Blue_Opossum

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 May 22, 2015. Friday.



There are a number of (seemingly) random facets to this dream. The first event relates to hearing about a comet on a collision course with Earth (the name of the comet not being known or mentioned) and to strike somewhere in New England (America); either Maine or Vermont. I heard the name of the city as well at one point, but do not recall it - or there could have been a “reset” to explain the Maine and Vermont confusion as I seem to recall both conflicting elements. The unusual detail is that it will supposedly not cause that much widespread destruction even though it is indeed an entire comet that had apparently passed by the Earth before. I am not that concerned as I am on the other side of the planet anyway. However, my (deceased) sister Marilyn is also an in-dream character, and she has never been outside the United States. I do seem to be living amidst some of my present real-life features and circumstances, though the setting is ambiguous.

The next part of my dream seems set in possibly our Stadcor Street home in Brisbane (though it does have a few elements reminiscent of our present house’s kitchen). It involves an unknown family cooking an elephant bird (extinct birds from Madagascar - formally known as Aepyornithidae) as some sort of taste test or trial. It is not fully known of how ordinary citizens in a family got the body of an elephant bird, though there is a mention of someone having cloned one. There are only two smaller cooked pieces on the plate (which resemble distorted parts of normal-sized chicken legs with about half the skin removed - which unrealistically represents a part of the otherwise huge bird), but oddly, my dream “resets” twice - where I eat the two pieces as three different people in a sequence; a black female of about thirty, one of her sons of about thirteen (who I believe cooked the meal), and as myself as I am now. I do not question this strange transition and impossible series of events of the changing in-body perspectives - it is like spiritually “jumping” from body to body for a very short time to experience the essence of how the person is moving and what they are tasting. The female gets annoyed by a single small red ant crawling on the edge of the plate at one point and says loudly to “get that animal out of the house” and it seems to foretell failed cooking endeavors in the future until it is removed. This part is a bit unusual in that the two pieces of meat are “still” on the plate as if they had not already been eaten three times over in the few “resets”.

After this is another somewhat confusing event involving my sister (appearing as she was in about 1980) chiding me (but without that much emotion) relating to having broken a CD case holder, which is somewhat drawer-like (so that it would fit in a larger cabinet in the kitchen). There is a part near the front on one side that is broken off, which is a cylindrical piece of plastic, which makes it difficult to keep the cases uniform. I explain how it had happened due to it being difficult to get the case back in, being slightly wider than what the holder seemed designed for. As I look around, I notice a couple dish racks which look very similar to the CD case holders (and almost the same size - but for smaller plates) and notice that there had been a breakage in the same area along the top runner of the “drawer” in at least two of the racks. I then say how I am not the one who had broken the other items, reflecting that my sister had probably done it, making the act of me having broken the other item seem less eventful and me less deficient. There are about a dozen holders for either CDs or small plates in the kitchen, all on the same side of the room. At this point, I am also still aware of the comet approaching the other side of the planet (but again, supposedly not to be a catastrophe even though I am somewhat wary of the idea).

Finally, I notice that I have an open cut near the middle of my right middle finger, which seems infected. Green jelly is showing, which somehow seems to be coagulated blood. I start to reflect on the idea, as I pull out what seems like an entire “vein” that resembles a green-apple strand of toothpaste but more viscous, that I probably should have gone to the doctor and gotten antibiotics before it progressed this far. Still, I am somewhat relieved that I am able to pull out most of this green “vein” (all the way down to my wrist) before it infects more of my body, but as I do, I am aware that it will make my hand somewhat hollow and eventually useless. There is one area above the knuckle that seems more problematic and “lumpy” as a result of the infection and needs to all come out. In fact, as I mention it to my sister, my hand is already weakened and “hollow” near the wrist where it will probably just flop around unable to be used to pick things up. Most of the muscle seems to somehow be gone shortly after my act of pulling out the green “Gummy Worm”, even though it was only the one strand that I pulled out.