Blue_Opossum

Morning of January 19, 2015. Monday.



This is another typical King Street boarding house dream, with nothing relevant to my character or present life. It is a dream I could have had thirty years ago and not known the difference in waking up then or now. Still, I document everything for long-term study (as always, since early childhood) regardless of the type that seems like residual “what if” dregs from the 1980s.

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I make my way to King Street. A male I knew at that time, Don K, is walking with me at one point, carrying a couple full bottles of wine. We end up going into the house through the main front entrance and the landlord and landlady (though started by the landlord), both deceased in reality, go into a bizarre rhythmic “mantra” (with the accented phrasing in the opposite areas as would otherwise seem normal). It seems like some sort of insult to anyone that goes into their house, including a relevance to their desire to be alone. The “song” is one of the oddest things I have heard in a long time.

Don and I end up in the pinhead’s (Leonard S) old room at the southern end of the house. The room is mostly empty. We then drink from different wine bottles. I notice that my bottle, in addition to containing red wine, is also thick with dry powder that does not fully blend with the wine and is apparently crushed sleeping pills. Still, I drink parts of it in small amounts, not really wanting the full effect of either. In reality, I had never taken any form of medication of this kind and rarely ever drank. I attempt to stir it but there is so much powder, the fluid nature of the wine is minimal and nearly too viscous to flow naturally from the bottle. I take about five drinks over time. We are seemingly going to go to Third Street and perhaps meet with others but my dream fades.

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What is interesting is that in the past, I was often within dreams of the future, including those involving the “mystery girl”. Now that I actually “live the dream” so to speak, I often mentally travel to mundane facets of the past (with alternate histories and even no-longer necessary “rehearsals”), almost as if it is some sort of “balancing” function to remind me of the human aspects and encounters of my otherwise legend-like path.

Don was actually the one to inform me of the King Street house availability (while we both worked at the same factory), which was my first unshared apartment in real life at seventeen. It is interesting in that Don was also the worst possible reference I could have had, yet once the owners learned that I was not at all like Don, they let me rent the apartment. Ironically, he was evicted from his apartment shortly after I moved into mine, for drunkenness and leaving broken glass on the lawn.

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