Morning of September 13, 2016. Tuesday. This dream was extremely long (as is often the case with me), shifting and sifting in and out of different levels of consciousness (only partial semi-lucidity in one segment), and which contained too many scenes to feasibly document (let alone provide the meaning for), but I will include some of the clearer events. The main event relates to my wife Zsuzsanna and I living in the northeast apartment in the King Street boarding house. Of course, the room has to be rendered much bigger than in reality in order for everyone to fit. Not only that, the room is easterly duplicated at least two more times (which, as usual, I pay no notice to). The Jordanaires are visiting us. However, these “Jordanaires” (by which I probably confused with The Andrews Sisters, though there were only three in that group) are actually four dark-haired Caucasian girls sitting at a rectangular table with Zsuzsanna. My sister Carol (August 4, 1943-December 10, 2009; half-sister on my mother’s side) is also present, appearing as she did in the 1980s. For a time, the four girls sing Elvis Presley’s song “Teddy Bear”. Even though it sounds very harmonious and in perfect unison, I eventually tell them to shut up or leave (though I guess I really do not feel that imposed upon). (In a way, this could possibly be considered as a secondary dream sign due to the fact that children sometimes sleep with teddy bears.) “I don’t really like that hooga hooga music,” I explain to Carol (describing the blend of gospel and rockabilly as “hooga hooga” in mocking Elvis’s singing style in songs like “Teddy Bear” and “Don’t Be Cruel”). I then tell her that it is okay to listen to at times and that I sometimes enjoy his music, but I do not feel like listening to it right now. There was another long segment prior to this one which involved looking at a hexadecimal dump of a series of science fiction novels. At one point (as a normal display) I see a listing of three columns with two to three titles listed in each column. The first two columns have asterisks at the beginning of each title which means that they can be read for free. The third column has a price listing at the top which I think is $29.95 for each. I am aware that the writer is a young female. I do not recall the titles as I do not really focus on them that much. I look at the hexadecimal dump and see that there is executable code at the beginning in addition to each story. Although the formatting is not directly executable there are indeed subroutines in the code. I see the string “this story is not available for reading in Australia”. Very curiously, this does not trigger any present real-life status memory and I still perceive that we are living on King Street. Still, I consider reversing the logic of the sequence (“jump if” to “jump if not”) to display the message in America (to then prevent access) and to allow it to unlock in Australia just to be funny. As I am reflecting upon this with a cheerful nostalgia, I look at the rest of the formatting of the story but do not actually read it. I do notice that the margin code seems to be unrealistically wide but I do not puzzle over it that much. I hear Zsuzsanna ask our youngest son “Did you burn your hand?” and I expect that he did and I am concerned. I actually wake up while asking her if she had said this (and she had not but had been talking to him), but only briefly and I immediately fall asleep again. In another scene, I go into one of the duplicated rooms and notice that there are small paper sacks everywhere, some on tables and many more on the floor. At the bottom of each sack is a jelly roll, but most of boysenberry or blueberry filling. I take one out and find it delicious. (In the back of my mind, I even recall the oral sex symbolism without becoming lucid.) In another scene, I have the apartment door open. My (King Street) landlady comes up the steps and holds her hand out as if in expectation for me to give her the money I owe her. I tell her that I will pay her later and she looks annoyed and walks off to Leonard’s apartment. Meanwhile, I had been ready to hand her a green tambourine, except that I soon notice that the membrane is split along one side and coming off around the edge. I throw it onto a huge pile of various toys and junk that comes up almost to my waist. It looks like we have some cleaning to do as the pile fills about half of our apartment. Near the last part, I pick up large oblong pieces of dust from under a table, with my bare hand, which contains hairs and at least one dead grasshopper (a rather odd return flight waking transition, more specifically “failed flight”, with the loose hairs symbolizing the end of the dream state and the fictional “head” of the dream self).
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