Blue_Opossum

Morning of July 29, 2018. Sunday.

Reading time: 2 min 29 sec. Readability score: 71.



In my dream, I am in an unknown location. There is one area where many unfamiliar people are sitting at picnic tables.

Zsuzsanna is with me. I am planning on going on a long journey to other parts of the world. There is at least one thread of dream state awareness, though my dream self is not lucid. I remember that I can create whatever I want.

I ask the group if there is anyone who wants to travel with me. A few seem doubtful, as I do not appear to be wealthy. However, I recall that I can produce unlimited amounts of money. Still, when I open my wallet to show a few different people, the bills are play money. Although the imagery changes several times, it is still play money. Each time, the notes are all identical other than when I take them out, and there are about four different types, which look like fake foreign currency.

Despite my anticipation (subliminal RAS mediation), I am confident that things will go as I expect. Only one male seems cheerfully keen on joining us. I tell the people that one of the locations we will be going to is Easter Island. I say that I do not remember its name. (This, of course, makes no sense as I had spoken it.) I am thinking of a name like “Tahiti” or “Tahoe,” which I say to them as well, but I am unsure. They do not respond to my ridiculous state of absentmindedness.

Zsuzsanna and I, and the other man walk near an unknown shopping mall. She is soon walking farther away on my left, and the man is walking farther away on my right.

My dream changes and we are in a strange composite of the Arcadia post office, the Loomis Street house, the King Street mansion, and our present home. The orientation is mostly as the Loomis Street house, except the second storey mixes with the first.

Toward the back of the house, I hear an unknown female voice scream, “Please…someone…help me!” It seems to have something to do with her baby in a pram nearby. That wakes me up. I am unsure if this stems from a subliminal awareness of Zsuzsanna not being home at the time which I did not know until waking up (and perhaps created by way of my own RAS model) or if it was a thread from the interconsciousness from an unknown person. Due to its realism, my guess is the latter, but I have no way of knowing who it was, at least yet.

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(When I had the vivid spoken words and event in a dream about a girl named Isabelle falling off a balcony, including her last name, I thought that was spiritual confirmation of using the name Isabelle for our daughter, which we did, as we had already considered it. However, someone with that full name fell from a balcony at that same time. I had already heard variations of the last name in dreams, Colman, but I was not familiar with it in real life. Our daughter was born on the 26th of November in 2012. This type of event has happened many times before, even with John Belushi and even with more insignificant dangers in contrast to death, such as the fuse box fire regarding my older sister Marilyn and the toaster fire at age four, regarding my sister Carol. I remain uncertain why I happen to be the one to perceive it, though with Zsuzsanna, her “sending” was strong long before we met in real life and determined to be intentional and a viable way of communication we still use, though less since she got her cell phone.)

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Morning of September 11, 2017. Monday.



I am walking with two unknown males, a situation of which continued from a very long previous dream sequence. I think about robbing a place, but the details are not clear yet. I eventually realize that I am carrying a Glock pistol. Soon, I “realize” that I am a black female of perhaps about twenty-five years old.

It seems late at night. I go into a small trailer park in an open field where a dense forest is to my left. An unknown black female, but of whom is apparently known to the character I presently am, complains about me being there to rob her again (though I do not recall any backstory for this). Other than that, she does not seem alarmed by my gun. She opens a couple drawers in a large chest of drawers in her trailer. There is a bundle of one-hundred-dollar bills in an even stack, partly wrapped in cellophane. There is also a roll of fifty-dollar bills held together with a rubber band. There are also numerous rolls of coins. I tell her to keep some of the money, including the roll of fifties, but she insists that I take all of it. I put everything in two bags. There are several other items besides the American money, including bottles of perfume and shampoo and small items of clothing. I leave the trailer park, walking briskly east. I see a couple others outside of their trailers on my right, one an older black male of about sixty.

Somehow, it is suddenly daylight now, possibly early afternoon. I am with two unknown Caucasian males (though one reminds me vaguely of Don K from the early 1980s). I am seemingly now a male character, though not fully myself and perhaps about twenty years old. We seem to be going west on Sill Street, having gone past Wood Street and possibly Kane Street. I decide to toss my gun on the ground near the intersection near the trunk of a tree so I am not armed if caught (thinking I would be in less trouble). Still, I consider that may not be a good idea as a child might find it. The others and I continue, but eventually turn right to go north. I continue to carry my two bags.

We seem happy until one of the males looks back and sees another male who apparently knows us. It may be that he will cause trouble or at least be annoying if he sees us and catches up with us. The male who recognizes this other male tells us all to go our separate ways. “I have to try to wake him up,” he says in an authoritative tone. He goes across the front lawns of a few houses on the right side of the street and I am still following him, unsure of the situation. He yells with frustration and waves me off, indicating to me not to follow him. The male who had been behind us is apparently sleepwalking. He has long black hair and a long black beard and has on blue jeans but no shoes, socks, or shirt. He starts cheerfully talking to the male that seems to know who he is. “I can’t understand anything you’re saying,” the sleepwalking male is told, “You’re speaking gibberish”.

I continue to go north a short distance, but then turn around to go through a very narrow residential alley back southward. I am slightly concerned that I might annoy people by going through or close to their backyards but I do not see anyone. At the end of the alley are two closed chain-link gates about chest-high, side by side. Each of the two gates is for a different house, which makes no sense, as the alley goes past all houses on the block and the gates are adjacent to the public sidewalk. Before I get to them, I have to climb quickly up over a couple large full garbage bags and some other objects. At first, I think the gates might be locked, but I am able to open them by turning a horizontal L-shaped bolt lock. The detail is very vivid and realistic in appearance (but unlike any setting I had ever seen in real life). The sense of physical momentum and touch is vivid as well.

A few police officers approach me and look in my bags and ask me where I am going. I see that there are a lot of rolls of coins in them. I insist that everything is mine, but they seem condescending. While pretending that I am totally innocent, I am eventually able to get away. One policewoman seems to think I am okay and seems to see me as being victimized by the other officers. However, a chubby male officer seems determined that I will be caught again and found to have robbed someone, or possibly a bank.

I somehow end up going through the second floor of a business building. There are a few times when I fly after getting outside again, but I end up walking again, as my two bags are heavy. I somehow end up back near Sill and Kane and recall how I had deliberately thrown my gun there (at the northeast corner) but I do not see it. It is daylight at this time.

I am now briskly walking south through the north side of La Crosse (except that it looks more like the south side) and it seems to be night once again. I somehow have my gun again without contemplating that I had gotten rid of it. I am the black female character again. I make sure my gun is holstered in the front of my pants and unseen. I am thinking of finding the Loomis Street house to hide out even though that does not make sense as I am supposedly someone else. I vaguely recall that my sister had died but that my brother-in-law may be there (though they had actually moved prior to my sister’s death, though I was living in Australia by that time). I continue to carry the two cloth bags of money and other items, one in each hand. I notice that about eight people are running towards me, though not directly towards me. I think they may have attempted to rob a closed business but none of them are carrying anything. Police cars go by but they curiously do not stop. (The scene of these looters, including their appearance, was very similar to something I did not know about until after this dream and seeing it on the news, so I am considering this part as prescient.)

I cross the street (which may be a distorted version of Loomis Street, though too commercial) to my right and turn right down a very narrow alley with tall commercial buildings on each side. The alley is not wide enough for a car to follow me through and is at least two city blocks long. However, nearing the opening ahead, I see a puff of smoke going past the edge of a building on the left side of the end of the alley at about head level. It is the chubby policeman, who is smoking a cigarette, who had vowed to catch me. I knock him in the head with my heavy bags and knock him over. The police woman, who seems to be on my side, is possibly going to help me escape now.

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The preconscious modelling itself artificially, or mimicking itself, in needing to wake another dream character (instead of me) is about as surreal and unusual as it gets (even stranger than a false awakening where I am writing down or telling someone about my previous dream). The threads of my dream self identity changing a few times (without any focus on that dynamic) is rather odd as well.

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Morning of July 6, 2017. Thursday.

Dream #: 18,462-05. Reading time: 1 min 52 sec.



I am on a pirate ship. There is a cheerful mood. As time passes, there is evidence of a treasure chest at the bottom of the ocean. One man finds a note with instructions from a pirate who had died years ago. On it, with the latitude and longitude of the marker’s location, it specifies what time to retrieve the chest, implying any other time might result in the treasure being lost or resulting in a threat.

The ship sails to the location the lost treasure supposedly is. There is a marker floating on the ocean’s surface. Someone pulls the rope that has its other end tied to the treasure chest below. Briefly, I consider, if the timing is wrong, there might be a sea monster or gigantic fish on the other end of the rope, but this does not occur. For a time, I see an underwater view as one of the pirates pulls up what first seems to be a small but weighty chest.

I watch the chest coming up out of the mud on the ocean’s bottom. Close to where the rope connects to the chest, I see the remains of a human arm entangled in it. This arm is tossed aside without concern when bringing the chest aboard.

After the chest is on the ship in the center of a large cabin, about five or six pirates remain nearby. At this time, there is a bilocation of being in the kitchen of our present house.

The captain opens the treasure chest, and at first, there appear to be piles of gold and silver coins as well as jewelry. He takes out some of the coins, which seem stuck together. He gives a few pieces to a few different pirates, though I get the impression it is not an equal division. They may work out how much each man receives later.

One of the pirates snaps his horizontal cluster of fused supposed gold coins in half. It turns out to be fake and made of plaster. Another pirate does the same with the silver coins. The mood changes to disappointment, but the outcome does not seem that important.

I approach the chest and find a hidden compartment under a false bottom. There is anticipation amidst the group of perhaps there being a treasure underneath. I lift it to see several brochures for a modern casino. There are also three notes of foreign currency (possibly Indonesian) as a gift to use in the casino. The situation results in amusement.

I carry the bills in what is now the kitchen of our present home (without my dream self recognizing it as such) as I walk towards our back door. The pirates are still with me.

“It’s three dollars,” I say. There is a sense of amusement rather than disappointment.

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Morning of June 19, 2017. Monday.



My dream starts out with my dream self (with at least some present conscious self identity threads, though not that many) being in an unfamiliar library in semidarkness. I am aware of an unknown female (seemingly in her twenties) who had been looking over a number of supposedly ancient religious books with the hope of gaining some sort of understanding of her life as well as personal power. However, I am also aware that there is nothing here of any value for her when considering my own opinion of her activities. She does not seem to be aware of me at first. I assume that I am incorporeal at this time, though I am corporeal in the last part of my dream. Looking at the pages, they are singular lines of hieroglyphs rather than a discernible language, somewhat like small sketchy icons (a carryover from a couple previous recent dreams). It seems to be some sort of ambiguous distorted combination of Aztec, Olmec, and Buddhist cultures.

In fact, there seems to be something in the back of my mind regarding this distortion, as some of the icons seem to represent Olmec colossal stone heads as well as Buddha heads and figures, yet there also seem to be some Aztec symbols. This reminds me of the New Age movement, primarily based on modern charlatanism and fallacious occult systems, which unrealistically combines anything and everything in an unlearned, unrelated, and wrongful sense (including all the fake products for gullible believers in the 1980s, such as free radical “guards” one wears, which only had internal circuity to make a small light bulb flash on and off to make it look like it was doing something). I begin to feel sorry for her, even though the books themselves may otherwise be of some historical significance.

I end up sitting at a rectangular wooden table with her sitting across from me, as well as there being a presence of about six or seven other unknown people. A few of the additional people are at a table that is perpendicular to the one I am at.

She is using a calculator for a reason unknown to me. Soon, I cause, via telekinesis, the calculator to rise into the air and come over into my raised hand. The others do not seem that surprised and she does not seem to object. She then has a fifty-dollar note in her right hand, which I do not clearly discern as either American or Australian (though it is more like an Australian fifty-dollar note relative to its darker golden color overall, though with no plastic or transparent content). She is holding it up as if ready to spend it on something (though this is not logical as we still seem to be in a library).

I use telekinesis again to will it from her hand. However, it rips and she still has a large section of one corner between her fingers. Feeling slightly guilty about this, I try to unite the pieces back together with telekinesis and additional mental will. Even though the piece is eventually reattached, with associations of manipulating the resealing of the tear like a zipper, I cannot fully seal the tear on will alone, plus, the corner now seems slightly out from the rest of the bill and at an angle (This would not be possible in reality, as the area of the paper would require it to be of the exact shape when coming back together for the correct fit. It would not be possible for there to be a gap or extra paper beyond the perimeter implied as here, as the distorted trapezoidal upper right corner relative to the front of the bill now appears a bit bigger than it was). An unknown male at the other table “reminds” me that he had told me not to use telekinesis in this way (though I do not recall this actually having happened before).

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This dream utilizes non-lucid dream control. (Despite this, I am still technically the personified subconscious as I am not consciously aware of my conscious self identity and status.) This is evidenced by the fact that my conscious self certainly does not believe in telekinesis even though my silly dream self typically does and uses it effortlessly for the most part (more so in non-lucid dreams than lucid ones). Instinctual dreaming (non-lucid dream control) renders most forms of dream “interpretation” as pointless. If the fictional temporary dream self differs so much from the current conscious self and its present status, why would one assume there is significant relevance to the current conscious self (other than with literal precognitive threads, some of which are not revealed until many years after the dream). Although the manipulation of an object with telekinesis is technically a type of flight, I do not classify it as a third-level flight symbol unless more clearly defined or evidenced as such in my dream. It still seems to imply a factor of real-time dreaming and waking symbolism as in “not being fully grounded”.

What is going on here is a very typical metaphorical biological “showdown” between my non-lucid dream self (aka personified subconscious) and the personified preconscious (which is often transpersonal and unrelated to the conscious self persona, and thus which I assume in some cases comes from the collective unconscious) of the type which I have experienced all my life since early childhood. I am taking from her, the symbolic form of my critical thinking skills (the calculator), which do not viably exist in the dream state, and thus I am initiating my own waking symbolism which is why the preconscious does not object (as its purpose is to either wake the dreamer or instigate emotional factors related to waking from the dream state out of biological necessity; for example, if you do not wake you go into a coma or die - it has baffled me since early childhood how so many people do not realize that this is one of the main functions of dreams, though unlike what some “experts” claim, not the only purpose). The inability to fully repair the fifty-dollar note may symbolize two completely different factors, the first relating to, in being in the waking transition, unable to subliminally reinduce the dream state (as I am not lucid), and two, being that fifty is near my age, may relate to the biological impossibility to completely restore my physical body to as it was in my youth. (The symbolic “pulling up of the zipper” in attempting to fix the note may also be a waking precursor simply related to getting up and getting dressed.)

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Morning of September 22, 2016. Thursday.



I am in Africa on a long expedition. My wife Zsuzsanna and our children and some unknown people are on the journey. Curiously, the “vehicle” we are using to travel in is only a tent that is somehow moving over the savanna without any apparent explanation (as it does not seem to have wheels; it somehow slides slowly over the ground). I have seven pet lions, at least three being male. They walk along with us on our journey without incident.

A male lion is inside the tent at one point but is not a threat. I am also in the tent for a time to “sleep” and also to look at a treasure map. As we travel over the savanna, I watch the scene from above for a time but I am eventually back in my physical form. We are seeking some sort of magical or at least special material, a roll or piece of cloth with special properties, the location of which is apparently indicated on the map.

We reach an isolated outdoor market where there are several African cashiers, at least three of them females around forty years of age. They seem to be selling the special cloth we had been seeking. There are two counters set up on each side of an outside area I enter. I examine a cloth which I first feel may be what we are seeking. A cashier tells me that it is a thousand dollars for a yard of it. I am not so sure this situation will work out. I go to the opposite counter to look around a bit.

One male lion walks around near the counters, being as tame as a dog, and I pat its head. Other people do not seem to be at all concerned about my lions.

Eventually, I notice a piece of cloth that I expect is the one we need. It is uneven though and is not quite a yard. The cashier tells me this one is also a thousand dollars if I want it. I almost express my annoyance to her but I do not. I take out my wallet and pull out one fifty-dollar bill after another, materializing the money out of thin air just at the point my hand is in the wallet, deliberately doing this and realizing this, but without dream state lucidity. I assertively hand her the money which I just mentally willed out of my wallet, twenty fifty-dollar notes, which I know is exactly a thousand dollars. She happily gives me the material.

The cloth’s design shows a repeating pattern (in mostly bright orange, yellow, and sepia saturated hues) of a scene of two lions (male and female) lying in the savanna in front of a boulder and a tree and the sun on the horizon in the background at their left. I pick up the supposed special cloth from the counter and we are on our way. Of course, this represents Zsuzsanna and I sleeping together during the sunrise, the cloth being a literal association with bed sheets and pillow cases.

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Lion autosymbolism has already been explained in many of my past entries, but here is a brief rundown: Factor one is coalescence (potentially being “swallowed” back into whole consciousness) and factor two is the augmented domestic cat association as being a “witness” to the dream state and the nature of liminal space (that is, the autosymbolic waking process). This dream is based on a partial association with “The Sleeping Gypsy”, an 1897 oil painting by French Naïve artist Henri Rousseau. The association transforms into the ending autosymbolism of this dream of which also represents art and the nature of sleeping and dreaming, as dreams are autosymbolic of the nature of the dream state and waking process itself. The cashiers and the checkout scenario are autosymbolic of the dream state’s implied exit point.

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Morning of September 21, 2015. Monday.



This is a long dream with a clear and maintained perspective, though never lucid. I am in Brazil and speaking Brazilian Portuguese throughout, though there is also a consistent awareness that everything translates into English in “real time”. It starts out in a slum near some markets at the top of a higher hill though I eventually find my way to a different area where a Caucasian male (probably in his early thirties) is attempting to sell a pickup truck to an older Brazilian male. I interrupt their conversation, saying that I can sell him the truck he needs. I tell him to wait where he is and I will bring it around (from behind a building at an intersection). No truck exists yet, though I know I can just manifest one and sell it to him (again, even though I have no lucid awareness).

I go to an area out of sight from the other males and see at least one outdoor cafe. There are a lot of people around. I mentally focus and a dark blue pickup truck appears, and some people are somewhat surprised. I drive it back the short distance to the other males and show it to the potential buyer. He seems interested but I tell him I have another one I can show him. It seems important that the truck can be driven on an incline and this vehicle may not be powerful enough.

I go around and mentally will another pickup truck into existence. This one is smaller and of an orange color but it is a newer model than the previous. When I take it to the potential buyer though, the bed is apparently too small to hold as much as he needs it to. I then remember that modern new products are not only not made very well (or made to last very long), but that there has been a problematic trend towards miniaturization of everything. I tell him that I will go and bring back a third pickup truck which I am sure he will find suitable.

I go around to the cafe area again to create a pickup truck out of thin air for the third time. This one is a red one from the 1950s. When I bring it around (being careful not to hit any of the obstacles coming out of the parking lot and into the street again), I notice that instead of a cab, the front now looks a bit like an oversized steering area of my old Red Flyer wagon and the seating area is external. Still, I am able to control it and steer it without falling off the front, though it is an odd way to drive a vehicle, almost reminiscent of a stage coach. The potential buyer looks at the bed and I notice a lot of pillow stuffing in the back covered partly with an old worn dark green tarpaulin. This seems a bit annoying and is evidence it had been used a lot previously, but after a few minutes, the older male wants to buy it, because it is large enough and useful, and he needs one right away to carry on with his jobs. He asks me how much and I say “a hundred and fifty dollars”. He pays me in Brazilian Real. His son gives it to him and he gives it to me. It is in a small thin envelope that looks like it may hold airplane tickets instead.

At this point, the other male that was first trying to sell him a truck looks at me and says that he cannot believe it, though he does not seem angry. He probably wonders where I got all the trucks. I have a slight concern that the people on the other side of the buildings will reveal that my trucks came out of nowhere like magic, which may bring about confusion or gossip. I decide to leave the region for now.

From here, my dream shifts, though remains in the same general setting. There are soon many more people around. I am aware of an unknown female of about forty holding a penknife up to her throat as she is walking around. It seems she may be intent on committing suicide as well as perhaps infecting other people with her blood and I know that I need to be away from any blood spray, though nothing actually happens and I am able to leave the area without incident.

There are some curious plays on lucid dreaming (even though I am not lucid at any point) and sleep in this dream. Firstly, there is the creation of three vehicles to drive (out of mind power alone) that even have “beds”. The last truck’s bed even has pillow stuffing under a cover (which I do not even catch represents the sleeping process itself). The “interpretation” is, that although I am creating vehicles to steer out of nothing (with the enhanced change and focus on the Red Flyer’s steering section), I still do not become lucid even when my dream relates to metaphorically “driving the bed”. I find this dream very amusing, including with the “Brazilian Real” as the currency used. One hundred and fifty dollars relates to Dunbar’s number. “By using the average human brain size and extrapolating from the results of primates, he (Dunbar) proposed that humans can only comfortably maintain 150 stable relationships”. The small envelope that looks like it is for airplane tickets probably is a nod to the waking process (or leaving my dream). I am not sure about the woman at the end unless she simply represents cutting off the dream state.

Morning of May 1, 2015. Friday.



Much of this dream was a bit too abstract to describe the first part of correctly. All the members of my family and I are making things to sell. We seem to be at a picnic table outside in our backyard. The most vivid part does not make any sense. I have made a salad with a lot of leafy green vegetables in it as well as other ingredients such as slices of tomatoes. I pick up a short section of a large even branch from the ground which has seemingly been sawed on both ends. It is a little less than the diameter of my arm. (We do have a short log in our yard in reality but it is bigger than the piece in my dream.) I put the salad on the branch (though I think of it as a small log in my dream) and hold it onto the branch piece with the curved piece of wood (which fits halfway around the circumference of the branch) over all of it. I notice that the wood piece has three screws on it which are aligned to three holes in the branch (one near each side and one in the middle). By tightening the screws, the salad will be kept in place on the surface of the branch by the curved piece of wood until it is ready to be eaten. I notice a small jumping spider crawling up the side of the branch and shake it off - as people will probably not buy it if it has a spider on the salad. (I have found that the term “salad log” exists, so maybe there is a vague association, though I do not recall thinking of this term at any previous time.)

In another section of possibly a different dream sequence, I am doing something involving the usage of postage stamps while sitting on a bed, which seem to have to be American postage stamps to do what I need to do, but there is one point where I cannot find them again (which does not make much sense as I had just seen them previously, having had at least a couple near me). I seem to be in my sister’s house on Loomis Street and am possibly a teenager again. I am not exactly sure of what I am doing. It may relate to drawing or tracing. At one point, I am standing in a featureless semi-dark room and hug my sister and tell her that I love her even though I am also aware to some extent that she has died in reality. She seems very old and frail. There is some sort of concern about where certain stamps are. I pick various foreign ones off the floor at one point. They seem to be kept in a few different smaller cylindrical containers. My sister talks about them but is not sure of their location.

In another part of my dream sequence, I am in a large room with several other people. Many of the people are unknown and of different races. We are all watching “Lost” on a television. However, it is a later version of “Lost”, yet which is a drama concerning earlier situations on the island. Over time, I notice that John Locke is not being played by Terry O'Quinn but a much younger actor. I notice that he has face paint of black and red (and yellow at one point), the black paint being mostly on his forehead and coming down to just below his eyes. He is amusingly dressed and speaking like a stereotypical pirate for some reason and says “Rrrrrr…” at the end of at least one comment he makes. I am a bit annoyed by this version of “Lost” having the same characters but played by different actors, my annoyance growing over time, which I express to the others. I even look it up on the Internet in-dream to see who the actor is that now plays John Locke. However, I cannot remember the original actor’s name and become a bit frustrated over knowing when the different actor took over the role. I see that there is a (fictional) eighth season of “Lost” and possibly more beyond that. In fact, the eighth season seems to have been the last one to star Terry O'Quinn, the plot of the last episode of season eight seeming to relate to Kate and John becoming lost.

Finally, I am at my older brother (deceased) Earl’s house. I do not see him, but his wife Cindy is there. There are a lot of other people in the room including their children and unknown younger people. I am annoyed because Cindy is blocking my way to the front door (even though we are more near the center of the living room near a large table) but I do not show my frustration. I had taken a couple vitamins that are more like headache tablets and there is white powder on the table which I am trying to put back into a capsule or at least elsewhere. (I have never been able to willingly swallow pills of any kind in my life, even very small ones, so I crush headache tablets up into white powder and put them in a drink when I need to take them although I more often use a form of special meditation to erase one when I can.)

In one final dream event, an unknown male knocks on the door and seems to have something important to tell me. However, it soon turns out to be nonsense (which I cannot remember) and he becomes distracted, going elsewhere. This was slightly precognitive in that we actually did have a rare visitor shortly after but he left fairly quickly after knocking. He went to the next house over and was probably selling pay television subscriptions or possibly Internet-related services.