my life which featured ambiguous modes of transportation; for example, of being on a flying school bus which is also somehow an airplane in my dream (yet has the appearance of the inside of a school bus, with the same orientation of the driver and such). There is sometimes a lack of clarity (based on scenes outside the windows, typically) on whether I am on a bus, train, airplane, or even a boat, which of course, sometimes changes (the “morphing” so common in dreams being only one of many reasons why “dream dictionaries” mean nothing to real dream-workers). Also, windows become paintings or vice versa.

In this case, I seem to be “rising” in being on an aircraft, but no, I realize it is likely a bus, which then resolves as a boat, as we seem to be on water (with no awareness of a road). However, just because there is no hint of a road and we are on water does not mean it cannot be a bus (faux dream “logic”). For example, it may be an extremely narrow road over water.

At any rate, I am somehow with a larger rock (which I first take to be a turtle but then it is a rock but which then starts to “wiggle” again), which has somehow come to me through a solid glass (closed) window. There is something in the back of my mind about “The Ugly Duckling” but it is not that clear. Also, there is some sort of fairy tale, I reason, where a swan is actually a girl. Being a black swan, it represents my future wife, as I was familiar with the stamp. There is a “strange tickle” of a type that occurred in other dreams, in my lower stomach area and as the swan wiggles a bit, which may prove to be problematic.

Curiously, the scene with rocks in the water from the “window” then turns out to be a painting (typical of mixed two-dimensional and three-dimensional in-dream elements which other people have told me is fairly common in their own dreams) and I am sitting in a museum after all. However, the “painting” is then that of “The Birth of Venus” (Sandro Botticelli) though she has dark hair and the “angels” are replaced by a white swan and a black swan.

“She’s HERE!” yells a thin old man, seeming terrified and running from the area, going around a corner. The painting starts to glow blue (mostly around the head and shoulders of the dark-haired “mystery girl”) and I fall back empty-handed with a strange “comfortable” oscillation in my ears (always the exact same pitch throughout my life for the most part), falling into nothing, “falling” into my bed awake.

Curiously, shortly before my wife first wrote me in 1991, a new black swan stamp (43 cents) was apparently issued on Valentine’s Day…