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    1. King Street Staircase, Von Helton, Landlady, 50-Dollar Bill

      by , 12-20-2018 at 10:18 AM
      Morning of December 19, 2018. Wednesday.

      Dream #: 18,993-02. Reading time (optimized): 3 min. Readability score: 61.



      My imaginary dream self, in subliminal mode, minus waking life identity without a viable link to my unconscious mind, is placed on the second floor of a new version of the King Street mansion in La Crosse, the city where I have not been since February 1994. The fictitious situation implies that I am living in the northeast room, the room with the turret windows.

      I find an Australian 50-dollar bill in my wallet. Seeing it does not activate realization of my conscious self identity or my real-life status of living in Australia. Instead, I cheerfully think of giving it to my landlady (without realizing that it is not American money) as a partial payment for overdue rent. There is a thought that I already have enough food, so can pay her. These thoughts are ambiguous, and they almost activate my conscious self identity but are not viable.

      (This fictitious situation is a result of the typical subliminal offset of vestibular system correlation, one of my “crucial three” dream state processes occurring every sleep cycle, to reinduce my conscious self identity and physicality. A wallet is an emerging consciousness thread that links the fictitious dream self to waking life identity.)

      Not of a liminal mode, I still subliminally create a vestibular system precursor to enhance my dream’s vividness. I begin to descend the stairs. The landing (midway between first floor and second floor) is missing. I see Von Helton (this dream’s vestibular system simulacrum), the Internet conspiracy theorist, in the area where the bottom stairs would have otherwise been to join the landing in the opposite direction from the top flight.

      “Hello, Von!” I call out cheerfully. “How’ve you been?”

      “Not good,” he replies, with no emotion, as I descend the stairs. I smoothly jump off the last step of the top stairs, to where the landing would have otherwise been, safely falling to the first floor, and I enter a higher level of dream state awareness, as I had subliminally anticipated.

      “Have you seen Richard?” I ask him. (Richard was a recovering alcoholic who lived on King Street years ago. I last saw Richard long before I ever heard of Von Helton.) Von does not reply.

      A preconscious simulacrum activates in a doorway at this point as an unknown dark-haired woman of about thirty. (The emerging consciousness threads are still subliminal at this point, despite the manifestation of the preconscious in a doorway.)

      “Have you seen Mrs. W____?” I ask her, referring to my landlady. Even though the title and surname are correct, I feel very puzzled, as if I said something incorrect, but the woman leads me into the living room.

      I walk into the empty setting as the preconscious simulacrum vivifies my dream with the doorway factor. I get the feeling that it is late morning. On my right is a doorway into a big empty room (that was not there in reality) as I walk through the living room. It seems the landlady is moving from the mansion and this may be her last day here. She is standing cheerfully on the other side of the living room. I hand her the 50-dollar bill, expecting she will write a receipt, though her desk is not present.

      She is happy to see me. “That is a big room,” I say about the one I passed.

      “Oh, but it fills up quickly,” she comments.

      I am concerned about my living arrangements as well as what will become of my stored belongings in another part of the house, but it seems that I will still be living here, as her nephew (unknown character) will supposedly be running things and taking rent payments from whatever new tenants arrive. I get the impression, from imaginary photographs in my thoughts, that he was a German who fought in World War II even though I also perceive him as about 20 years old. He will be strict and expecting reasonable tenants, and my landlady says he will prefer rent in advance, but I get the impression she will have it paid for me for the entire upcoming year. It seems very kind and generous of her.

      The simulacrum radiates more dynamics of the interconsciousness (telepathic) to the point where I become aware of Zsuzsanna’s love for me though not in a direct sense of identity. Her face is very close to mine, radiating universality and bliss as a precursor to waking coalescence. I still do not viably realize who I am until I wake.


      Categories
      non-lucid
    2. To Help Ghosts…

      by , 06-18-2018 at 10:07 AM
      Morning of June 18, 2018. Monday.



      Subliminal awareness of the autosymbolic nature of the waking process begins. My unconscious mind is personified as an unknown female despite the fact my non-lucid dream self does not possess viable access to my unconscious mind at this level of REM sleep. Errors and distortions abound. She is a subliminal thread of my wife Zsuzsanna, of which my non-lucid dream self does not yet possess viable memory of or contact with my current conscious self identity. She has a daughter who literally but subliminally represents our oldest daughter at a younger age.

      I am sitting on the floor in a unique erroneous version of the King Street mansion. The house is mirror imaged to its real-life layout, flipped east to west. I am in the downstairs antechamber while the female mostly remains in the living room on the other side of the doorway. She seems annoyed in building a small structure on the floor in about the middle of the living room, mainly from a set of small blocks of different solid colors, mostly blue, yellow, red, and green. They are about the size of baby blocks, but with a feature on all six sides that is like the knobs of a Lego brick, though there are four knobs on each side of each cube in a two by two pattern. A couple times, as the blocks do not fit into each other, stacks of about seven high topple over. There is a row of about eight stacks at various heights. (This is autosymbolism for failure to initiate viable conscious awareness.)

      I am puzzled and somewhat annoyed, though not angry, in trying to rebuild the staircase that goes to the second floor (where I had lived in real life though not been since 1990), which supposedly is to be the real staircase. This is an extreme failure of thinking skills as I am solely working with small triangular pieces of wood. The pieces are only about two inches thick. The two stacks I had made this far are only about six inches high in two rows of about eight pieces each. I cannot seem to arrange the pieces in the correct orientation regarding which edge should face upward. I have several together, but they do not display the form of a set of steps. This indicates that my subconscious self is having difficulty in reaching my conscious self identity during the waking process.

      Subliminal anticipation of the waking process continues but increases. This is after the subliminal recognition of a staircase being autosymbolism for the waking process despite its miniaturization in a setting that represents the liminal space of the process, the antechamber (what my landlady called a “vestibule” in real life). Vestibular system correlation personifies, which causes my dream to jump to a new setting, though in the same King Street mansion, still mirrored east to west.

      I find myself on the second floor. I develop an ambiguous awareness where I start to become partly aware of my married status and erroneously perceive the house, though vaguely, as the Stadcor Street house in Brisbane (where we have not lived in years), though that was only a one-storey house and was nothing like the King Street house. Vestibular system correlation personifies as Glenn, one of our landlords from Stadcor Street. He has never lived in America, but my dream self does not consider this error. I have a vague awareness he is married to my landlady (only vaguely recalled as Zsuzsanna at this point, but this does not trigger the realization of my erroneous associations) even though in reality he had a male partner.

      A vague thread of dream state awareness is present at this point, though no threads of viable lucidity. Because of vestibular system correlation personifying as Glenn, who seems very cheerful, I walk through the doorway of the upstairs kitchen, which opens to the porch’s roof. This is from vague recall that a porch can be used to vivify a dream, as it is autosymbolic of a specific level of dream state consciousness of which I had used many times in the past, since early childhood, to vivify my dream or “step into” a more vivid offset dream. This process developed from walking outside by way of the porch’s doorway. Here though, I am somewhat puzzled from being on the roof of the porch, as there is no additional doorway to intensify my dream or trigger viable lucidity (as the option to jump off the roof to fly does not occur to me). Glenn looks up at me from the public sidewalk in front of the house.

      “You’ll have to use the catwalk,” he says happily.

      I get the impression he had used the so-called catwalk and jumped to the ground from the outer edge of the roof. I study the roof and see a precarious narrow section of wood that is separate from the rest of the roof, which puzzles me. I stand on it, but consider that I cannot get to the rest of the roof (which has some building materials and tools sitting about) even though all I would have to do is step onto it from this supposed catwalk. Even after fifty years, my dream self fails to remember the dream sign of a cat being a “witness” to liminal space and typically near doorways (for the purpose of inducing lucidity in some cases), though the association had been distorted into the word “catwalk” in this case. (No cat is present and my dream self does not think about cats even upon hearing “cat” as part of “catwalk”.) The association with a “cat always landing on its feet” is not present (regarding the vestibular system dynamics of the waking process, which is often a falling sensation, based solely on biology, not “meaning” as “interpreters” falsely propagate).

      My dream shifts into a different scenario as a result of considering the nature of the King Street roof (still erroneously associated with the Stadcor Street house) and subliminal anticipation of the falling sensation of the waking process, which does not occur as a result of this shift. Now it is a typical non-lucidly forced “haunting” scenario. I am downstairs again, but this time the setting is an ambiguous composite of the Stadcor Street house and the Cubitis house. I am now more aware of Zsuzsanna as my wife, though it is still not a complete recognition. She still seems to serve the role as landlady.

      “How long has…it…been in this house?” I ask her this dramatically, speaking of the haunting, which is mainly nonthreatening. We talk briefly, but I become distracted. I find myself in a dark room with an unknown female. There is talk about ghosts and seeing physical evidence of ghosts in this house. I tell her, “This is the only house I have ever lived in where there is the physical presence of ghosts.” On one level, I know ghosts are not real, but on another level, I have achieved non-lucid dream control and revivification at this point to entertain myself. The old writing desk that Zsuzsanna used to have is present, which results in an increase of thinking skills correlation. Near the opposite side of the desk from where the unknown female is standing, another female slowly appears. It is a ghost. “Can you see her?” I ask the female. She tells me that she cannot see anyone there.

      The ghost is a realistic version, as a “real” human, of Velma Dinkley (of the Scooby-Doo franchise), though about twelve years of age. She seems puzzled and very shy and uncertain. “Who are you?” I ask her. “I’m a goddess,” she whispers. I am puzzled and ask her again about five times. Each time, she softly says, “I’m a goddess”. I want to help her come to terms with her death. (This is a vague influence of “Show Yourself” from 2016, seen just prior to sleep, where I expected Travis to hug the ghost of Paul near the end, though he did not). I hug her, place my right hand on the small of her back, and move it up to the middle of her back. As a result, the palm of my hand begins to glow with white light, rays shining into other areas of the room. (I do not recall the association with Zsuzsanna having been born on September 13, though this was exactly one year before “Scooby-Doo” first aired, therefore Velma in this case is a subliminal representation of Zsuzsanna.)

      The palm of my right hand continues to glow as I find myself walking south through the Cubitis hallway. I stand in the doorway of the Cubitis southwest bedroom looking into the semidarkness. Several unfamiliar people, both men and women, are sitting on couches that are against the west and north walls. (This is an erroneous setup, as the north wall held the sliding doors of a large closet in reality.) I hold up my right hand and the light spreads into the room somewhat. The others are puzzled. I step through the doorway and wake. (This is a vague association with a security system reading a handprint to allow entry, or, in this case, to exit the dream state.)



      With this entry, I have attempted to explain the dreaming and waking process as best I could for this dream. (This is difficult in a society where most people have no viable understanding of dreams, many still believing in “interpretation” and “symbolism” in the popular sense, neither of which is real.) The bedroom is a literal thread of final recognition that I am dreaming, and so I choose to wake. The light represents attaining consciousness as a willingness to accept daybreak and intelligence of which only the conscious self possesses in waking life.


    3. Oh no, not King Street again…

      by , 10-06-2014 at 04:06 PM
      Morning of October 6, 2014. Monday.



      In my dream, I am lying in a (unfamiliar) bed, seemingly after an implied in-dream “sleep”. I am not sure of the time, but I think it is at night, though it is seemingly morning at the end of my dream (a typical lack of dream continuity or coherence). To my left is a male (once a drug addict but also a former coworker) named Don K, who I have not seen at all in about thirty years (and last I heard he was committed for an attempt on his parents’ lives among other things related to drug abuse). The room I am in is actually the pinhead’s, Leonard S, at the south end of the King Street boarding house. The bed is out from the east wall (Tenth Street side) but closer to the north wall, a place a bed had never been in reality (at least during the time I lived in the building). Donald seems to be sleeping but having some sort of spontaneous arm and leg movement.

      After a time, an arm and hand comes through the window from outside (being a repeat of a scene from a different recent dream) - supposedly from a person standing on the Tenth Street sidewalk. This is not possible (in reality), as the room is on the second floor as well as the window having a screen, but that rationalization does not even begin to form in-dream (being typically impossible “nonsense” with the mind’s logistic and analytical abilities seemingly not functioning at all). I am not sure whose hand it is, but my brother Dennis shows up soon, so there may be a chance it was him but I do not ask him about it. He had rode his bicycle to the house (from the south I think, possibly from the smaller grocery store). The area of the room to the north is more open than in reality, more like a lobby of sorts, with only a partial wall dividing the space that would be a hallway in reality. The whole area is quite bigger than in real-life and looks more like the living room downstairs.

      My brother sits down in a chair on the north side of the bed. I am not clear on what he is talking about. Don continues to flop his arms and legs around, becoming a more annoying presence. There is something about a “virtual girl” in a magazine and she has aspects of a young version of my wife (though I have no in-dream memory of the last thirty years of my life at this point). Her imagery is set out in a sequence of (upright) playing-card-sized panels in the magazine (vaguely reminiscent now when awake of an older dream with actual playing cards) but I am not even sure if Dennis is aware of the magazine or if it is some sort of dream within the dream trying to formulate and “take over” my original dream.

      Dennis leaves, I believe by my becoming annoyed with him for some reason and telling him to go, but he tiptoes out as quietly as possible so that the landlady will not know he is there. However, as he is tiptoeing and walking stealthily, he still somehow makes a lot of clomping noises that sound quite loud and echo throughout the entire building as if amplified through loudspeakers or intercoms.

      After he is gone, the landlady comes in and I get that usual recurring in-dream awareness that I had been living there for nearly a year without having paid any rent (and in this case, it is not even a room I had ever rented in reality). She tells me to get out. She swings at me with a rolled-up newspaper but misses. I am not sure if anyone else is living in the house and not sure of Don’s status (he was evicted in reality but I never was). She says that she has a dairy farm now and poses as if to attempt to strike me with the newspaper again. I ask her if I can help there (to pay back what I supposedly owe her) and she says “no”, seeming near-despondent about her frustration with me. I am very annoyed after waking and cannot believe I did not catch that I was dreaming all that time.

      Updated 09-17-2015 at 10:39 AM by 1390

      Tags: landlady, rent
      Categories
      non-lucid
    4. “Speak to the landlady” (with Rick Springfield)

      by , 02-22-2014 at 08:22 AM
      Morning of February 22, 2014. Saturday.



      This is a more positive variant on the recurring King Street dreams (which I have had off and on for over twenty years) where I often owe a lot of back rent and am wandering about at different times through a former or present room. There have been many variations.

      I end up looking around in the south-most apartment on the east side of the big boarding house. It does not seem to be the place I had lived at recently (and I never had that particular apartment in real life). There is not that much activity or movement from other potential tenants. Later on, there is a first-time (I think) variation in this type of dream. The landlady comes up and says I can have that particular room and I will actually be paid to live there. This seems a bit unusual, but I guess that is how it will then be (in my dream). I still believe that I should be paying her, though.

      Apparently, I had actually been living in the middle room (as I had once in real life) on the east side of the building, before wandering off and living elsewhere (unknown) or being homeless for six months or less, I think. Someone else, however, had been living there for a few weeks though my belongings were all still in the room exactly as I had left them.

      My belongings, other than a few clothes, turn out to be a large number of mostly hardcover science fiction books (including Isaac Asimov’s “Foundation”) and 33 rpm record albums, mostly in larger cardboard boxes. As I move them to my new living location, a couple others help, and the other tenant (about nineteen and likely a local university student) seems somewhat relieved that he has more space for his own possessions.

      Then comes the somewhat disjointed and more unusual part of my dream. For some reason, I put on the video of Rick Springfield’s “Speak to the Sky” (a song I played often in my youth - yet did not know he was Australian and from Sydney). This is not like the one I actually have.

      It is not any real video, though, and it does not even look like him. He plays an acoustic guitar (with a large mic and amp, I think) in front of a small audience on a mostly featureless and inconsequential stage. There is a strong focus on some sort of eerie buzzing effect on one of the guitar strings every two measures or so - probably the low E string. He supposedly makes this sound by placing a stick just close enough to the string to cause the additional sound each time. I suppose I should be wondering how he is able to play the guitar with both hands and hold the stick at the same time. I do not question this obvious impossibility, though. At times, it looks like an ordinary board from the outer wall of a wooden house.

      (In afterthought, this may be some sort of play on George Harrison’s “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” and possibly also with the saying “Speak softly and carry a big stick”). From there, not much happens other than a bit of idle conversation and look around at my supposed large record collection, spread out over about seven or more boxes as well as the same for the books. “Speak to the Sky” has appeared (or rather played) in my dreams more than other songs, I would say.


      Updated 06-15-2017 at 07:34 AM by 1390

      Tags: landlady
      Categories
      non-lucid , false awakening , dream fragment
    5. my old place

      by , 12-28-2011 at 02:47 PM
      Good morning, everybody.

      Dream #1

      It was daytime. I was out on a street somewhere, probably in Brooklyn. There were a lot of people out on the street. I was apparently really focused in on something I was doing. But some person, maybe an older, kind of fat, white man, was talking to me.

      The man told me that there had been some huge thing having to do with guns just down the road. There may have been a small gunfight. But the really big deal about it was that there were a whole lot of people all gathered together, and they all either had or were making a lot of guns.

      The street the man was talking about was just down the block and around the left corner. It suddenly occurred to me that I needed to go down that block. The person who had been talking to me told me not to go down that block. But I didn't have a choice. I needed to go.

      I was now walking down the block. It was as bright and sunny there as on a summer day. To my left was some kind of tall, chain-link fence, like might be around a school. Beyond that, farther down the sidewalk, were some brownstone row-houses and some narrow, shortish apartment buildings.

      But to my right, the street, just down the way from me, was filled with cars. The cars looked like 1970s cars, more like Cadillac style than hot-rod style. They were all parked at odd angles, right in the middle of the street.

      There were people sitting and standing among the cars, as well as on the stoops of brownstones on the right side of the street. I think the people were mostly white, kind of overweight, with hair in a kind of buzz cut. They may have worn black t-shirts.

      I could see that all these people were either making guns or cleaning up their guns. I knew that whatever they were doing, it was horribly illegal, and that I was probably walking through the middle of a really bad situation.

      I just tried to act like I didn't see anything. A few guys on my side of the street were helping out the gun guys somehow. They seemed to be suspicious of me, wondering why I was walking around here. But my nonchalant attitude made them less worried about me.

      I had realized -- at some point -- that I was here because I used to live here. I'd moved to a different place a long time ago. But for some reason, some of my mail was still being delivered here. I had to come back here and pick up some of my mis-delivered mail.

      I walked up to one of the narrow, short apartment buildings. The door of the building was glass with bars behind it that looked like chrome bars, which just glared in the summer-bright light. This was where I used to live.

      There was a circus-peanut orange colored card in the door, somehow, as if the card were sticking out of the bars -- even though the bars were *behind* the glass of the door!

      I pulled the card out and looked at it. It was some kind of postal service request card, stating that all mail should be delivered to my new address. The address was the exact address of where I live nowadays IWL, except, perhaps, without the apartment number.

      I still needed to get my old mail. So I walked into the apartment. Inside, the place looked like the interior of a nice brownstone row-house. There was a nice first floor hallway area, which, it seemed to me, led to a spacious living area, probably where my old landlady would have lived.

      There was a staircase along the right wall. I walked up the staircase. The staircase ended with a doorway that opened into a hallway. Along the right wall of the hallway were rooms. People would rent the rooms and then share the bathroom and kitchen on this floor.

      My old room had been the room closest to the doorway at the top of the staircase. The door to the room was wide open. The room was empty. It was like nobody had moved in there since I'd left. I think I was now questioning whether I hadn't left this place only very recently, and not a long time ago, like I'd thought before.

      I went into the room. There was a bed that took up most of the room. On the left side there was a weird niche in the wall, like a closet. But the shelf in the closet was low: waist-high, so that it almost looked like it could be used as a writing desk.

      The place was all dusty. Some of the dust in the corners and on the surfaces of things was so old and caked up that it was starting to get gummy.

      Something about the fact that this place felt so abandoned, so quiet and empty, made me feel like I should move back here. I was starting to feel like I couldn't live in my new place anymore, anyway. So maybe I would see about moving back here.

      I walked back down to the front door of the apartment. But as I was leaving, my old landlady was walking up to the front door. I had been hoping that I could get into and out of the house without her ever knowing I was here. I'd felt like if she saw me, she'd harrass me about something.

      I opened the door for my landlady. I greeted her. I walked outside. But instead of going out into the neighborhood I'd just been in, I walked into a big front patio of a house, which had been converted into a sun-room. It had grass-green, plasticky-feeling carpeting. Beyond the sun-room, the neighborhood also looked much nicer.

      My old landlady looked about the same, except that she was a bit heavier nowadays. She wore a white, long-sleeved shirt. She told me that I still owed her my last week's rent. She'd thought that maybe that was why I was here.

      I told my old landlady that I didn't owe her the money. I'd paid her everything when I'd left. I saw an image of my hands with a handful of bills. I was visually counting out everything I'd paid my old landlady before I'd left. I was even starting to think that I'd paid my landlady too much, and that she owed me some money.

      But I knew it would be tough enough just to convince my landlady that I didn't owe her any money. I was trying to get my thoughts clear enough so that I could make the right argument. I didn't know if I could do it. It kept feeling like I was losing my train of thought.

      As I was trying to pull my arguments together, my old landlady walked back toward the front door of this sun-room patio. My old landlady was talking to me about something, like she was still annoyed with me, but was trying to be friendly.

      My old landlady spread out her arms, like she was taking in the sun. I noticed that the sides of my landlady's white, long sleeves had black designs on them.

      The designs were very much like the flame-like emblems of the "tribal" genre of tattoos. But they also had a kind of "vintage," Ed Hardy kind of look. For some reason, seeing these tattoo-like designs on my old landlady's shirt made me wonder if my old landlady actually had tattoos.
    6. old landlady; table troubles; haunted shower; missile birthday cake

      by , 12-06-2011 at 03:17 PM
      Good morning, everybody.

      Dream #1

      I may have been flying through a neighborhood like the neighborhood I lived in as a teenager. It was a partly sunny, partly grey day. I landed in a backyard like my great grandmother's backyard.

      I started walking along the side yard, toward the front of the house. My old landlady, Ms. U, was walking up from the front of the house, on my right side.

      Ms. U still looked old, maybe in her late sixties. But she seemed to be in better shape, and to have a slightly smaller frame. She wore dark jeans and a dark green shirt, as if she were out gardening.

      I waved to Ms. U. She reluctantly waved at me. It was like she didn't really want to talk to me. I knew why. It was obvious to her, like it was to me, that I wasn't going to be able to pay my rent soon. She didn't want to talk to me because she was disappointed in me.

      Ms. U was now behind me. She met up with one of her friends. They were both going to walk down to the supermarket together. They were walking behind me. I turned right, as they did, and walked down the sidewalk, to the corner of the block.

      As I walked, I thought that maybe I would be able to pay my rent, after all. Maybe I would get a job. Then Ms. U wouldn't be so disappointed in me. So, if all that was going to happen, and I could believe it, why could't Ms. U? Why did Ms. U have to not talk to me?

      At the same time, I got the feeling that maybe Ms. U wasn't very disappointed in me. Maybe she would talk to me, if I'd just slow down and walk with Ms. U and her friend.

      The sidewalk was gone. But we weren't walking on the lawns of the front yards. We were walking on grass like grass that edges vacant lots. The grass was dry, tan, rough, and clumpy. There was a wooden fence to my right at one point. At another point there was at least one orange traffic cone. I kept feeling like I was going to lose my balance and fall into the road.

      Dream #2

      I was sitting in a restaurant. My table was basically all by itself, in a space that looked like the hallway of a house. It was dark, lit by a dim, blue light, like candlelight in a blue, glass holder. My table was in a little, doorway like niche in the wall. I sat so I faced the restaurant's front door, which was barely visible to me from where I sat.

      I knew that there were a lot more tables in another room. The room was somewhere off to my right, i.e. down the hall, and around to the right through another hall.

      People kept coming by, apparently angry or jealous of me for having this table all to myself. Some of them started trying to do things like leave their stuff on my table.

      One person had a huge, black, wire-cart, like for laundry or groceries. She tried to slide it in between the unused chair of my table and the wall. I stood up and said, "Don't put your stuff in that space!" I moved the cart right out of the way. I may have stuck it in some dark corner just off from the niche I sat in.

      I decided that people were jealous of me because they thought I had this space all to myself. So I tried to make it look like I wasn't alone. I laid my bookbag and my jacket on the opposite seat, like somebody else was sitting there. I then pushed the seat far back, so that nobody would try to sit anything behind it. I also figured I'd act like I was waiting for someone to come back.

      Time passed. I was now being sternly lectured by a Meryl Streep-like business woman in a white blouse and long, beige skirt. The woman demanded to know why I had been away from my seat for so long.

      I vaguely remembered that I had had to go out the front door of the restaurant to help people who were loading something out of a semi-truck's trailer. It had, I remembered, seemed really important for me to have done this. If I had sat here instead of gone out to help, I suspected that this woman would have been yelling at me for that, instead.

      The woman told me, "Don't you know we have an important client coming to visit us today? How long were you runnning around outside? Do you even know? Even if it was just a few minutes, the client could have come inside while you were missing. He could be wandering around lost in the restaurant right now. And we wouldn't even know it!"

      Dream #3

      I woke up. I pulled my blanket off of myself and looked at the upper right corner of my bed. My bedroom light was off, but my hall light was on, and it lit my room a bit. My blankets and sheets were brown.

      There was a fly crawling across the corner of my bed. This kind of disgusted me, as if it were a far worse insect than a fly. I brushed the fly off and started worrying about bugs.

      I stood up and walked down the hallway -- possibly (I'm not sure), because I heard a strange noise coming from my bathroom.

      I got to the bathroom. The lights were on and were really bright. The shower was running, which was odd in itself. But after a moment of focusing, I realized that the shower itself was acting weird. The water was rushing way stronger than usual, and the nozzle seemed to be spraying out in a few different, weird directions.

      I looked closer at the shower pipe. I now saw that it didn't even have a head! No wonder it was spraying all weird. I decided to shut off the shower water and figure out how to solve this problem.

      I turned off the water. But now there was a strange rumbling in the bathroom. The walls seemed to shake. Suddenly the portion of the wall just beside and below the shower pipe began spouting out water through little holes! The force of the water I'd shut off was so strong that it had burst through the wall in little, fountain-like holes!

      I stood back from this and watched it all. I knew that this kind of plumbing problem was much more than I by myself could handle. I'd have to call in my landlord.

      I really didn't want to have to call in my landlord. I knew he was already against me for a number of reasons. I didn't want him wandering through my house, peering aroud like he thought he'd find some sort of incriminating evidence about me. But I knew, regardless of the inconvenience to me, that I'd have to call the landlord.

      But now, suddenly, the wall over the side of my bathub also burst open with little fountains of water! These fountains of water were either bright pink or else left bright pink stains on the wall. The fountains of water were also more like jets -- they blasted in a flat, sideways pattern, along the wall, almost like sheets of water pouring down a sidewalk on a rainy day.

      And then all new things came out of the wall! I thought of these things as leaks and water. But they weren't water: they were steel. They were like surgery or dentistry implements, stainless steel devices, attached to steel cords, like the ringed cords on receivers for payphones.

      Some of these cord may have had robotic, or even white-gloved, hands attached to them, holding the implements. The number of cords, hands, and implements springing out of the wall seemed to be increasing and increasing, cluttering up the whole top of the wall.

      Dream #4

      I was with a couple of men, one of whom may have been my brother. The other man was something like an ex-Marine. He was tall and muscular, slightly tanned, with blue eyes and pale-blonde hair in a buzz cut.

      We were in some kind of suburban area. It was possibly early morning, just before sunrise. We may have started out at a house or a small shop. We were loading things into a truck. These things were either items for security systems on houses, or else they were nuclear bombs.

      We drove in a pickup truck to some place. As we did, I thought about what we were doing. The man may have been talking to me about it as well. I knew we were definitely installing security systems on houses. But we also had nuclear missiles in our truck, and we were definitely concerned, in some way or another, with a slightly touchy situation regarding nuclear deterrence.

      We drove into and through a big parking lot, to a small, one-story building, possibly with white walls and a flat, steel-siding-like, blue roof.

      Somehow I now saw as if I were now twenty or thirty meters behind the truck. Missiles were being pulled out of the back of the truck. There were probably two missiles. I only saw their tail ends. They looked like the tail-end of an X-15 manned rocket, not a missile.

      I now stood just inside the building with the man. There were a few other people about, including a few little, Latino children, apparently. The inside of the building felt completely unused. There were no lights on, though there may have been some dusty office equipment. The front window may also not have had a glass pane in it.

      The man and I were talking (somehow -- telepathically?) about some woman who had had some sort of difficulty in her professional life.

      As we were talking about this, I kept hoping I'd just say the right thing. I felt like the military and government had me under suspicion. My appearance alone, I knew, marked me as suspicious. If I said the wrong thing, I'd be detained for sure.

      I wandered down a front deck and onto the parking lot, toward the Latino children. I was still "speaking" with the military man. The kids were looking at a hole in the parking lot. It was a rectangular hole, about three meters long and two meters wide. It seemed to go down a long way.

      As I looked into the hole, it began to appear as if it held something inside, like a gigantic birthday cake. The cake was covered in frosting that was colored with brilliant swirls of blue, turquoise, green, and white. Tropical fish, either plastic or sugar, also adorned the cake.

      I was now "speaking" to the military man about how the woman we had been discussing was probably suffering from an animus possession. She was letting the male side of herself dominate her personality. It was making her overly aggressive, so that nobody could work with her.

      As I "spoke" of this, it now became my task to scrape frosting off the cake. I was scraping huge, huge globs of solid green, solid blue, and solid white frosting off the cake. Occasionally I'd also scrape off a few fish.

      The scraped-off frosting all went into some deeper part of the pit. It was now like the cake was L-shaped, so that the upper left quadrant (as I faced it) of the rectangle was left free for this deep pit, this extra space for the frosting.

      But I noticed that as I scraped off the frosting, it became kind of mushy and unappealing. It still looked very sweet. But on the cake it had been firm, which would, I assumed, add to the pleasure of the taste. Off the cake it was just sickly sweet and mushy.

      I wondered why the frosting had to be scraped off the cake, anyway. Someone apparently thought there was excess frosting on the cake. But I didn't. I thought the frosting was good, and that there was just enough.