non-lucid

Morning of February 4, 2015. Wednesday.



I am seemingly in a taxi in the front seat but there is no direct focus on being the driver (though no one else is in the front seat - the steering wheel is apparently on the right side). In the seat behind me are possibly two people, but there is only focus on one on the right when looking back (on my left when watching the road, but I mostly only look behind me). I am not sure of the location.

It is an older, seemingly happy lady in white (almost motherly in her presence), including white material over her head, somewhat hood-like. Her clothes seem like either religious apparel or possibly (on a lesser note) medical. She cheerfully and quickly puts in a single artificial tooth, which is a longer fang, on the right side on the top row of teeth. This act does not seem threatening in any way and seems as casual an act as looking at a wristwatch. No one speaks. This is during a “scripted” stage of attempted lucid dreaming and during lucidity (though is not related to the scripting at all), but nothing significant follows.

Morning of February 3, 2015. Tuesday.



Over the past two years or so, my dream universe has insisted on rendering a fictional location that usually has mostly the same features. Although it seems like a basement, it is usually accessed at ground level through an open area (somewhat like a garage with no door) from the west side of the house. The main feature is a pipe that goes up to the implied bathroom above (second floor) and is almost always implied to be knocked slightly to one side, causing a leak. This pipe is near the center of the room rather than along a wall or corner and is often rendered too narrow to logically function as implied in-dream. It is possible the pipe represents either my digestive system or circulatory system and relates to concerns with “plumbing” upon getting older (either “clogged” arteries or incomplete digestion). In this dream though, the “basement” (again, at ground level) seems less damp and less problematic concerning the pipe and this time there is no indication of a “recent” leak.

Once again, it seems to be a composite of the Loomis Street house with fictional layout details concerning the southwest corner that in real life was otherwise an inside staircase in part (in addition to downstairs features of the separate first floor residence, such as the small laundry room). It is somewhat curious that it is also relative to where I was ready to rent the apartment (upstairs) when my wife-to-be and I first made contact, but instead, I came to Australia. Still, I am not sure this is relevant or maybe even a residual alternate time-line association.

Fictional neighbors live south of us (in the Loomis Street context). The events take place seemingly later at night. There is an idea that the neighbor had used a (fictional) bathroom somehow accessed via the south side of our house directly from outside and I think something about mowing over a part of our garden on that side previously. Later, he is telling me that he is going to report us for being from Afghanistan, which makes absolutely no sense in any context.

I tell him that when I was younger and growing up in Florida, I was always called rude (slang) Asian names by the majority of the population even though I have no Asian heritage (all of which is true). I tell him that people like him have no credibility and that the majority of people cannot even see or understand anything, which is actually the way things have been from my perspective since early childhood. It is strange living in a world where hardly anything is ever seen or related correctly. We do not fight and there is no violence. I just tell him a few things about myself as my dream fades. We mostly remain in the side yards between the houses.

Morning of February 3, 2015. Tuesday.



The first scene relates to buying a few small food items in an unknown store but which vaguely reminds me of a small music store in La Crosse. I have two cinnamon or jam rolls and a plain loaf of bread and something else, I believe. The cashiers or owners are not behind the counter but instead, sitting out where the public is shopping, on a table or crate. They seem to be two of my foremen from the factory that made Ford Taurus parts from years ago (one who shot himself). Pat says that the price (for me) is eighty-nine dollars and I believe either eighty-nine or ninety-eight cents. They seem very amused by charging me this much even though my items could not be more than ten dollars. This makes me really annoyed and I start knocking everything on the floor and leave after hearing something about “eighty-nine million dollars”.

For some reason, they decide to follow me (leaving no cashiers at the store?) yet do not seem angry. I then have a very small white van that is somewhat like a bubble car but with special defensive features like bulletproof glass and rocket launchers underneath the chassis. A fictional dream character joins me in the seat next to me; the somewhat Christian-Slater-like character from years ago. For some reason we ritualistically put black ballroom (masquerade) eye masks on. I am enjoying myself driving around for awhile.

I am not lucid, though still have the long-term-recurring awareness that I can call upon any character or vehicle to come to wherever I am (such as in defense). In this case, it is with a watch on my left wrist. However, I check for it and it is not there - I only feel my shirt sleeve and no object underneath, though I am not that concerned. It is fairly common in dreams to be “missing” something and “replace” its function or purpose by thought alone even without any trace of lucidity (something I have always found interesting).

Later, my wife has a car that is somewhat like a custom purple 1950s Ford Bubbletop “Beatnik” (though also reminds me of the 1968 Hot Wheels Silhouette which I had two of). Somehow, some work has to be done, which causes frustration over time. I have the front bumper separate from the car later on and am trying to work things out.

The bumper seemingly has missing features on one side (though not directly on the end somehow; a little more towards the middle) and is very asymmetrical relative to a portion of diagonal grill on one side but not the other (in reality the grill is apparently only all grid-like squares, not with any diagonal bars). This does not make much sense, as it is supposedly one solid section (or at the most, two, attached) so how could it be shorter and more asymmetrical over time? - in fact, it seems shorter and more asymmetrical every time I consider putting it back on the car (as if I had somehow lost or mentally “eaten” part of one side each time yet while intending to make it complete again with the remaining outer pieces somehow ending up back together as one solid piece). Even though I am not lucid, I eventually get so aggravated by the asymmetrical form of the front bumper that I just somehow mentally create a new complete car prior to waking.

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As many years as I have been working with dreams, it has been only fairly recently (over the past five years) that I have more closely noticed an odd sort of repetition in often subtle doubly recurring elements in a two or three-day period (but which are not related to dream events in the same way each time). Sometimes it is barely noticeable unless everything is well-documented. In this case, it seems to be the number eighty-nine for some unknown reason. In another case it was the act of patting someone (a different fictional dream character each time) in a particular spot near the left shoulder. As yet, I have not habitually linked these occurrences. I do not know if there is any reason behind this other than residual associations perhaps relating to the dream journal itself (or the memory or review of the previous dream).

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Morning of January 30, 2015. Friday.



Ice is sometimes a positive (even blissful) presence in my dreams though in this case, it is like a destructive entity and actually seems to have “intent”. It is possibly some sort of alien “infusion” into the nature of ice, where it seeks out people and grows in a similar manner as the “creature” in the movie “The Blob”, except that it is not mobile.

I belong to a military group that rescues people from certain locations.

My weapon? A small transparent squirt gun. As hilarious as that sounds, and as questionable as the symbolism can be, it is me being a hero in the various scenes. I fill it up a few times when the water runs out, though the water does come out with great force and lasts a lot longer than would be possible for that size in reality (and so it goes).

We go into what is mostly like a shopping mall during one scene but with more restaurants in one area. The ice is growing near one restaurant and people are told to evacuate. Several times in these types of scenes, I am able to use the squirt gun to “kill” (or at least melt) some of the dangerously spreading “living” ice. My gun is not as big as the team leader’s weapon, but that is to be expected. I seem to be wearing khaki skydiving gear at one point though the team leader is in darker green. At various stages, several people look at me with great respect as I save their lives by using my squirt gun (quite possibly the silliest thing I have ever written regarding dream events).

I am not sure of the direction we are going in; it is possibly south relative to where I live in reality (in orientation based on how I am sleeping), which makes sense due to being in Australia and thus moving towards Antarctica to stop any potential new growth of the particular type of ice. However, there is a very large mound of dirt blocking our way at one point and there is apparently a dam west of it. This dam remains unseen, though. At this time, I can hear my mother-in-law yelling (but cannot see her) about random negative nonsense, including something about her last husband. I certainly do not want to go in that direction (and thus possibly see her) so instead, I move back towards the east area of the hill. I can still hear her hollering in her sociopath rants as I walk primarily northeast with two of my wife Zsuzsanna’s siblings (George and Judy).

The nature of my dream changes. I no longer seem to be in the military’s ice-hunting group. I am just enjoying my walk past interesting buildings in an unknown neighborhood, now mostly walking back north (possibly going back home). My dream then takes on a sort of artificial “jerky” feel as we are walking; like watching a movie with too low of a frame-rate. George calls me by a wrong name (which may be “Clarity”, which is similar to part of my middle name). I do not say anything when he does this.

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Morning of January 29, 2015. Thursday.



It seems to be late morning and the weather has changed. It no longer seems to be of a continuous potential for thunder and rain. I am possibly the only one home at our present residence on W Street. The main wooden door is open but the screen door is closed though not locked.

After a fairly short time, two young Caucasian males come onto the porch, though the oldest remains on the top steps near the first porch doorway. The one closest to the front door is perhaps about twelve or thirteen years of age and somewhat chubby and the other perhaps about sixteen and quite skinny. They do not look like anyone I know. I sense that they are up to some serious mischief (possibly with intent to harm or burglarize) and thus I do not feel comfortable about the screen door being unlocked. However, I listen to their spiel for a few minutes while I stand in the living room. It has something to do with some sort of medicine, perhaps, but I am not clear on anything. They first need to do something to my hand, apparently. I am not really interested in this. The younger boy seems to be holding a container as well as some sort of smaller crowbar-looking object with a large hook on it, or perhaps some sort of candy cane and miniature wrecking bar composite.

I try to get them to leave the porch by pushing the screen door out rather violently as well as holding onto it so that they do not get in should they attempt it. Perhaps they are not really all that bad though. They are mostly dressed the same, in yellow and white, including yellow and white baseball caps (worn correctly with the visor in front). It almost does seem like a legitimate business at one point.

The youngest moves forward and lightly jabs the top of my right hand with the hook when the door is partly open, which really annoys me. When I look at my hand, something quite strange happens. A small singular branch-like form grows outward fairly quickly on the top of my hand between my thumb and index finger, twisting about and looking much like a woody vine with a gnarled appearance - about three inches high, with a single talon eventually coming out.

“What did you do to my thumb?” I ask. “I have already had an infection in it.” (This being in reference to the unusual ganglion cysts that started to linearly accumulate in my thumb and wrist in August 1976 as a teenager.) In a way, it reminds me of the spur of a rooster, at least in potential function (or the human equivalent thereof).

Apparently, this is part of the intended demonstration and the “medicine” they wish to sell me will heal this “wart” or whatever it is. I want none of it, though, and do not intend to buy anything. It reminds me of people who invent problems just to con people with “solutions” (and in fact, this is actually what is happening here).

From here, I tear at and punch the first youngest boy (having the new talon helps) and the other male looks horrified. I only vaguely feel that my actions are unjustified. I then move on to him, seemingly causing them both to completely disintegrate or evaporate from my dream, still mentally “punching” as my dream loses cohesion; even as I wake (in fact, I am still “mentally punching” a second or two after being fully awake). My dream was quite vivid, and strangely enough, did not really feel all that negative or frustrating.

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Morning of January 28, 2015. Wednesday.



This is mostly an impersonal dream of going to a college with unknown students with various personality types. I seem to be there almost as a token student who watches the class activities, though I feel somewhat like a teacher at times (but not that defined). There seems to be an odd underlying mood as if the college is a place for additional invasive government-related experiments of some kind, which are not shared with the public.

One year has apparently already passed. There is one outdoor graduation ceremony where someone is killed (by an unknown sniper) and their shirt is covered with blood, which touches me as we are both on the ground at one point (though I am not hurt), a circle of people around us, some waving off others in the area. This scenario is not focused on for very long and there are several shifts.

One room I am in at one point is reminiscent (in conscious afterthought only) of my middle school carpentry classroom, which also had leather-work in the year that followed. There are only about four students in the room (who I lightly converse with). There is one area that also vaguely reminds me of Eco 3 (factory) - though the area is not filled with old tires. There are remarks about nuclear physics. In fact, I make a few comments connecting the flavor and essence of coconut with work in nuclear physics. As nuclear physics and bombs are sometimes plays on sexuality, it makes sense in light of the fact that my wife had the scent of coconut soap on her prior to my dream, which was nice.

Over time, however, I again sense a government involvement in the student being shot earlier. Each larger lab table (of which there are three longer ones in the room) has enclosed two-tiered shelves underneath, and for some reason I open one end to look in - and at this point it seems like one of the last days of school where people are cleaning out their belongings. A picobot, but more like a miniature robotic insect, rectangular and on at least six legs (instead of wheels), is discovered on the upper shelf behind something, but it immediately leaves the area upon being seen. This picobot was supposedly designed to both observe and somehow influence the physics students. (This is nothing new; I first dreamt of something very similar back in 1974 as well as the plot and detailed look of the Tom Selleck movie “Runaway” years before it came out.)

I and the other students follow it down the hall. We eventually come to an open elevator shaft (which seems at least seven floors down) and the picobot deliberately walks into the area and over the edge and falls into the elevator shaft, to intentionally destroy itself, it seems (so that there is no evidence of its programming). It does not explode however. My dream loses cohesion after this.

Night of January 24, 2015. Saturday.



I am not sure where I am but I hear at least three girls talking. I am aware of at least two balloons floating about on their own; one red, the other possibly a lighter blue. They are apart from each other, one slightly lower than the other by about one balloon height.

I get the impression that a fairly complex design (such as a funfair scene - including one with a picture of a balloon on the balloon) had been “carved into” or “engraved” on each balloon. There may be some sort of stencil that can be used to do this. Of course, cutting into a hovering helium balloon is not really possible and even if the balloon had slits in the form of an implied drawing, it could not be blown up. (Of course, if the “drawing” was complete where a cut represented each line it would just fall to pieces.)

I puzzle over this, not knowing if it is “real” or not; vaguely confused, but unquestioning.

Morning of January 19, 2015. Monday.



This is another typical King Street boarding house dream, with nothing relevant to my character or present life. It is a dream I could have had thirty years ago and not known the difference in waking up then or now. Still, I document everything for long-term study (as always, since early childhood) regardless of the type that seems like residual “what if” dregs from the 1980s.

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I make my way to King Street. A male I knew at that time, Don K, is walking with me at one point, carrying a couple full bottles of wine. We end up going into the house through the main front entrance and the landlord and landlady (though started by the landlord), both deceased in reality, go into a bizarre rhythmic “mantra” (with the accented phrasing in the opposite areas as would otherwise seem normal). It seems like some sort of insult to anyone that goes into their house, including a relevance to their desire to be alone. The “song” is one of the oddest things I have heard in a long time.

Don and I end up in the pinhead’s (Leonard S) old room at the southern end of the house. The room is mostly empty. We then drink from different wine bottles. I notice that my bottle, in addition to containing red wine, is also thick with dry powder that does not fully blend with the wine and is apparently crushed sleeping pills. Still, I drink parts of it in small amounts, not really wanting the full effect of either. In reality, I had never taken any form of medication of this kind and rarely ever drank. I attempt to stir it but there is so much powder, the fluid nature of the wine is minimal and nearly too viscous to flow naturally from the bottle. I take about five drinks over time. We are seemingly going to go to Third Street and perhaps meet with others but my dream fades.

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What is interesting is that in the past, I was often within dreams of the future, including those involving the “mystery girl”. Now that I actually “live the dream” so to speak, I often mentally travel to mundane facets of the past (with alternate histories and even no-longer necessary “rehearsals”), almost as if it is some sort of “balancing” function to remind me of the human aspects and encounters of my otherwise legend-like path.

Don was actually the one to inform me of the King Street house availability (while we both worked at the same factory), which was my first unshared apartment in real life at seventeen. It is interesting in that Don was also the worst possible reference I could have had, yet once the owners learned that I was not at all like Don, they let me rent the apartment. Ironically, he was evicted from his apartment shortly after I moved into mine, for drunkenness and leaving broken glass on the lawn.

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Morning of January 18, 2015. Sunday.



Of the thousands of variations that have been rendered in my dreams of my Cubitis home since 1968, along comes a completely different one after over thirty years of last having been there. This one is a little more diverse than usual. I do not believe this is due to long-term memory distortion either, because there were alterations of the house in my dreams when I was living there (and indeed, as there have been with all places I have lived). This is also another “extra window” dream as with a recent dream about my present home. My dream is very vivid (fully in-body), though I am not lucid at any point.

My dream seemingly takes place late at night. My wife Zsuzsanna is with me (though she has never been to America). My computer setup in real life is somewhat similar to how it is set up in my bedroom in my dream, with the monitor facing the windows directly behind me (in my dream, north). At one point, I turn around to look out the jalousie windows. There seems to be at least one additional (fictional) large window, immediately to the left of the door to the carport.

This variation is unusual in that it seems to be the first time the house has been directly rendered in the middle of a seemingly large city (though there were many early precognitive dreams concerning the new highway and such at the back of our property). There is even a well-maintained city street (and sidewalks) close to the house where the northern side yard (and the orange grove beyond) would otherwise be, running east and west. Also, the playground from my elementary school has replaced our large front yard though as if being another city block west of us. There is a shorter chain-link fence along that part of the sidewalk, the sidewalk of which replaces our long real-life driveway (the playground area being open in reality and which otherwise faced the rest of the school grounds). I do not know what would be in our backyard and easterly as we remain in our bedroom throughout my dream.

Two (unknown) teenage girls are walking from the west along the chain-link fence on our side of the street. Eventually, it is a group of four girls. There is also an older male and his wife or girlfriend walking from the same direction at one point, about ten feet ahead of the girls.

I decide to close all the windows for privacy in case my wife and I become more intimate. I close two windows (including the fictional one) without incident. However, when I go to close the outside door’s jalousie window, the handle wobbles (as a different one did in real life until I finally fixed it) and a glass pane falls out from near a lower row and smashes in our carport. This is an odd incident though, as there is an additional somewhat confusing and uncertain aspect to it by which I also somehow “feel” the weight and momentum of the event as it happens (an odd but vivid perception not possible in reality but which has occurred in dreams). At the same time I was closing our window, the older male, as he was walking easterly by with his partner (to the left of her), apparently threw a large (unknown) object into our carport (possibly something of ours that was in the carport - I get the vague impression of a golf club but we never had any in reality) so that it hit the window as I was closing it, which possibly is what caused the pane to come out. There is the idea that the male was also startled by the window breaking even though he was seemingly (possibly absentmindedly) vandalizing the place (even though he is about sixty and seems dressed neatly). I call out “hey” and the couple continues to walk out of view, but walking a little faster now.

I mention to my wife about how “they” broke our window, but by this point, the group of four girls (mostly all in blue jeans and singlets) is there just north of the carport (on the fictional sidewalk) who think I am accusing them. They all stop and look into the carport and through the jalousie window of the door. I notice that the area seems fairly built-up and see what may be stores and taller commercial buildings across the (fictional) street in the semidarkness. One of the girls talks about how it was not her or any of her friends who broke the window and she talks about the male who is no longer in the immediate area. I am aware of who did it, of course, but I do not coherently confirm this to them. They do not seem angry or even annoyed at any point, though. They continue to hang around and I guess they are worried about getting into trouble for something they did not do. However, I am still contemplating on whether the window coincidentally broke when something was thrown near the door and perhaps was not directly broken by the older male. As I wake, I am trying to gather my thoughts in a manner that I can tell them to go on their way and not worry about our broken window, without insulting them or giving them cause for them to believe I think they were vandalizing the house but for some reason, I cannot logically come up with how to communicate this at all as my dream fades.

Morning of January 14, 2015. Wednesday.



My dream involves a “Star Trek” novel, printed by hand in ink on Post-it notes. The notes are in a large pile, mostly in order at first. About three-quarters of the way through, the pages seem out of order and the last section seems flipped around.

The story comes to life, both on a television in an unknown room I am in and sometimes with me at the scene of the story as an interactive “movie” for shorter periods. I see a small poster or page from an unknown magazine of a young William Shatner which reads “Trek Star”. At first, the letters in the title seem ambiguous or intentionally displaying different words (probably “Tek War” a series of science-fiction novels created by William Shatner, ghost-written by Ron Goulart). Also, it seems like the story is supposed to be “disguised” so that people will not realize at first that it is a “Star Trek” story, though the “Trek Star” title is a rather obvious clue that it is. I see Christopher Lloyd as a Klingon at one point. I hear the name “Kirk” (though not “captain”) fairly often as if that is supposed to be another clue before it is more clearly a “Star Trek” story.

One scene where I seem to actually be present relates to an event where Kirk is on a planet and has dealings with a few Freakies (from Freakies Cereal) who are trying to help him in what seems like a possible court martial, though it looks like a normal courtroom at one point. Kirk mentions how the Freakies were not members of his crew though they seem to think they are honorary members, which is why they want to help him. The story is not that clear. It may be that the Klingons have invaded the Freakies home world.

It eventually becomes tedious to read each paragraph on each separate Post-it note (though reading in dreams is often difficult, as the writing typically changes when looking back at it). I am not sure where the stack of Post-it notes came from. When I get three-quarters in as mentioned earlier, some of the pages are also either blank or very slightly reflective bronze-colored on one side. I start to look through the rest of them but my dream loses cohesion at this point. I do carefully flip each page over onto the ones in the pile already read, which remains on the floor for the most part, though I sometimes pick it up. The remaining pages are in my left hand.

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Morning of January 12, 2015. Monday.



This dream was of not much interest to me. I am still “going back to King Street” after over twenty years. It is always different, however. This time, my apartment (or the pinhead’s apartment I may be visiting at the time) is near the space which the large bathroom was in reality but farther southward. The pinhead (Leonard S) is present and mostly stands to my left without doing or saying much and there is seemingly not much furniture in the large room.

The activity is somewhat unclear - though it is related to an apparently important task involving sorting. There are several low stacks of folded newspapers (from different time periods, possibly relative to a ten year time period) over the floor in at least six or more piles to my right and at least four or more to my left. It is possible that they are only about two or three newspapers high or there may in fact be only one newspaper in each position. I am aware that there are many more newspapers to go through in whatever activity I am involved in. My landlady (who lived to be over a hundred in real life) comes in, seemingly slightly annoyed, but I do not think I am doing anything wrong.

It is possible that I am involved in scanning all of the pages or certain features of them - such as the comics only (or at least sorting them more precisely somehow, though by what relevance I am not certain), but if so, it seems I am doing it mentally - yet still possibly sending it to a computer file somewhere (apparently to save space). I notice that some top pages are showing typical clusters of paragraphs related to actual news (with some black and white photographs here and there) and other top pages are mostly showing columns of daily comic strips (I notice a “Wizard of Id” strip featuring Spook, the hairy dungeon prisoner). This is in about a fifty-fifty proportion overall. Not much else happens. The floor remains covered with newspapers as my dream loses cohesion.

Morning of January 3, 2015. Saturday.



My non-lucid manipulation of my newer dreams have gotten somewhat amusing as I am still seemingly focused on working mainly with my fingers and metaphorically “entering codes” in various atypical ways, some “technological”, some “magical”. This one was extraordinarily long but I will summarize the main sections.

The beginning scenes relate to some sort of miniature people, which are likely to be closest to the concept of brownies or elves. There are thirty of them living under a particular house, though I am not sure if it is my family’s home. They have extensive conversations of how humans no longer see them or regard them in certain ways, which seems problematic for their continuing livelihood. This ties in with some later scenes long after some completely different scenes take place, all in all, about three different plots. Most of the brownies or elves are older males.

The next scene related to the brownies or elves involves being in an unfamiliar residence. My youngest son is there as well as my (deceased) sister Marilyn and several others, some unknown. My son seems slightly ill, with a mild cough. I get the impression that I should call on one of the thirty brownies that live under the floorboards of the house. I seem to automatically know how to do this even though most people have no idea about the inherent “call for help” system. I tap the fingers of my left hand in a particular precise pattern (somewhat like Morse code), which will supposedly bring about aid from the magical beings. After I tap out the code on an end table next to me to my left, I wait. I look towards the partly open curtains in the large doorway farther to my left. I expect something or someone to appear but I am not certain of what or who. I am aware that no one else suspects something unusual will happen or knows that a magical being may soon appear from behind the cloth curtains, which hang to about three inches from the floor.

After a short time, a small younger male “creature” appears and walks into the large room. Instead of one of the previously established brownies of only about two inches tall, he is about three feet high with somewhat darker but yellowish skin and is wearing a plaid kilt and also has some sort of animal fur (somewhat like a brown mink stole - but seemingly more relative to a religious garment) draped over one shoulder. Without pausing, he goes to my son and takes away his cough with some sort of brief ritual.

Later, I am outside with my sister Marilyn and others (including a few relatives of my brother-in-law’s) in an unfamiliar area in an unknown region. They mostly appear as they did during the mid-1980s. I am somehow manipulating time - which will supposedly help my sister somehow (regarding her declining health). A large tree falls over dramatically not that far from us. I am aware that in an alternate reality, this is what killed her earlier on in life. She is to my right and seems okay except for a mild cough. I feel a bit sad in knowing she has already died in one “alternate” reality.

I play with time in my dream and even tell the other characters what I am doing. I deliberately cause my dream to rewind by five seconds and point this out by telling another character to watch the clock. Logically, they should not be aware I am doing this if everything is rewinding (which would “logically” include their own viewpoint rewinding as well and erase their memory), but they do note it, and seem surprised I am able to do this. Eventually, I pretend to make a “mistake” by causing my dream to rewind (relative to the ongoing scene and setting anyway) by half an hour. Eventually, my dream seems to be “playing” with me by accelerating time forward a bit during certain times the clock moves backwards. Eventually, it is near dusk, although the clock shows that it should be morning.

In another section, I am flying over cars in a long tunnel. There is an overpass structure within the tunnel which almost seems to be part of a residence for a time, as I notice a refrigerator near one corner (it may even be part of my house but elevated a bit above the traffic). A foreman from the factory I worked at years ago is there. I fight another character for a time as we do martial arts in midair over the cars. At one point, I throw him into a wall and he disappears even though he seemed fairly confident of his skills at first. I am not hurt in any way.

The foreman asks for my help due to a car carrier crashing into his parked bulldozer while he was on it while the car carrier was going up the overpass and not having enough clearance. I try to get to him quickly as he is still speaking to me, but he keeps falling and rolling down through the rest of the traffic. Eventually, he is run over several times and flattened by his own bulldozer, which somehow slides down past other cars and trucks. The car carrier loses its cars as well; they fall back, hitting some of the other cars that are going through the tunnel and creating havoc though some drivers do not seem to notice at all.

Even though the other male is killed and completely flattened (though without that much blood or gore) I am able to effortlessly resurrect him as his body completely rejuvenates and heals, though he only thanks me in a manner that he seems to think I had only pulled him out from a difficult space from under a part of his wrecked bulldozer. I do not mention what had really happened to him.

Morning of January 2, 2015. Friday.



I am in America during the Christmas holidays, in the backyard of the Loomis Street house (where I have not been in real life since February 1994). I am not aware that Christmas is over, as my dream self perceives the date as December 24th instead of January 2nd.

I have a metallic container made of aluminum, which is like a small loaf pan or bread pan. It is shallower, perhaps half the height of a typical loaf pan, but also longer. There is no recalled backstory, but for some reason I believe I can make smaller Christmas cakes with some sort of technological process that is integrated into the movements of my physical body. There are some unknown people around at times.

I put some sand and dirt from the yard into the loaf pan. It is about one-fourth full at one point. After this, I draw, with my index finger, a one-byte binary sequence across the surface from left to right, which I think is 01010100 (which is 84 decimal, which represents a capital “T”). (It is possible that there is a play on “one byte” vs. “one bite”.) However, I contemplate, with a sort of wariness, that this may not be the right code to make Christmas cakes with. It does not bother me that much, though. To activate the creation of the cake, I move my right hand, mainly my index and middle fingers, from right to left, over the pan while holding it in my left hand. This seems to be a normal way to activate codes, similar to pressing the “Enter” key on a computer keyboard, metaphorically a sort of “sweeping back”, also similar to pushing the carriage return on a manual typewriter.

My finger movements seem to create at least four miniature cakes of which three other people seem to want and so I let them cheerfully take them. I eat the one that is left and it tastes a bit grainy and somewhat metallic and sour. I then consider that the code was wrong and that I have eaten poisonous minerals, but, even though I am not lucid, it does not bother me at all. I still somehow know that I am not in the real world even though I do not suspect I am dreaming. (This is instinctual dreaming.) I know I will not die or even get ill from the highly toxic minerals.

I fill the pan with dirt and sand from the ground again. This time I draw, with my index finger, what seems to be 00010110. This would be 22 in decimal, which, as well as being the Master Number of Zsuzsanna and I, representing “V” (the 22nd letter, which is the bottom half of the heart symbol which twenty-two also creates when one two is mirrored to the other) and nearly endless layered connections, also coincidentally relates to “synchronous idle” in ASCII, which “coincidentally” goes back to being “^V” in caret notation.

I repeat my “code activation” with my index and middle fingers moving back over the top of the pan from right to left (the direction utilized with dream state reinduction).

This time, the cakes look and seem a little more edible, but I am still not certain if they are perfect. Still, people remain happy to take them and no one had gotten ill by that point. Mine does taste a bit better than the previous, sweeter and more like actual cake.

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Morning of January 1, 2015. Thursday.

Dream #: 17,545-02. Reading time: 1 min 40 sec.



I am in the Cubitis house in the morning. The living room is about four times bigger. The bedroom my father built into the carport is also about four times larger.

I am aware of noise and music from an unknown source (from the northwest). After about twenty minutes, our oldest son’s martial arts class, as it was when he was younger, enters the house through the front door. It is disco music I do not recognize at first. The intrusion and noise annoy me. (I do not question why my son is younger or why the martial arts class will be in the new north bedroom. It does not occur to me that my son had never been to America). I am standing near what would be the eastern wall, near the windows, looking west into the expanse of the living room. It has a slightly shiny and partly reflective floor. (In reality, the house had brown floor tiles in every room, speckled with different colorful patterns on each tile).

The real-life instructor asks me if I mind the music they are using today, some of which is The Village People. Even though I find it irritating, I say, “I can take it or leave it this morning,” so as not to cause an argument (especially as he seems very cheerful and kind). He seems to appreciate my honesty and willingness to allow the class to continue, and they go into the carport addition, all dressed in white martial arts uniforms.

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Question and answers:

Why the martial arts teacher? He is this dream’s vestibular modulation personification, an association with the emerging (preconscious) awareness required to wake and become active with discernible physicality and coordination.

Why the martial arts class in the bedroom? It is because I am sleeping in a bedroom at the time. This dream is nothing more than a typical wake-up call precursory to correlating with real physicality upon waking. I consider the martial arts class (and music) as “intrusive” only because I desire (liminally) to sleep a little longer.

Why is it in the wrong bedroom? It is so I do not mistake my dream for real life. My son is younger for the same reason. I remain in the living room without the process of wall mediation (entering the bedroom).

This type of dream is not much different from a bathroom wake-up call dream, when a bathroom is inaccessible or “wrong” to eventually produce the realization of the need to wake and answer nature’s call.

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Morning of December 31, 2014. Wednesday.

Dream #: 17,544-02. Reading Time: 1 min 46 sec.



While contemplating going to sleep (in our bed in our present home) to enter a vivid dream while maintaining conscious awareness, I am unaware that I am already asleep and dreaming.

A city council tractor mower is going over the grassy wayside near the west side of our house without seeming to complete the task. I sit on our bed facing the lounge room, wondering when this noise will stop so that I can sleep and dream. (There is no loud noise in my real environment at the time.)

Our lounge room has the fictitious feature (not perceived as erroneous by my dream self) of a reverse bay window, that is, it extends inward rather than outward. One of its windows faces me though at an angle.

I perceive that the council mower is getting closer to the west side of our house. The directional orientation of the sound is extraordinarily realistic.

The unfamiliar male face of the driver of the tractor mower appears in the fictitious window that faces me. His visage is dramatically exaggerated hostility. He is somehow driving the tractor mower so close to our house that he can look through the window and remain there. The situation makes no sense, as he is also supposedly still driving the tractor mower back and forth at the same time he is at the window, but this impossibility does not trigger recognition that I am dreaming. (Obviously, his face could not be close to the window if he was sitting on a tractor mower.)

I get up and go to the window and place my hand against the screen. My fingers push through the window screen, bending it outward as if it was soft. The tips of my fingers go into the face, dissolving it. Eventually, there is nothing there. (I neither see nor hear a tractor mower, either). I do not possess a functioning dream state awareness, yet I have no qualms about eliminating this entity.

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Crucial background information: Before this dream, I was in an activity about discernment of this process by moving my hand forward to determine if I was dreaming. In testing an image in front of me, if my hand touched my solid CRT computer screen, it would indicate that I was awake. In contrast, a malleable texture would verify that I was dreaming.

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Caution: I rarely practice reality checks because they corrupt reticular activating system functionality, an important biological factor of sleep-wake transitions.

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