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 November 29, 2015. Sunday.



In the first part of my dream, I am in an unfamiliar city setting. I walk out from an alley with an unknown male. I somehow (based on an implied back story) had previously lifted three sections of sidewalk, boulevard, and parking lot, complete with trees and vines that hang down. We walk under the hovering features, each about the size of one and a half lots. They are hovering about fifteen feet up. In the back of my mind, I am thinking that it is safe to walk under them since a part of me is likely still focused on them.

The main segment of my dream involves a style of dreaming that began when I was very young. In fact, it seems like some sort of continuation (at least on one level) from “Frankenstein Closes the World” from when I was only four years of age (April 9, 1965). It involves part of the setting being “blocked” like a continuous wall preventing access to a certain direction (in this case possibly north). Over time in my dreams, the number and type of “station keepers” changed. One of my first “station keepers” (as I refer to them) was probably the Frankenstein Monster (Boris Karloff version). That is the one that appears here. There are other elements that were more common when I was very young, including even the first part above with the hovering sections of the city (also beginning around age four). However, I actually “feel” about ten or eleven years of age in my dream.

Part of the situation seems borrowed from the original “Dark Shadows” board game I had when very young. It had a set of miniature plastic skeletons and a cardboard coffin. A recurring situation occurs here where “ancient papers” are found and I realize they had, instead, been very recently printed (this may be a play on a dream freshly rendering something implied to otherwise be “ancient”). In this case, there seems to be some sort of challenge to get into a mock mausoleum (though integrated into the high and long wall) but which at first seems like a “door to Satan”. Even this part stems from when I was very young. The other male, who seems to be interested in some sort of “contest” seems very wary about going up to the “door to Satan”, though in front of the door, there is something related to the contest or a rare potential discovery. I seem to remember that Satan does not exist and decide it is probably an archetype of the subconscious that we will be facing. I then remember that the subconscious does not exist as popularly defined (only different levels of awareness, both internal and external, including the supraconscious and the Source) and feel oblivious to any concerns the other male may have (even though I am not lucid).

As such, I go up to the wall with the recess (or short hallway) and a section of the wall comes out like a drawer, at ground level (this may be a play on post office associations, or a PO drawer since “I hug PO Virgo” is directly encoded in my full name and also the date of the original dream version was on my wedding anniversary years before it became as such). It has a coffin which is about one-quarter the size of an adult coffin. I open it, expecting to find macabre remains of some kind, and there are miniature “real” skeletons, one of a girl in fetal position with long white hair and only about five inches high. There are also a couple cartoon-like (unrealistic) skulls as well as some random debris and cobweb. It still seems somewhat “ancient”, but as mentioned earlier, the “ancient parchments” look freshly printed. This and another dream of this date had precognitive facets related to a false pregnancy (pseudocyesis) - which explains the miniature skeletal girl in the fetal position. Frankenstein, on the other hand (on one level), has become a symbol for normal people in mainstream society in relationship to pop culture, the media, and authority; lumbering and unintelligent.

Finally, I open the “door to Satan” and behind it is an extension of the hallway recess of the wall. Boris Karloff’s Frankenstein monster appears, walking mummy-like. He goes after the other male, but it is rather amusing. Both of them move slowly, somewhat like a slowed-down “Keystone Cops” event (also often written as “Keystone Kops”). I decide to see what is farther down the hallway, but the other male comes back around, moving in an arc around the left side of the wall and coming back from the other direction, with the horror movie monster in pursuit but not threatening me, just in the way. I avoid colliding with the stumbling creature and watch the “chase” passively.

Morning of March 8, 1969. Saturday.



Curiously, this was a bit like one of those modern reality shows long before they existed, but I do not consider it precognitive. The in-dream fictional television game show (which is apparently titled “Are They Dead or Are They Alive?”) has a seemingly very gruesome premise yet also seems to relate to a genuine news story as well (possibly due to a dream “reset” or partial replay). In one version, there was eventually a newspaper that proclaimed the “victims” (Brenda W and I) being found alive (near the front of the castle).

Brenda (a female classmate) and I are a part of I believe the first or one of the first episodes. A male announcer (or narrator) dramatically and slowly asks the viewing (television) audience…“Are they dead…or are they alive?” Brenda and I are held in a castle and there is some sort of vague awareness in the background relating to the “Dark Shadows” television series. Vaguely, there is an awareness of some sort of connection with Collinwood and D Hollingsworth, a male classmate whose name is only vaguely similar. Mostly, we are inside caskets (in two different faraway areas of the large halls) which cannot be opened from the inside, but oddly enough there is not the slightest nightmarish or threatening aspect, just the sense of annoyingly having to wait for someone or something. The “castle” seems at least partly modeled after our school (West Elementary).

Brenda actually seems cheerful throughout (considering the circumstances of the setting), though there is not much interaction or eventful purpose to my dream, it seems. I seem to perceive myself from my own supposed perspective as a dream character as well as from another (camera view?) location at times. I am the one that somehow gets out and rescues Brenda, but we still seem to wander about in the halls, supposedly for days.

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Night of September 9, 1976. Thursday.



One of the worst nights of pain based on the operation on my right thumb (on the 25th of August) and wrist (and much tissue removed), a cobra strikes me on my thumb in my dream, extraordinarily vivid and bright in the backyard (Cubitis), seemingly in early morning.

Finally, my mother gives me a stronger painkiller again and I slip into an extraordinarily vivid and lucid dream. I am rolling down an embankment head over heals, along a grassy hillside, doing “perfect” somersaults with no physical discomfort whatsoever, and in fact, feeling quite peaceful and blissful. I roll into a river of mist. It looks like a normal river and in an otherwise normal meadow-like area, but instead is made of flowing foggy tendrils instead of running water. I am heading into a “bottomless” domain, much like Alice on morphine, I suppose, and am completely free from all discomfort and concern.

I “land” softly in a hallway after moving downwards through the mist for a seemingly long time, which appears to be the set for some sort of avant-garde movie called “Hello Harry”. It is about a young businessman who dies at an early age on his birthday (late twenties, I think). All of the other workers at the business, both male and female (but mostly male) benefit only from his work (and do little themselves) - yet he is mostly disliked by his business associates. This seems to imply that the business will now fail since he has died (though he is not the manager - there may be some sort of very subtle connection to “Gunga Din” by vague implications), without the other associates knowing or acknowledging his role in keeping the business going, possibly as the best or most dynamic salesman (and may actually come in part from having read “Death of a Salesman” at an earlier date, as I did read the 1949 play sometime during this period). He only has one good friend who mourns him. I “float” into a room with concrete walls and floor and see that the man who had been his friend is drinking too much from a bottle of gin and “celebrating” his friend’s birthday while wearing a multicolored cone-shaped cardboard hat (with red “V” or boomerang shapes) and a red tinsel lei. The remains are in a coffin in an adjoining smaller room. The rooms are mostly featureless and appear to be part of some sort of large basement, but possibly in the commercial building where he died. (It is possible he may be cremated in the business’s furnace, but I am not certain.)

The man (name unknown, I only know the dead man’s name is Harry - the other man could be Willy) goes into the smaller room and places a cocktail glass of gin on the coffin and takes one final drink from his cocktail glass and slowly and mournfully sings (to Harry) “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…” (obviously not expecting an “answer” of any kind, as he is the only one there and the other man has died the day or so before).

However, a clear voice comes from the closed coffin and it is supposedly Harry (even though he has actually died) also mournfully singing…“Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me…”

This is the last scene and it seems to have some sort of science-fiction-like theme as well as the avant-garde movie essence.

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