Blue_Opossum

Morning of July 24, 2015. Friday.



In my dream, I am in an unfamiliar area with no clear associations in conscious afterthought of exactly where it could be, which is fairly rare for me. I do seem to have some hold on directional orientation, though whether it is implied to be America or Australia would change the present orientation. I will assume it to be America, though I do not focus closely on any cars (that is, what side the driver’s side is on) that would tell me of the country.

As such (American orientation, otherwise all the compass directions can be assumed to be reversed), I would be going due north along a causeway, on a sidewalk on the east side of the road. There are not that many buildings though it does seem like an area near city center. It might, in fact, be Chicago (south of main urban areas), though at a later point, vaguely reminds me of Third Street in La Crosse (though the car park would be rotated ninety degrees if such is the case).

I am walking along not that briskly but carrying my youngest daughter (age two) Isabelle, which seems somewhat strange, as I do not see other members of my family anywhere. The back story, though I am not certain, seems to relate to trying to get away from some sort of military conflict (unsure with who) or very vaguely (in the back of my mind) some sort of less serious (local) natural disaster - though the weather seems nice and I do not hear any gunfire or explosions. However, it may also be just a military exercise (even if to make veterans feel more “comfortable” about their past), as it feels more like such just before my dream ends. I am not that clear-headed in-dream, so am not sure about (or focused on) the status of other family members. It seems to be perhaps around two in the afternoon or later.

About six soldiers (including possibly veterans) of about three generations jog on the opposite side of the street and they are going in the opposite direction. I wave at one of them assertively (with my right hand held up) and he starts to wave back. He seems about twenty years old or younger. However, as I wave, my hand “automatically” (absentmindedly) forms the V-shaped “peace” sign. The soldier’s wave becomes less assertive and falls back incomplete as if he thinks I might be an unusual character and not patriotic at all. I feel slightly unsure about what I have done (though only vaguely foolish) in signing “peace” to what is likely a military exercise. I do not notice any other civilians anywhere or any cars in motion. I feel vaguely embarrassed about possibly having just annoyed him (or even distracted him) instead of just a harmonious “hello”, though it is not exactly embarrassment but something else.

Finally, I turn to go west into a car park for some reason (of at least two storeys). However, I soon realize that there is probably no feasible way to come out the other side (though I am unfamiliar with the layout). Not only that, I do not like the presence of dust and sand (and do not want to go through it with my child), which seems to be carried in the air at times by a mild breeze and creates a very vivid essence of “real” particulates in the air (though I am not lucid). This sparse cloud of particulates is higher and more on the level of the second storey of the car park beyond the ramp I am ascending. I turn around to go back out. Still carrying my daughter, I notice another small group of the military jogging up the ramp towards me to my left (though I do not detect any danger behind me, though I had not seen much of that section of the car park that they are apparently jogging to). I am annoyed that it may be more difficult to go that direction now, feeling somewhat “blocked”, even though there seems plenty of room to get past them (this reminds me of another dream concerning an approaching truck that was only partially rendered at first, which had clear precognitive connections with another dreamer). From here, my dream fades.

Update on same afternoon: This dream seemed to be the usual remote-viewing or precognition at very high precision, as I had this dream before reading an e-mail that unknowingly implemented this dream almost like a scenario representing the e-mail itself - concerning military preparedness, veterans, exercises, and their dreams. (I had no idea or prior “clue” that I would be getting this particular e-mail content.) More curiously, yet coincidentally, the first thing I see on tumblr when I post this dream is an image of a cat with “peace was never an option” above its head; typical synchronicity I have had all my life. This came after I already had a vague association that the solider that began to wave in this dream and stopped upon seeing my peace sign was somehow some sort of “continuity” of Tiger the cat in one of my last dreams. Of course, this level of detail cannot possibly be coincidence (especially continuously over almost fifty years), but then, what is it exactly? (That was just a rhetorical question.)

Morning of July 23, 2015. Thursday.



I am sitting at my computer desk as in real life though the room is mirrored longways (so that the open area of the room is to my left rather than to my right where the end of the desk is now against the opposite wall; however, the rest of the house, though I cannot see it, “feels” the same, as my oldest daughter’s room still, in in-dream “memory”, is to my left on the other side of the east wall). The room is mostly dark as I do not have a light on, and I assume it is nighttime.

The more I type with my keyboard (though I cannot recall the nature of what I am writing, though I am fairly certain it involved in-dream affirmations), the brighter it gets, until it is just a “slab of white light” (originally though with a bluish glow). Even though I had not been looking at my fingers, I am somewhat annoyed as it eventually seems too smooth to tap keys correctly.

Not only that, the computer monitor (the old large squarish type I still use that is about the length of my forearm) becomes black and blank and I cannot see what I am typing on the screen either. It almost reminds me of a large cloaked head (though not quite ominous).

How do people cope with this nonsense? (This is what I am thinking for a time.)

Morning of July 22, 2015. Wednesday.



This title is not that relevant - as the cat itself does not glow, but for some reason it just came into my head as the title (and who am I to “argue” with self-titling excursions into the surreal).

Yet again my dream alters the features and layouts of real locations. This time our bed that is in real life in what would otherwise be the dining room (head to the west) is now in the front computer room, which is adjacent to our older children’s rooms; the head to the east (though feasible, not that likely to be as such - especially as our oldest son’s room has a window in his wall into the room). At the same time, the computer desk is near the window (where the bed was).

I “realize” that I am at 611 North Monroe Street (in America), which I rarely dream about anymore, especially considering I have not lived there since early 1968 (before moving to Cubitis off Highway Seventeen). My cat Tiger (long gone in reality), an orange tabby, is walking about. I “realize” that I am about seven years old but am concerned that Tiger has stepped in paint and is tracking it around the room. He is hesitant and shaking each leg in rotation, just as in reality when a cat steps in questionable liquid. However, the footprints are like a light and almost like a “hole” as well, somehow.

I “remember” after the tracks are giving off an annoying amount of light, that I can “turn off the footprints” (that is, anything glowing in the room) with a special light switch. I move my hand around to feel for it but cannot find it. I vaguely also recall (real memory) that there is a stack of about six or seven comic books on the left side of the toilet tank in the bathroom and am wondering if they will be knocked into the toilet as a result of the cat’s actions. I am trying to remember if this already happened at a previous time and if as such they had been there for several days thus far (which makes no sense of course).

The cat walks up the wall, leaving an even pattern of footprints (which start to look more like upright five-pointed stars than cat paw prints), almost to the ceiling. “Come down from there,” I command. The animal comes down and starts purring very loudly on my chest but seems eventually to be my own breathing (and likely Zsuzsanna’s as well).

My thinking falls into the slightly abstract. I realize that a “star pentagon” is not a pentagon at all but a decagon (as it has ten sides and angles, not five sides and angles). I feel a strange uneasiness over humanity being “wrong” yet again, then realize everything in the world is misnamed and misunderstood anyway, so it does not matter that much.

I approach three (unknown) girls in somewhat plain dresses (sitting on the floor in the form of a triangle for the most part) who seem to be speaking Portuguese and involved in an occult ritual. There is unexplainable luminosity in the setting. Looking more closely, I see they are actually playing Jacks. However, looking again, I see the game box looks suspiciously like some sort of ritualistic system with the box shaped like a hexagon. I then confirm this by the fact that, even though they are playing Jacks, it is on a hexagram painted carefully on the floor. Then I get annoyed once again as I realize that the “hexagram” is actually a type of dodecagon, as it has twelve angles and twelve sides, not six angles and six sides.



“No one knows what anything is,” I say calmly. One of the girls (to the left and closest to where I am standing) turns and looks at me curiously though smiles in understanding and seeming familiarity (with a vague thought she is my wife when much younger). She says, “A minha estrela guia” (“my guiding star”) and I am not sure if she means me or the game piece (Jack) she is holding. Then I realize she may not have said “A minha estrela guia” but “I’m in Australia”, which sounds the same (and it slowly dawns on me that this is yet another “missed clue” or “confirmation”, of millions, about finding Yin incarnate, yet I recall I already have).

I feel slightly nervous and enter a more luminous state of “quivering” (where the foreground and background quickly shift inversely to each other) and see a large electric fan (all white, including the blades) where the rotary keeps changing in diameter, smaller and larger, but somewhat randomly. The fan blades sometimes curve out as if in attempt to touch or at least reach me (with a perceived sense of care and compassion, not as a threat). The imagery shifts in unusual ways. Every now and then, a small narrow crocodile head emerges (again, with no sense of threat, and the mouth remains closed) horizontally and evenly from the center and is seemingly pulled back in. Other things the spinning fan blades become is a cycad palm, a sunflower, and some sort of floral kaleidoscopic design. I watch it for quite some time (with a vaguely perceived buzzing) and eventually shift into a dream where Steve J (an old classmate) and I are walking just below rafters on roof support beams and ceiling joists in a large building. The rafter patterns become more and more complex. This last part, Zsuzsanna says she also dreamt of - though she was the one walking mainly on the hanging beams (without any actual reason or prior cause to dream as such, though this shared dreaming happens fairly often). (However, I did have a lot of similar dreams when about thirteen.)

Morning of July 21, 2015. Tuesday.



I am semi-lucid but do not rise to full lucidity and just let my dream render the settings and circumstances automatically (without any previous scripting). I first find myself with my wife and three youngest children, as they seem to be ready to go to a park, though I falsely “know” it is south of our home rather than north (something dreams do a lot). I am deciding if I should go with them, as it seems to keep “resetting” over time, even though, at one level, I know that there is no park south of us. (The orientation is mirrored rather than rotated, as the front door seems to the south instead of north as well, yet immediate surroundings are otherwise mostly correct.)

In the next scene, I examine a very old large hardcover book (which is somewhat worn) which I was apparently sent in the mail recently. It is based somewhat on the concept of friendship books (FBs) from years ago that many people send on as they are supposed to, though there are always those who do not “get it” and keep them. The book seems to contain ghost stories and mysteries of perhaps a few pages each, and over many years from different amateur writers. I, as well, have a thought in my mind that I could keep the book, though I am not sure if that would be fair or right. Upon looking more closely, I see that several pages from a modern notebook (including the notebook’s cover) had been stapled on as the front cover (the real front cover seemingly missing), though it is partly coming off. I am trying to decide if it is just the notebook pages I should fill out (with my name and address) and send on after detaching the already loose staples, or the old book as well. Obviously, if each person is to add a story to the book, it needs to be sent on, yet the scene is somewhat ambiguous, especially as only the last few pages are blank. I already have the book, yet there is a statement on one of the first notebook pages expressing that you should write why you think your story should be included in the book, which contradicts why I received it in the first place.

The first page of the book has about a hundred small signatures in various styles of handwriting going back to the late 1700s. I see the names “James” and “John” (though do not recall the last names) but do not attempt to focus on the entire long list. Each one had been an author of a story in the book. I remain perplexed and my dream shifts.

I am then with my (deceased) sister on Loomis and Gillette and asking her about the changes that have occurred. I notice the area on the east side of Loomis looks very different. Instead of the neighbor’s house that was there on the corner, it appears to be an old church with all the windows sealed up with concrete blocks and the entire building painted over - which is actually like a real building across from my childhood (short-term) home on North Monroe in Florida, where people went a bit “off” and sealed the church possibly due to belief in “evil spirits”. (I am not sure of this, but I know that some people actually believe in such things, though I cannot imagine why.) She talks to me about it though it takes a little time to dawn on me that the whole area is not of the original buildings. There is also a strange “sign” made of three-dimensional letters (though I do not know the phrase as I am mostly perpendicular to it) that runs north to south along the east side of Loomis, that is, just the phrase sitting upright (vertically) over the lawns, somewhat like a miniature (but longer) version of the “Hollywood” sign, about chest-high. I do not bother to walk over and read it. Our conversation is not that vivid though my sister seems to be expressing puzzlement about my not knowing of the (fictional) changes, and my dream shifts again.

Finally, I am with my wife Zsuzsanna in a mostly undefined setting. I notice that her face is glowing in a similar manner as when someone shines a flashlight from under their chin in a dark room, though in photographic negative, though with correct colors, so that the light both appears to come from inside as well as the colors rendered correctly (instead of with blue skin as would otherwise be the case). She is smiling intensely. “That’s sexy,” I say, though I am not sure of the dynamics of the setting (which seems indoors and outdoors at the same time) and my dream finally fades.

Night of July 20, 2015 Monday.



I meet the “mystery girl”, the life-long “dream girl” at an apartment building (where her half-brother is living at the time) - the building with the same name as my middle name near a road with the same name as my first name; neither name being very common and certainly not that popular with mainstream society. I walk up to her taking in the layout of the building on the second floor, the railing, her beautiful smile. “Now you know for sure. That I really care for you. Only the eye can tell you why”.

The dream girl came from a place called Heaven. She lived in an unlikely house with exterior walls missing, like a cutaway view of a house as I saw in my dreams as a child; a rainforest girl, born on Friday the Thirteenth. She was the flower girl in a Nimbin event. The Cowsills sing “I love the flower girl. Was she reality or just a dream to me?” She was across the ocean though I always could feel her and sometimes tried to make the journey in my dreams. “Nimbin” is an imaginary place, a classmate tells me.

“What time is it when the clock strikes thirteen?” it says on the back of a paperback book of ghost stories. “Time to get a new clock,” writes my sister on the cover in blue ink.

“Why did you…?” I start to say to the “mystery girl”. Why did she copy the drawing of the only other person I suspected might actually exist on this planet in a way that brought on the blue light. She looked over my right shoulder on my desk in her moment of lucidity, the drawing of which she mentally took back with her to copy so that I knew something was going on when she sent it to me years later upon discovering she was real. The dream girl and the “other” (the one who originally drew the image) both had similar first names (Susan and Zsuzsanna/Suzi) and their last names; both seven letters, and vowels and consonants in the same sequence, probably not that important in the scheme of things

“I’ve got the key, I’ve got the secret,” sing the Urban Cookie Collective. “Come with me see a brand new day”, Yothu Yindi sing. Meeting my partner is the biggest joy ever, especially seeing her as the most beautiful girl on the planet since early childhood…Roma Hungarian (gypsy) but with an intriguing and unique Roma-Australian accent.

I mishear “you see that cycad palm” as “you see that psychic come”. When I learn of the real lyrics, I smile inwardly. It is a good thing. “Psychics” cannot exist because the Source will have none of it. The Source cannot be controlled, named, poked, or prodded. You might as well try to control how your food digests, molecule by molecule.

I look at her in the mirror (as if I was looking at my own reflection) just prior to her contact. “…and if it sounds a bit upside-down, it’s from down under…” The cassette is my first treasure from her.

My bride is the only voice I could ever hear more deeply inside of me (and it turns out that she was the one that told me things as I was growing up - such as the package of books in the mail that had been split open and left on a desk downstairs from my apartment before I got to my boarding house and their exact arrangement in an impossible visual “memory” - yet this was also somehow like a feminine memory and her voice at the same time), the only one who can bring the blue light within me, it seems. The only other one who seems to exist with me.

“Blue flame!” shouts my brother-in-law looking at me as if for the first time and twists his head around in his arm chair, almost straining his neck, to see if other people are looking my way. He says he sees “blue fire burning” around my head and shoulders. A few minutes later, he is himself again, short-term amnesia taking root as it always does with “normal” people.

I look upon the face of my “imaginary girl” and her visage is of the same beauty as before we met. The same unique voice and accent - since April 9th, 1994, the 99th day of that year.

Have others, somewhere at some point in human history, lived as I have…or even understood as I have, the makings of their own place in the universe, and where every little pattern and idea that exists seems to be specially designed for the self as some sort of clue or hint? There are no records of such that I know of. Skepticism. Anger. Jealousy. Short-term amnesia. Nervous doubt. Fear of the unknown. This is what makes people human. I have to remember that others are like chicks in eggs. I have to remember that even as a young child, adults were like chicks in eggs to me. Everything I saw around me was ridiculously deceitful but unable to sway what I knew. All those frustrated people of my past watch me walk away.

Morning of July 19, 2015. Sunday.



After smoothly moving into blissful sleep paralysis after love-making, the “portal” begins to form, the thin short glowing lines (some moving as if racing with others in pairs) and asterisk-like sparks coming together into forming the usually generic city streets setting, by far the most common rendering of origin in the last ten years or so. I am too integrated to be pulled back by a hypnic jerk (as is often the case where my first very short lucid dream of many nights is of walking on a sidewalk and eventually tripping somehow and falling forward, with an intense body-wide sensation before I begin to integrate back towards the flow of a new dream creation) and am soon in my dream’s incomplete setting and where parts of the street are not yet rendered. I also had not scripted a dream concept the previous evening so I relax my focus as in a semi-lucid dream.

Shortly, letting my thoughts wander, I begin to remember a brief previous focus on an old dream titled “Yakety Yak” (August 11, 1974) which featured Mad Magazine’s “Spy vs. Spy” character heads and which I had posted on tumblr earlier. As I have learned, it does not take much for a dream to form out of a very short time period (even with full lucidity) involving the focus on even a very old dream or a brief glance at an insignificant and impersonal article in a old newspaper (as with another recent dream).

A white 1974 Cadillac Coupe DeVille convertible comes into the scene from my left side, seemingly driving north relative to my dream’s implied orientation, but south based on my conscious afterthought concerning my house’s orientation, based primarily on the transition of direction from living here as opposed to living in Wisconsin in America (as it seems a bit like a La Crosse setting), something that is fairly common in dreams that utilize La Crosse settings, and which also make some composites a bit ambiguous in directional orientation (assuming a particular dream does not rotate house layouts and features ninety degrees, or sometimes also symmetrically mirror them).

There is some sort of confusion with names; “Coupe DeVille” warping into “Cruella de Vil” and I briefly falsely recall that this character is Cruella de Vil in a pointless “aha” moment. I soon realize that this is not the case and that, regardless of my lucidity, it is typical invalid word association gibberish, as the Spy driver is male.

Soon, however, Spy is not Spy at all, but is now my Revell SnapTite Pteranodon Model from around this same time period (age 13), though there is some transient ambiguity during my focus on the eerie similarity of the heads. As I focus on the memory of how the model’s head swiveled about in reality, its head begins spinning as it is driving (although there is a brief period where the Spy/Pteranodon seems to be shaking his head “no”). Eventually, in spinning so fast, it becomes a helicopter rotary propeller, spinning faster and faster, creating a slight sense of in-dream vertigo as the car and the head smoothly transform into a helicopter, which rises in the air and flies away, leaving a sense of awe but soon decaying into abstract hypnopompic forms.

Morning of July 17, 2015. Friday.



Zsuzsanna and I are either living at or “temporarily” staying in a mostly unfamiliar large apartment on what seems to be at least the second floor (though I am not aware of any backstory to this setting). It is possibly a variation on the King Street boarding house I have not been in or even directly seen since 1990. In this case, it still seems to be oriented south of the building (or north if it is relevant to our present house) and like an opened composite of Leonard’s room (the pinhead’s), my original L-shaped room, and the front (including the shared kitchen) being brought much closer to the back of the house. Other random characters make an appearance for no seeming reason or recent reflection or association, which includes: One of our landlords from Stadcor Street (Glenn), a cocaine user I knew in my first factory job (Greg R), a couple unremembered celebrities, and a couple relatives (though not correct in appearance). My sister Marilyn (April 25, 1942-Feburary 13, 2014) is also alive again and there is something about NCIS no longer being involved in an investigation. She briefly seems to be in the same “scene” with Ralph Waite (the actor from “The Waltons”; the television series), which is similar to a dream from long before they died.

This dream utilizes a folly I have encountered in other dreams; that is, confusion with dynamics relevant to the second storey of a building in implying we are also somehow at ground level at the same time. In this case, the confusion relates to the discovery of two bodies buried side by side in the “ground” just under the floorboards (again, somehow on the second floor) in what I believe is the kitchen. Finding two bodies is not the original intent. One of my dream’s (unknown) characters pulls up a couple loose floorboards for whatever reason and from there, moves some dirt and unexpectedly uncovers the bodies, which are fairly young and boy and girl. For some reason, this does not feel as macabre as it would in real life (ironic since some dreams augment minor concerns to ridiculous extremes). Over time, I go over to the windows, look down at the street (again, now from the second storey) and have minor concern about another male (our past landlord Glenn) who is approaching and possibly will be questioned on the deaths. The NCIS associations are not that organized or seemingly relevant at the time.

The investigation is slow and uneventful, and the two bodies (minimally skeletal, as the faces are almost discernible though not recognized) remain where they are, the mound of dirt like an elongated oval embankment around them. During this time, while I am sitting back in a chair, a young girl (about six) sleeps mostly on her stomach over me though is not my real-life youngest daughter (I assume, though sometimes dreams shift time elements dramatically). The sense of touch, weight, heat, and slight movement is augmented and lifelike. After this, there is a vague confrontation in another part of the room that I am not involved with, with random characters. When the girl eventually wakes, she walks about in the room before me and makes a sarcastic comment (unremembered) to an unknown character. At this point, she resembles Elizabeth Walton (a very young Kami Cotler), but aggressively out of character and saying the other character should “honor” me (as me being her fictional father). The other character seems somewhat perplexed and not fully developed as an in-dream persona. From here, my dream falls into the abstract as the girl’s hair seems “electrified” somehow and she seems almost goddess-like or at least like a well-defined tulpa (though her characteristics becoming mostly unfamiliar again).

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A part of this dream, as is typical, comes from something I only briefly glanced at for about a second the previous day - incidentally reading how Kami Cotler used to fall asleep on Ralph Waite’s lap during filming of “The Waltons”. Then I see and realize that Ralph Waite died around the same time as my sister on February 13, 2014 - which I had not focused that much on assuming I knew it at all prior to this point (I do not really watch the news that much and far less television than most people). This is in addition to how one much older dream somehow more clearly revealed my father’s death (April 26, 1901-February 14, 1978) several years in advance (as well as several other things that did not even exist at that time, including the “Jumpman” computer game and even the same music used as its theme). I always felt in the back of my mind that this sister would somehow die on the same date (not necessarily the same year) as my father. This was before she was the one to tell me (in the middle of the night) that my father had just died. However, from my perspective (in Australia, related to the time difference) she did die on February 14th when looked at that way (which I cannot help doing). Not only that, the last episode of Season 11 of NCIS (“Honor Thy Father”) was apparently a tribute to Ralph Waite, who sometimes played Jackson Gibbs. Sometimes the layered intricacies of a particular dream tend to seriously puzzle me.

How deep does this go…Ralph Waite may additionally be a play on “wait” and Kami Cotler a play on “cot” (cot/crib/youth) and even “Waltons” may be a play on “walled in” as with one humor magazine title I saw and distinctly still remember from when I was thirteen (No. 114 of “Cracked Mazagine” - spelled as such - from January 1974). (Additional note to self; there was a memory slip between “certain” and “thirteen” for whatever reason.) On the cover, Ralph Waite is standing directly below the word “Home”. Additionally, the setting itself (concerning the imagery of the first body uncovered) was very similar to the first panel of a horror/ghost comic book story I saw years ago (possibly from around the same week or time period as the Waltons satire), which I have yet to recover in my research. Finally, the cot/crib reference is related to the fact that the dismantling (or selling) of a cot or crib accurately foreshadowed my sister’s death (and is a known precognitive metaphor for an upcoming death).

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Despite the curious recurring ambiguity of a setting implied to somehow be on the first floor and the second floor at the same time, this is relevant to how the presumed corpses, buried under the floorboards of the second floor, is a subliminal distorted perception of my sleeping body (a dream sign of the first level) and Zsuzsanna’s, who is sleeping with me at the time.

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Morning of July 16, 2015. Thursday.



There is a residual sound, somewhat like an echo; a layered but pure vocalization that is somewhat nostalgic and defining; a single note that resounds from nowhere in particular, a group of young females vocalizing once, somewhat like the first vocalized note of David Essex’s “For Emily, Whenever I May Find Her” but with a younger chorus. It “hangs” in the air like a simple single statement on life and time, like a little cloud. It is the moment of my consciousness coming into existence for the first time.

Grandfather Clock on the “Captain Kangaroo” set is tipped over and destroyed by a dog-sized griffin of primarily orange coloring. A clock cannot bleed (even a minimally anthropomorphic clock), but the glass flies into my arms and elbows in the semi-dark “Captain Kangaroo” set; the Treasure House. I pull the glass out nonchalantly perhaps reverting back to age two when wounded near-fatally with large pieces of glass cutting into my left wrist. I do not care that much; I am lucid, though I just watch the mayhem with a slight twitching of my sleep paralyzed legs followed by a wave of bliss, like a “splash” that grows more pleasurable and quickly rises from my toes to my stomach. It is macabre but somehow amusing in its surreality.

The griffin scratches and pecks at what remains of larger glass and wood pieces in Grandfather Clock’s “chest”.

“That’s enough,” I say rather loudly to the griffin, getting tired of pulling glass and wood slivers out of my arms (especially elbows) and face. Puzzled by my apparent audacity, the griffin turns its head towards me and transforms into a Doberman Pinscher, becoming a bit thinner, running away with its tail between its legs, and shrinking and becoming a mouse, leaving the Captain’s Treasure House.

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What does it mean to dream of a griffin? At the core level, a griffin is a flight symbol. A flight symbol is rendered in a dream in subliminal anticipation of the hypnopompic waking start. Additionally, a griffin is a mix of unrelated animals, which is likely to be a unique precursor factor of the coalescence of the preconscious and emergent consciousness.

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Some of my other dreams that feature griffins (links): (1) Making a Griffin?, (2) R Brand, (3) Malfunctioning Griffin Game, (4) The Temple and the Tomb

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Flashback to reality: Conversations I do not want with the endlessly annoying locals who use terms they do not know the meaning of and saying little that makes any sense. I push an empty baby stroller to the NightOwl Convenience Store as I always do when needing a couple things heavy enough to warrant aid. The unfamiliar cashier looks worried as I come in, unpredictably shouting “where’s your child?” and then seemingly assumes that I left them home on their own, something that other people apparently do from time to time (though I have no idea why an adult would leave a young child on their own). I guess the concept of “with my wife” is not a realistic scenario in the “minds” of the characters of this region.

As I begin to explain (even though there is no reason to have to explain yourself to a random member of the public) how my daughter is home with my wife, another female interrupts by commenting to the cashier, “he sold his child on the black market…I saw it on eBay”. Even though I am a stranger, she is pointlessly joking (albeit in extremely poor taste) as they continue to make other references that make no sense to me. When one addresses me briefly as I am getting the items I need, I simply look back and nonchalantly say “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

As I leave the store, one of the females tells me to make sure I wrap my child up when I take them out on a cold night so that they do not get windburned. I am not sure if she is joking or serious, though I am so nonplussed by her untimely misuse of the word and previous bizarre commentary (especially in walking on a completely windless warm night without a child in the stroller) that I just look at her for a very short time and utter "no idea” and I go on my way.

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Morning of July 15, 2015. Wednesday.



I am in a building in a public place with Zsuzsanna (in an unknown town and unfamiliar location), possibly a train station, sitting on what is somewhat like a long wooden chest though meant to be a bench near the center of the room. She is on my left. Along comes Werner Klemperer (March 22, 1920-December 6, 2000, as from “Hogan’s Heroes”, though in a formal suit rather than in costume), seeming cheerful and cordial as he sits down on Zsuzsanna’s left.

I am not surprised at all for some reason. I move forward (not standing up) and with some difficulty, try to shake his right hand with my left hand, which results in a bit of difficulty. He does not seem sure how to hold his arm in this situation and for a moment, it seems as if our hands are reversed or at least turned sideways (for example, the back of my hand facing out and forward, thumb down). Even though it is quite awkward making at least three attempts at a “normal” handshake, there is no residual embarrassment. He moves out farther but does not stand either.

Zsuzsanna and I talk to him a bit about what he thinks of the “Lost” television series (which began in 2004), which makes no logical (or interpretable) sense due to him having died before the first episode ever aired. This seems vaguely familiar in conscious afterthought as if there was a very similar scenario in a dream of a few years ago (regarding two or three large televisions being in the same setting). However, this is one of only a few dreams that ever had him as a character, the last one possibly being in 1978 (though I did not do a full scan as it takes some time) - though all other instances regard his Colonel Klink character and persona, I think.

There is not much after this. He does not seem to be too decisive about “Lost” either way. The meeting seems vivid and otherwise realistic for what it is.

In another highly illogical dream scene, I am trying to stop dogs from coming onto the porch in an alternate version of our last home on Barolin Street, though the windows are actually mostly closed anyway (and are sash windows rather than the jalousie windows as they were in reality). I am forcefully slapping a pillow against the closed window, to make a particular dog back away from it. There are at least three dogs though which are not that aggressive. One does grab the end of the pillowcase in his mouth for a short time, as the window then seems about one inch open. Nothing that stressful ensues and no dogs get in.

Morning of July 14, 2015. Tuesday.



Instead of my first dream of the night being sensual and lucid as usual (probably due to the so-called Tetris effect regarding actual lovemaking), they have remained so for a couple days throughout and as such, have not much of a plot otherwise. Still, one has enough additional detail to perhaps post online as it involves one of those common (to me) imagery-based events that seem very familiar, even nostalgic, yet completely fictional.

Yet again, I am back in my (implied) teenage years in Cubitis. The bed is aligned east to west along the northeast corner against the outer carport door (that door being perpendicular to the main entrance into the living room), which is where it was during the height of unexplainable clearer dreams associated with my wife-to-be before we met.

There is another presence in the room other than Zsuzsanna and I on the west side, supposedly also with a bed in the room; an unknown female, though who leaves in a short time without saying or doing anything other than a straight walk out the door from my room (without acknowledging us), though it does not seem that much of a privacy issue even though it seems possible she may return (though she does not). After an extensive level of intimacy with augmented touch with Zsuzsanna, and even though it is semi-dark, I find myself looking at some sort of “impossible” Warren-like comic magazine/“computer” composite in the same location on my bed (it is not much like an ipad - but more like a normal magazine though with computerized pages), though which transforms into solely a comic magazine after a short time, though mostly in color. Firstly, there is a black-and-white splash page that shows a scene similar to art from near the end of the “Heavy Metal” movie (from 1981) with a female riding a winged creature. There is some sort of ambiguity that implies more imagery can somehow be inserted into the page into any white space with some sort of software routine. Although I contemplate this idea, I do not use it or see any options to do what is implied (or any context menu showing additional art to be inserted wherever - the ground below the winged creature is mostly white and featureless, implying that perhaps figures or buildings can be inserted as well as perhaps something else in the sky).

It soon gets more and more “familiar” (as if I had read through the fictional magazine numerous times in the past) as I turn the pages. There is a page that is somewhat like “Wizards” movie scenes (from 1977) in a typical Bodē-like three-by-three vertically narrow nine panel layout. Eventually, I am looking at what seems to be a very unlikely but “familiar” Vaughn Bodē Erotica comic, yet featuring Disney’s Magica De Spell. She appears to be standing (on the right side of each panel) and engaged in conversation with another female “duck” over most of the nine panels. The art becomes so vivid and detailed (and focused with full clarity upon), I partially forget I am dreaming and start to reflect on the intense “familiarity” of this book. It seems, though, that each page is only a “demo” (or sample) of various other magazines and I do not quite recall if I have all or some of the full copies elsewhere. (Magica De Spell was actually one of the first cartoon characters that appeared in dreams from age four, though only in two-dimensional still images and not really that often). This of course distracts me from my lucidity, though I do eventually shift into other sensual scenes without any comic imagery. I even enter a lucid “false awakening” (which is fairly rare) as if I am more lucid in coming out of another lucid dream. (Typically, concerning non-lucid dreams, my false awakenings are almost always far less vivid than the previous dream, though real movies that use this trick imply the opposite. The fact they are less vivid at least with me, is probably one reason why they “work” as a false awakening in the first place - with less reasoning skills available than the previous main dream.)

Morning of July 12, 2015. Sunday.



The first part of my dream is taking place in an unfamiliar home, where there is a large covered-sidewalk-like area and portico in the back of our house that extends along all the outer walls that face the backyard. An older white-bearded male in shorts, who seems like a neighbor in real life (though he is only at his apartment one or two days out of a month or more) is standing there near our house on the covered sidewalk and talking very loudly and continuously on his cellphone (as he often does in real life for an hour or more at a time, never pausing for even a short time, though while on his back porch across the alley from our place). I am not sure if he is talking to anyone or just talking to himself, using the telephone as a prop. Another male is there who seems to know him. I ask him about why he is doing this as the other male does not seem to think he is doing anything wrong. My wife and I, though, mostly are in the front yard the whole time. My perception is somewhat distorted as if I am fully aware of the imagery and sound on the other side of our house the whole time (even though I had not actually been in that area in-dream). I loudly say “How would he like it if I sat right near his window talking loudly for a long time?” In my dream, our (fictional) houses seem to be on the same street, side by side (his on my left when facing our house), rather than having facing backyards divided by an alley and our high fence as in reality. Also, the fictional covered sidewalk area seems almost as big as our house (though that is not really possible; just some sort of typical in-dream perceptual distortion or faulty reasoning, since I am mostly focused on our neighbor’s trespassing and imposition).

No drama ensues, as my dream shifts to something different where my wife is talking about a Ragdoll cat I see in our backyard, which is one my wife had when I first met her. My wife says that the cat has diabetes and because of that, it is somewhat dehydrated as well as apparently bloated on one side near its back (which does not make much sense). It is uncertain how long the cat will live. I watch it closely, pondering its seemingly unavoidable fate. There is a swimming pool with an open cylindrical drain large enough for a cat to swim down through and that is what it does. The mostly white cat jumps into the deep, clear water, moving very smoothly, much as with the motions of a human swimmer, even doing a “realistic” butterfly stroke for a time. I can see its front legs move forward and around, even noticing the flexing of its feet and toes that remind me much of a person’s hands and fingers. I contemplate the beauty of the intelligence of this cat, that is now apparently ready to leave the world in this manner, by swimming as much as possible within the water, enjoying its aquatic journey to peace as if it knows it is too ill to continue on land. I watch it swim directly down into the drain, perfectly and smoothly. However, even though there is not enough room to turn around within the pipe, the cat somehow emerges in the other direction (coming out headfirst) in a short time and seems healed. It no longer appears to have any health issues.

There is another shift and we seem to be living in a larger version of Cubitis, where an unknown younger male drives into our front yard while we are outside. I expect trouble. It seems nighttime as it is dark out, though it does not really “feel” like it is later at night. He pushes my wife but I get his attention by holding out a screwdriver as a weapon in my right hand. He pulls out from inside his shirt or jacket somehow, what I first think to be a knife but is actually another screwdriver the same as mine. For only a moment, it seems as if he has two left forearms (with two left hands) in close proximity (each from the same elbow area), each with a screwdriver (but my dream quickly “corrects itself” and the imagery is then normal with only one left hand holding one screwdriver). I end up quickly jabbing him twice in the chest, once near the middle, once slightly to the right, but then he mostly lies on the ground giggling even though he is badly, perhaps fatally, wounded. Soon, he seems to be gone from the setting somehow as well as the car (some sort of dream “reset”, or a typical way dreams sometimes sublimate or “erase” their own unfolding implications or short-term history). I talk to my wife who seems to be okay.

Early Evening of July 11, 2015. Saturday.



I had been working on a project with a large set of new music tracks and got stuck at trying to create the rather low-pitched cuíca-like sound from Peter Tosh’s “Rock With Me” (though I was able to copy most of the percussion rhythms otherwise in the way I wanted) and have become frustrated since nothing I can find, no sample, no actual instrumentation attempts, sounds anything quite like it. I lower the pitch of the MIDI cuíca (as my main otherwise very realistic drum kit in SFZ sounds nothing like a proper cuíca sound and is too smooth - and there is no feasible way to control note lengths, up or down stroke, pitch variation, or other important dynamics - thus a cuíca sample or MIDI format or even an audio loop for that matter, is mostly useless) and sequence it to match the organ bubble rhythm, but it just is not suitable and does not have a viable feel in the track. I have it set to exactly 86 bpm and do not feel like taking the sound out of the actual track, which is probably not very feasible because of how much it blends in. (In my dream, it seems that a yellow grape tomato is also called a “cuíca” for some reason.)

Even though it is rather low-pitched, I somehow am able to duplicate the sound in-dream with a small yellow grape tomato (“Sun Drop”) by holding it between my index and middle fingers and rubbing it with my thumb. This seems a bit unusual to get a low-pitched cuíca sound by rubbing a small tomato as such, but it works. I become aware of the plan to integrate it into a musical recording. More than one little yellow tomato is required, as once the eighth snare hit occurs on some verses, it needs to be popped to create the very light splashy cymbal sound, which is almost inaudible in the original track other than the intro pattern of the kick, snare, and cymbal prior to the start of the song. At one point, I eventually seem to be in a classroom setting (though no one else is around) with relevant algorithms written on the green chalkboard. This is the kind of rather ridiculous non-lucid dream I get when taking a nap earlier in the evening, especially when eating something I am mildly allergic to (in this case, chicken and peanut butter sandwiches, one of my favorite snacks, though an older brother was more allergic to peanut butter than I am). I still have not solved the cuíca issue, even after watching about a dozen videos with experts and performers, mostly in Spanish and Brazilian Portuguese. It is probably something in the back of my mind but has yet to emerge. I also seem to recall a “Fat Boys” cassette from the 1980s where they copied a very similar low-pitched cuíca rhythm, though vocally.

By some strange coincidence, “cuíca” is Portuguese for a type of small opossum which is known to make a high-pitched sound. How amusing.

Morning of July 11, 2015. Saturday.



It seems that my family and I are at an unfamiliar and unknown campground (and no name is perceived that I remember). Over time, some sort of unusual phrase seems to dominate the back of my mind in this possibly fictional location. It is something like “dust comes from the dirt weasel” or something similar. It does not seem to relate to an actual weasel or any other animal. At one level, it may relate to the link between “dust devil” and “Tasmanian devil” (cartoon version when relevant to spinning and creating a miniature tornado) and my association with my childhood “Wild Weasel” dream.

Mostly, there are two males that seem imposing. I am not certain of their intent. I somehow control movements of wind and dust (at some points, as an actual dust devil) to keep them back. One man seems particularly intent on possibly getting to us, and his motives are likely destructive or at least problematic, but I manage to hold and control whatever forces (which control the wind and air-blown “streams” of dust) are pushing him back. He never gets past this implied barrier, though the forces vary from strong to very strong to light enough so that he is able to move one step forward (though always moves back a step). Wind and dust both usually relate to the passage of time.

Morning of July 9, 2015. Thursday.



I sometimes find it somewhat peculiar how a shorter look at a dream from as far back as 1965 (without even putting that much attention on the new online summary) can somehow trigger a similar focus in a new dream. Certainly there is probably no meaning or symbolic association as such, but perhaps partially relevant to the work I am doing now regarding all April 9th dreams that seem to show extensive foreshadowing or precognitive elements in ways that seem by lifelong design. I suppose in that case, even considering that television broadcasts had certain strong influences, what determines which facets of such influences are the ones to seemingly create strong personal meaning even in a long-term precognitive sense? This may also be relevant to some extent with reviewing very old dreams, although the mood is sometimes different.

The concept that reminds me of my 1965 dream (“Frankenstein Closes the World”) is the opening of various small doors partly into what seems like a vertically “flat” (and inaccessible) version of part of the world at times. The idea of needing to go beyond a certain point seems like some sort of in-dream waking metaphor as with many in-dream events that some people try to claim as life-relevant events. For example, there has been a recurring situation in some dream types of going through a building and coming to a “dead-end” such as a window overlooking a city at night. A “dead-end” as such is almost always within a commercial building, though on a couple occasions related to trying to get out the hallway door on the south end of my Cubitis home during the time when it was not used in reality and was padded around the frame with pieces of blanket. A “dead-end” in a dream is likely some sort of impediment to the waking process and little else. You are in a dream and ready to wake, but perhaps not quite in the correct physical orientation to comfortably do so (for example, your arm being in an uncomfortable position).

In this dream, I mostly fly around and evade unknown people in mostly a cheerful manner. The scenario is not that clear, though the situation is quite common in dreams. It seems to relate in part to people not liking my flying ability, or me in general - though in this case it is likely that they view me as tresspassing. I fly about and land on roofs and walk on them a short time before flying elsewhere. There are a few scenes where I have to maneuver through very small openings in the middle of cluttered halls (which would otherwise be impossible to even squeeze through in reality) which seem somewhat related to industrial buildings. Some of these maneuvers seem to automatically trigger “resets” to where the setting changes dramatically. There are still seemingly annoyed people following me inside buildings as I fly around, though. One blocked area is made up of randomly stacked and partly fallen over boxes with at least one loose pipe diagonally across the top part of the small opening. I somehow still get through easily.

There is a scene where I am sitting at a table with another (unknown) male in the hall in the King Street boarding house (where there was not really enough room to do so in reality). The room I thought I had been stealthily residing in rent-free (where I never lived in in reality) turns out to be in use by a second unknown male, probably a college student, and I apologize for any intrusion I and the other male may have created when he opens his door. There is no conflict, however. From here, I go to the front of the house (though still upstairs) and into the kitchen. At this point, a third unknown person (female) is following me as if to ask me a question or at least say something. I am not interested and walk out onto the roof. Even though I am not lucid in any way, I know I can fly (typical in many dream types). I leap from the edge of the roof and the enjoyable and expected slight feeling of falling followed by rising up in flight occurs as usual. The other person seems somewhat surprised I did this. I fly fairly close to the ground near a group of unknown people before rising higher into the air again, effortlessly.

There is a shorter scenario after I land where I somehow cause money to come out of a machine of some sort (directly influenced by having seen the first episode of “Continuum” from 2012 on DVD). There is at least one American fifty-dollar bill for myself (along with what looks like a few different types of bills from Canada and Australia), yet I give my (deceased in real life) sister Marilyn a hundred-dollar bill for her husband for some reason. After a short time in a shift to a distorted version of her house, she is very angry about this act. She seems to believe that the gift of a hundred dollar bill somehow makes the time they spent saving money seem meaningless and she seems not to want it as such (which of course makes no sense at all other than perhaps for someone of an untimely poverty mentality which my sister certainly never had in life).

From here, I am watching a scene where my family is watching a very large flat-screen television, though I view the setting from the side of the television. The setting seems to take on an unusual vertically “flat” perspective that is hard to describe. I see my youngest son but not that clearly. It seems to be part of some sort of new television show about families watching television shows but mostly only filming their feet (yet I do not even reflect upon “Gogglebox Australia”, though which Zsuzsanna and I could only watch a few minutes of one episode of weeks ago). From here, I seem to be looking down at my own body in bed but from an unlikely angle though still from somewhere near my shoulders. There is some sort of abstract thought reflecting a potential of watching myself while watching myself; that is, a third but unseen “me”.

Morning of July 7, 2015. Tuesday.



My dream starts out like a typical imposer dream. The setting is our present house on W Street, though there is a slight change in the layout relative to size. My wife Zsuzsanna is sitting near our front window (sewing, I think, though her sewing machine is in our living room in reality) where there is more of a view of the neighbor’s house. I notice that the fence design is different. The thinner wooden planks had supposedly been horizontal (rather than vertical as in reality) but are now mostly decayed and lying on the ground. However, the first section of fence about three feet into the front yard division is still standing and made of brick - and is at least five feet high. There is a group of at least four young males. One of these males steps over the rotted planks into our front yard and this imposition immediately annoys me. I am thinking of going out and making sure they stay where they belong, but he goes back on his own. I speak about continuing the front part of the fence by putting more bricks in (not thinking about cost or work effort).

From here, I am concerned about the longevity of our wooden house. These thoughts do not result in any threatening event manifesting even though I consider the possibility of parts of the ceiling falling on us. Diverse features of the ceiling and the angles and differences in height in different areas are far more complex than in reality.

I am outside for a short time. I notice that one section of the sky to my right is different than to my left; a very distinct green color, which makes me think a really bad storm is on the way, perhaps a tornado (even though the sky to my left to the west seems normal and calm).

I go into our house, concerned about the possibly approaching bad weather. As I shut our front door, there is resistance and a pulling sensation and I think that it might be an imposing neighbor trying to get in to assault someone or burglarize, though it turns out that the door will not fully shut due to a large circular (slightly wreath-like) clump of grass being blown into the doorway above the doorknob and being stuck between the door and door frame at about shoulder level (mostly due to my closing the door so quickly that the grass did not have time to fall, the additional pull being caused by the wind). However, I do manage to get it closed. From here, I join Zsuzsanna and our youngest son, and the inside of our house then seems longer, though narrower, north to south, almost hall-like. There is soon a very eerie and human-like low-pitched howling of the wind, which we first think may be an old man or creature moaning just outside our front door. We end up still running, but in a sort of playful manner upon realizing the circle of grass stuck in the closed door is making a feature to cause sound to amplify and phase in this way.

The next scene involves other people being in our house, apparently by permission or just random passive characters coming into existence. Regardless of the weather concern, I sit down to consider a very large game board (about three feet by about one and a half feet) that has several different simultaneous game scenarios at once (though seemingly not at all related to each other). I take it apart (the board seems to have small joints whereby smaller sections connect), separating a section that appears to have some sort of Egyptian strategy game in progress (so that the other sections of the board displaying different cultures and battle scenarios do not distract from the seemingly individual game). The two buildings in the opposition look more like ziggurats than pyramids, though. I do not really reflect on why a person or group of people would have so many different things going on at the same time on the same game board. I am not interested in playing it now.

An older male sits on the couch (its position has changed; it is perpendicular to its location in reality; it faces east rather than north), apparently talking to a young Ava Gardner (December 24, 1922-January 25, 1990) - probably related to the fact that my wife had checked out a “Perry Mason” DVD set in real life (thus a distorted Erle Stanley Gardner association). I am not sure what the scenario is; perhaps he is coaching her in her acting, though he is seemingly her agent. I go over and notice that she is dressed in lacy black and is sitting back with her arms back (and knees up) on the floor. I grab her heels and lift them slightly. She then transforms into a Tweety Bird foil balloon (shaped like Tweety Bird in frontal silhouette) of about three feet long. I end up whacking the balloon by her “feet” (the balloon of which is still somehow her) against the floor (though I am not even focused on why) with a slight wariness that I probably should be doing something else.

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