Blue_Opossum

Morning of August 4, 2017. Friday.



In my dream, I am apparently living in the middle apartment of the east side of the second floor of the King Street boarding house, an impressive mansion that was part of a tour, but not that great on the inside.

Still, it seems that an unfamiliar male has taken residence in this apartment. I am not fully sure of what the situation is, though I do know that I am a vampire. That is, I am a pretend vampire for a time, and I am using some sort of technology to exist as such. The technology is apparently unseen by the “real” world I live in. (It is of a lifelong recurring theme of using invisible technology that exists in another dimension to bring about whatever is to occur in my dream, though which I usually incorrectly see as being my real world.)

I show this male and a couple of his visitors how I have fangs and how I can levitate. There is an unknown male with me, though I eventually assume that he is my friend Eddie. We both seem to be about twenty-five years old. Eddie cannot seem to decide if he looks the most like Christian Slater or Stephen Geoffreys and consequently acts like both in an overacting vampire pretense. He seems amused by our act but eventually does not say much other than agree with my own pretense, which is more serious. We are wearing cloaks and are ready to fly through the night sky of La Crosse.

Time seems to have passed and I am now seemingly on my own, flying in an unknown region, seemingly late at night.

I see the preconscious below, walking along with an unknown friend, an unfamiliar male of about the same age. I decide to fly down and see what is going on.

The preconscious, an unknown male of perhaps thirty or more, seems happy to see me, but he tells me that my flight did not look as if I had been flying regularly. I do not get angry, as I know it is an illusion anyway, though which he does not perceive as such. His friend wants to see my fangs, and I will them to grow out.

He has a gift for me. It is supposedly my favorite food; a bunch of “stone grapes”, from a supposedly very rare plant, which looks like a normal bunch of grapes other than being thorny and more woody and having no discernible grapes on it, only small seed-like features that are very crunchy. I put it up to my mouth and eat the entire bunch, feeling my teeth gnaw through it, but I do not taste anything other than a slight tree-bark flavor. I know that no human being could eat this, but it is apparently a very thoughtful gift and I thank him. Still, I know that this hidden technology of mine (which is phased within another dimension, only operable by me) only makes it look like it has gone past my teeth and into the back of my mouth to swallow. He does not realize this. He does not know that it phases out of existence once it goes past my teeth. There is no way I could have actually eaten anything like this anyway, but I do not want him to be disappointed or disrupt his faith regarding his belief in vampires, or cease to trust me in my vampire guise.

He kisses me lightly on the right temple, in affirmation of a long-term friendship, and I wonder if I am just a creature to show off to a friend of his every now and then, perhaps once or twice every several years. Apparently, being friends with a vampire like me has given him a status of bravery and strength, but I consider if I am seen as just a “pet” to brag about knowing. Still, I hold no anger.

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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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