Blue_Opossum

Morning of October 20, 2014. Monday.



In my first dream, for some inexplicable reason, a new “MacGyver” television series is produced. Somehow, a younger Carol Burnett (around 40 or so in contrast to her present age of 81) plays MacGyver. After the first episode airs, I read a review in which it is said that she is “too polite” as the new MacGyver. The dream seems fairly long but I do not remember the overall plot of the in-dream show.

My next dream is even more ridiculous. Dean Norris is the only recognizable celebrity in the “movie” although this time it is like a “real” setup on scene, which seems to be the porch of either the Barolin Street house or Loomis Street, or a composite of both and it seems later at night or before dawn. Even though there seems to be a (fictional, likely science-fiction) movie in progress, the people in it are somehow actually miniature, only about four inches tall. I am there watching and so is my wife. I guess we have something to do with the filming. The miniature people have to contend with “giant” cane toads, about five of them in different areas of the porch. There is a dramatic scene where Dean Norris gets hold of a (miniature) gun (taking it from someone else, I think) and shoots most of the “giant” cane toads. The camera zooms in on him when he is in a group of people standing around (in what seems somewhat like a bank queue) with some sort of suspenseful music playing.

Near the end, only four miniature people are left. I watch them walk south over the area where railroad tracks used to be in my Cubitis backyard, there being a lot more shrubs and various larger weeds, other than the somewhat sandy “path” left over from where the tracks mainly sat. This is unusual only in that I normally become fully lucid when I see miniature people, but here, I do not. Looking down, I watch them travel from my left to my right as they waddle along. There is a vague sense of the concept of elves, but they are “ordinary” people other than having been shrunken somehow.

In one other dream, I am trying to read the comic strips in a newspaper, but the paper is transparent so that the comic strips on the other side (of at least two pages) are blended (in reverse imagery) to the ones on the side intended for reading (similar to when you hold a page up against a brighter light) so that the page is an ambiguous composite of normal and mirror-imaged comic strips layered together.

The dream turned out to have the usual trivial short-term precognitive layer (this time relative, as usual, to something regarding precise style, movement, etc. in terms of expectation - why it always seems so obvious and stands out as such makes me wonder what is going on with the rest of humanity in not noticing this in their own lives - particularly as such layers stand out as more defined when looking back with almost every single dream). I have always been interested in the hows and whys, ultimately, especially regarding why the events are often so trivial, although usually reflecting (in a precognitive sense) the “most unusual” aspect of waking life within a particular time. “Normal” humanity baffles me, and this (continuous trivial and impersonal precognition, yet its being so precise) is the main reason why.

Morning September 25, 2007. Tuesday.



In the first part of my dream, I fly around, but sometimes in a sitting position or even sideways (as if on my side), or “swimming” very slowly in midair. I talk with an unknown woman at a bus stop as I hover in one area, but I am not sure of the overall meaning of anything she is saying, yet I pretend to understand, because she looks as if she would go from cheerful to very sad if I did not understand her. It may be something about a party, a couple names, and things I would probably not know unless I was an actual friend of hers. I get the strong impression that she is dreaming, so I figure she will wake from “her” dream when I come back from wherever it is I am going.

I meet a (unknown) man who asks me where he is. At this point, it is some sort of business building with mostly featureless long halls. I casually explain to him that he is dreaming and show him around, and also show him some tricks one can do in the dream state. I say how you can even fly in dreams. We get to the front part of the building, but he goes off to find someone to ask for street directions instead of believing my claim that he is dreaming.

When I fly back the other way, there is a fairly strong wind. I still manage to get through it by taking different positions (and at one point I am literally sitting in midair waiting for the wind to change slightly) and when I change my position so that I am standing but leaning a bit forward (still in midair), I start musically vocalizing Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” (with “da” intonations) in a semi-sarcastic way to the people that are walking and at bus stops.

The unknown female is still waiting at the bus stop and says hello to me again. Later on, I am at my sister Marilyn’s house in the United States. Someone puts several both small and large envelopes through the mail slot (on the porch). The name on the envelopes (all the same) is not one I am familiar with. It is seemingly a girl’s name I do not recall. Just a little later, there are two shadows at the door. I am thinking that they are either police detectives or underground gangsters, which seems to be the same concept in-dream. I am thinking they are here to claim the envelopes (some of which seemed thicker) even though I was thinking of seeing what was in them.

They turn out to be a landlord from years back (in Australia), and oddly, Forrest Tucker (who died in 1986), in his persona from the original “Ghost Busters” television show from the 1970s. They are both dressed exactly the same, in 1940s gangster-style suits, but with extra-tall hats. The landlord (who lost his property to the bank to some sort of apparently legal “funny business” against him) asks if I still have the key to one of his properties. I do (false memory) and go and get it for him. Forrest adds to the concern by telling me to hurry, as it seems the landlord must go in and get something that belongs to him before the new owners get back (in real life, he had lost all he owned that was at the property as well).

After that, there is something about drinking a bottle of whiskey with my wife Zsuzsanna. I find a bottle of whiskey and a couple other types of drinks in the house. (Neither of us ever bought alcohol in our life other than me buying shots of brandy at a tavern once a week when I lived in America when cashing my paychecks at the Red Lantern for less than a year.) I pretend to be drunk, somewhat similar to the style Foster Brooks (note “Foster” and “Forrest” have the same letters), but not as extreme. I actually seemed to have gotten the bottles from Foster Brooks in some sort of birthday celebration, which is not for a couple months yet. I do not contemplate the obvious confusion of Forrest Tucker with Foster Brooks until after I am awake.

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Looking up information on Foster Brooks, I see that he died on the twentieth of December, which is my birthday - something I do not remember focusing on before at any time.

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