x-12-13 Mrs. H was the proprietor-headmadam of a little ground-floor bookstore-classroom in the middle of a city busy with foot traffic. She wore an apron as I, tall, entered the room of shoulder-length shelves of books and energetic white sixth-grade boys in grey thermals. They made her a nucleus of their excitement under the one low kitchen-table light in the room until they seated themselves at the double-table, and I exited, after admiring the scene, through a door mounted sidewise in a dark back room.
Further exposition:
x-12-13 I was crewmember aboard a migrant allcraft, holding position above an unknown planet, standing at attention in a medical bay with windows, perhaps as personnel thereof. Without warning, an order was frantically given for all uninfected persons to immediately abandon ship, and as I sank out of sight of the beds in the medical bay via a vertical zipline to the planet’s surface, I witnessed the frighteningly rapid orange swelling and explosion of many patients’ heads. Later, ostensibly in a humanoid’s structure on the planet below (in rather the attitude of a recently reinhabited but hundred-or-so-year-old Fort Yukon communications warehouse/hangar complex), I nervously inhabited a flat space overlooking both a rather small and forgotten storage area and a hallway lit with an orange Earth-streetlight-lookalike. There was some kind of repurposed instrument panel on one side of my promontory, situated as if solely intended for a kneeling operator. Possibly confederate in my anxiety was a similarly dusty and raggedly bundled person, and a low posture was maintained as scuffling was heard periodically in the hallway.
Further exposition:
8-12-13 In one scene, I entered into the dimly-lit private work space of M R. It seemed to consist of a rather massive area, part material housing for spacecraft or vertical cities, part holographically-managed archiving/communications (/music) space. I hesitate to suggest music simply due to what seemed to be the gravity of the situation. I may have approached the unilluminated holo-panels with which he seemed to be absorbed on a hover-vehicle, but having tentatively entered his immediate surroundings for fear of disturbing him, I saw him agitatedly illuminate a flat round glass screen between us to his left, shift aside a small black obelisk and coiled cord, and conjure the image of K B. Exotically attired, she seemed to be doing some kind of beckoning dance, and having watched the screen with M for a moment or two, I, or perhaps we, were pulled into her environs. There was something about running very fast through a developed but tropical world here, with explosions, to the tune of music eluding me. Forgetting . . . .
In another stint of memory, I was on what seemed to be the almost-top of a steep sunny snowy hill, approaching what looked like an outhouse. Upon arrival at another slightly larger and highly nondescript building, I looked over at the would-be outhouse, and past it to the vast plain of white-blue beyond it, and realized, at the same time that a figure standing next to the smaller building spoke, that I was actually standing on a bulged portion of an entire planet’s worth of sea ice. And that the two “buildings” around me were the uppermost projections of a massive allcraft hidden in the waters below. The figure seemed to be Nathan Fillion / Malcolm Reynolds, not looking to be admitted into the craft, but apparently just standing in the sunshine. Having made my way inside sans narration, I could understand why. Some kind of sinister white-American-male regime awaited below, hierarchically arranged using multiple colored-string wristbands, apparently according to psychic and physical ability. I came to be in possession of the penultimate number of them, somehow, and joined a conference of doughy-looking people in an ugly but well-lit conference room being addressed by a nondescript elderly doughy person. Bored as I sat listening, apparently, I telekinetically opened the first of two pairs of Angkor-Wat-style doors behind him, to little fuss, and my next recollection is of panning horizontally past an Angkor-Wat-esque courtyard full of decapitated Southeast-Asian peoples.
Awful.
Further exposition:
19-10-13 [Lost]
18-10-13 Here, my academic past was again run through, this time in the unhamperedly literal sense, in a UAF music department several stories higher than in actuality. I ran errands between the top and bottom floors, the bottom possibly being the Theatre Green Room, for the only semi-professional needs of an educator on the top floor. Even though my dream-self didn't seem to have any muscular lurgies, I recall taking the steps one at-a-time, very rapidly.
Further exposition:
17-10-13 I'm starting to feel that my conscious hours are becoming . . . . mixed, cluttered, enriched, maybe beatified; by my dreams, or, as they may be called in these dreams' highlight of the situation, my uncertain fictions. In consideration of a given subject, or more often a task, I am, with recent regularity, not entirely sure if the details I bring to mind are those of a "consciously" lived experience or those of a figment of a dream. Here, a divisiveness makes the intermixture more unclear. Dreams of lengthy duration, like those of yesterday, can often have disruptive influence on the integrity of my "conscious" memories, though my ability to remember them helps them stay subcategorized as pertinent but fictitious. Dreams the length of a reflection in a shattered mirror tend, more often, to get lodged in my otherwise dependable consciousness data. It was with quite a few of the latter, though now immemorable, that last night was saturated with. I recall only pulling off a finger or two, as one would a glove.
Actually, I remember now that my description of this sequence of dreams was that it was like freerunning through my academic past. I remember being on Mr. B's bus again, having taken it simply to go somewhere, despite my age, and that we stood talking about older things as the bus stood stationary in unfamiliarly beautiful environs. I remember being handed back a piece of homework that had a blue 22% written on it.
Further exposition:
16-10-13 So many details.
In my first batch of remembrance, H B and I were driving (she driving, I, of course, in the passenger seat) to some kind of pub, or perhaps her/a house, in quite an old treehouse deep in autumnal woods under a grey sky. It was against this rather eerily undifferentiated background that we had a most engaging conversation en route. [They discussed old Tommy-Somebody and Jerry Someone-Else.] We seemed to discuss both musically-related points of interest, for which we had some precedence, and other things for which we did not (not that we've ever conversed at any great length). I seem to remember most particularly, after we had parked at the end of an alley in the trees, hearing her talk about the state of recycling options in the town she (we? and I was a visitor?) was in. Oddly, during the conversation, we ended up shifting closer to each other, until, by the end of the trip as we sat talking, we were quite close. Seemed quite socially productive.
Next came a distinctly mild-hero experience. Possibly having walked some distance equivalent to the colloquial end of College road to my Dad's in an autumn rain (and perhaps then picked up and translocated by H), and having, seemingly, drunk a beer before doing so, I ended up in some merry college-commons atmosphered wooden building, likely a treehouse. M S, sitting on the other side of one of the holes in a second-floor wall, was doing homework in between her job as a vendor of uncertain wares. The window was at floor level, and I lay first on my back, then on my front, as we chatted and joked. I think I mentioned it being a long way back home in the dark, and I remember her life circumstances having recently changed; something to do with having gotten a dog, I think. She had some papers, and I handed her a piece of paper money for a beer (whoa there, kid), whereafter it transpired that I would have to drink two because she said she had to buy me one first. I think we both laughed at that, but don't remember drinking them.
I was then climbing an evil, or perhaps possessed, un-needled spruce tree, on the side of a hill, under ashen skies. I don't remember/know why circumstances had come to such extremity of misfortune, but certain large corrupted insectoids seemed to have taken up residence in it, and the tree itself seemed to be burning steadily and flamelessly from the inside out, causing many of the branches I encountered to fall off. This helped with the harassment from the bugs. Having reached the top, I found the nest of some kind of malevolent bird, beneath which was an egg generator, rather like a split pomegranate. I pulled all the little seed-egg-things off to fall to the ground below. Later that night, in what seemed to be the similarly ominous semi-Victorian mansion on the top of the hill, I wandered in finest determinedly-frightened form. The world outside was lit by a moon well-supported by reflective clouds, and its looking in through the windows helped somewhat with the weak and very occasional fluorescent bulbs in the areas I can recall. I wandered through the top floors (there were six or seven in all), it seemed, emerging briefly onto a patio/greenhouse space, rather nice, and through a kind of corrugated gallery. I began to realize, though, that I was trying to figure out how to make the environs more frightening, and having decisively done so, everything became more enjoyable.
Which is of course when the slide projection operator changed reels. To a scene under more grey skies, walking quickly with J through narrow winding cobbled streets, speaking animatedly, on our way to looking for something. According to judgement made before and not after, we decided to split up through a section of city. Having gotten through, or so I thought, I waited until I awoke for her to reappear in her purple-highlighted jacket. More probably, I was waiting in the wrong spot.
Further exposition:
13-10-13 Details elusive
12-10-13 Supplementary details pending. I was tasked with researching and eliminating some pentych of "evils" from a land. I think I did my research, but having finished doing so, I was either approached by a friend or encountered some analogous intelligence that there were actually, like, seven and a half evils to, like, eliminate. So the next morning, it seemed, in some handsomely-colored forest, like a Denali National Park rapidly changing from summer to fall, I started down a hill from camp to meet with these last two (where the first five and a half a.k.a. three went, lol idk). The first I "faced" was a copy of myself wearing what seemed to be glass armor. I rolled myself into dough and jammed a single sheet of paper, rolled, in. The second, waiting patiently, I obfuscated using harvested environmental light. It looked orange.
Then I followed some simply constructed technohumanoid through its earlier history of construction and pre-industrial-revolution-slavery until its eventual freedom and confederation with other uncertain humanoids.
Then a bunch of surfboards were singing as they unstacked themselves from their vertical cliff-stack, finally revealing the last, for whom the narrator had been looking. It then cavorted through a deep clear bay of water.
Further exposition:
11-10-13 I had merry time in the dark with more uncertain friends, this time inclusive of A C, involving a piano and a cluttered house. I recall only that I talked for quite some time about the song I would play for them, but arrived at the piano with the rather inconvenient recollection that I could no longer do so. The disappointment of not being able to play "Shaving Cream" for everyone was mine only, apparently, for which fact I was pleased.
Then in some small cheaply-made house, a la on-the-way to Fox, I was speaking with and giving a hug to a balding white Vietnam war veteran whose dead son I had just buried for him in the deep snow outside. He began to cry.
Further exposition:
4-10-13 Yes, I can still type the things. I rather crazily drifted in some small craft through space with some friends, they seemed to be called, who were disagreeing with me about the prestigious employment with which I seemed lately to have been adorned. Following a few immemorable ventures, we docked somewhere, I bid a farewell to my fellows, and stepped across the top of a reconfigured Millennium Falcon. Before appraising the Duckering-like interior staircase of the thing, I received the rather confusedly disembodied impression of the tail-propulsors being grinning teeth, and two suspiciously-angled communications concavities on the roof being sunglasses. Quite a place.
Further exposition:
[A long time ago in a cognulum far away] I flew in finest disembodied fashion through a revised, expanded, and generally improved Morrowind-like world. Either that, or I just missed the place.
4-7-13 Playing Airsoft with genuine firearms is never recommended. Thus my confusion at having done so. J P and I thought it would be a swell idea, however. D was my man-at-arms, as I think they're called, and in a wintry Fort Yukon Farmor house he was rummaging through a crate under the typewriter table and in the hall. Somehow, I knew J would be using a .38 pistol. D gave me various options, one of which I seemed to test “in-game", as it were (in an old abandoned small-air-port), firing from a small green pistol like a Warthog. Having been in indeterminate gameplay for a while, I recall laggingly falling through an old broken wall. I waited for the lag to end, patiently. After perhaps a shuffle or two, I was ushered into a somehow electrically blue-grey darkness, a concert hall, somehow, by the seats, but its periphery hidden in the seemingly massive scale of the place. Some slim intelligent friendfolks were there, sharing an aware joke.
Further exposition: Actually, I think I meant J S.
15-6-13 Routine weirdness. I lay on the three or four broad steps down into what seemed to be a reconfigured Randy Smith mess hall. I was eventually pulled easily from the floor by a 7-foot J T, who gave me a hug and ushered my vision onto the contents of the hall. All my school-friends seemed to be there, buzzing over tables covered in boxes of terrible off-brand candy. I received many glorious hugs as I slowly surveyed the caloric mess. Odd.
Further exposition:
14-6-13 I wandered through many a dark blue-lit hall, the wooden floor often ramped or uneven, past multivarious doors. Other details hidden.
Further exposition:
13-6-13 At last, the idea of mine of so long ago was unconsciously presented. Every texture was scale-covered in "whisker", and, perhaps due to the specific environment, every color subdued. It was just outside the open two-story doors of a barn/carpenter's lair. Behind it rose a steep series of whisker-treed mountains, over which sat a brush-stroked steel-blue sky, in which a sun failed to hang. I recall only seeing a rather nobly-streaked greyhoundish critter, then walking quite unreservedly into a small clear lake, close at hand, after a small four-footed two-handed organism who had pinched a book of mine. We tussled on the gravel bottom for a period.
Further exposition:
27-5-13 Dad was somehow responsible for making Rachel Goodrich's "Lightbulb" world famous. Other details missing/pending.
22-5-13 I watched (or may have taken part in) what seemed to be most of a PG-13 action movie, very attractive and empty, at the end of which the principal antagonist was traditionally left in a room with a large carnivorous monster and a poorly-considered line of sarcasm "ringing" in their ears. Then, circumstances uncertain, I climbed into some giant black Ford pickup in a dark American summer farmyard. Against a "camo" background on the HUD windows, I awoke having beheld tiny scrolling text.
Further exposition:
21-5-13 In oddly immediate fashion, I recall being filmed on a farm. There were dark spaces and other people and shortly thereafter no filming and early morning enemies. Why, ever, of course I don't know, yet. Twice after brief interlude, however, I jumped off a boulder at the top of a sunny grassy hill, flung double handfuls of Legos into the air, and ran down, third-person-wise, with the apparently stymied enemies deteriorating behind me. I recall laughing. In another sluice of dream, I saw mom, in Denmark on our trip, I assume, smiling at something to her right, in her black overcoat, unabashedly grey-streaked.
Further exposition:
19-5-13 [should expound on the vagaries of interdream sequencing] First, I'll say, there was the slowly inevitable anger of a bearded N T-lookalike. My unconscious representative and he were in indeterminately adjoining cubicles in an otherwise empty building, and aside from my sinking onto the floor as he began a tirade against some detail of his computer, I recall nothing. After a flip-over, and perhaps a bathroom visit, I was witness/participant in an "alien" invasion, whose details were certainly higher in resolution than I'll be recording them. First, there seemed to be vertical skyscrapers, sessile, and slow mobile ones, horizontal, in the sky approaching over them. Next/also, aside from some indeterminate chasing+creeping+atypical invasion behavior, I recall an eery thing. In a city-stone-park place (think parkour), people had gathered. Suddenly, in the style of a piece of George Grosz artwork, a person became illuminated, and just as suddenly dashed madly after the person nearest them, who becoming similarly illuminated, repeated the infectious process. When I was seized in like manner, I awoke (one of several times). I believe I also had a mild scare concerning the un/washed un/eaten state of my breakfast jar. All was well when I at last awoke.
Further exposition:
22-4-13 As if I were playing Spore, I sidescrolled through a list of children to be born as and social circumstances attendant thereto. Some were apparently unavailable due to species’ tenuous chances of survival in space, et cetera. I don't know what I ended up looking like, but I next beheld, from far away, what seemed to be my place of birth; an allcraft at sea on a rather massive planet, roughly cylindrical, perhaps 7 km [long], making preparations for atmospheric departure on huge rough waves. Moving at a little speed as it was, I saw it temporarily accelerate, then pause, as if in confusion, while a mild upspray at its rear appeared. The allcraft pressed on. Then the force responsible appeared, biting straight up through the millions of tons of arrested interstellar life-support material: a parsec-scale secateur-maw heading the vermiform colossus of an annelid’s body. I apparently survived, enough to be hunted by a species, large, among a maze of mud walls by streetlit night, elsewhere. Then I heard the tragic story of a feathered parent.
Further exposition:
13-1-13 Here was the future most interestingly displayed. Despite all the symptoms of an environmentally-aware, perfectly-balanced, highly educated, planet-worth of human beings, commiserant with them, also, were the signs of high horizontal population densities, the death of many faunal species, and a state of barbarism, with which I seemed to be involved. In a sturdy but stitchboard-looking two-story house, in what seemed to be the middle of a dirt clearing, in what seemed to be the midwest U.S., in what seemed to be a cloudless spring morning, a gang of ruffish flatheads and I were loitering. What we did, exactly, as a social/physical entity, I don't particularly know, or perhaps don't want to think about. Most of the crew seemed of a similar flavor of snark, almost of the Firefly variety, and I recall a rather vapidly mysterious ringleader as well. My only sense of what we did in the house was be reacted to by a hugely tall silentish chap who seemed to martially enforce rules, and who roughed up a few ruffs. (I, at one point, seem to have accidentally stood on his toes, for I recall having my head held, not ungently, in his hands). I then cut scenes to a similarly patchboarded house, whose interiors only I saw, and whose few human occupants seemed to be of every age. Merriment seemed to have been in progress. Then a disembodied view through the 31ยบ F birch spring-snowy woods beheld a large (Facilities Services 8-foot-tall) pickup truck moving along the driveway, overfilled with my old associates, who seemed to be after me.
Further exposition:
?-1-13 As usual, a clowder of scientists and I had found an unassuming doorway in a hill somewhere in south-southern South America (this happenstance supposing to make air temperature transitions more acute). Following the passage inside, down steps I assume, we found ourselves in the company of piping, which, being of ancient native American construction, blew our minds. We then lurched through a few more passages, dark and full of pipes, and found ourselves in a rather white-brightly illuminated room, high-ceilinged, and walled on a few sides with some intensely dense window-type substance, anachronistically-Inclined as the rest of the place. Inside that small room, past a rather heavily fortified door (which room I imagine was actually in the beginning of a much larger/massive containment area), we seemed to be beset by nests of large and rather unreasonably irked (stinging, deadly) wasps. In retrospect they looked like giant (7-9 cm long) spider hawks. I don't remember if any of us died, since we seemed, at least, to know that their stings were fatal, but I do remember trapping one in a shirt and waving it around before I awoke. The “unfinished” state of the adventure, by acute memory, seems to have no bearing on any potential construction of it after the fact.
Further exposition: writing polymorphous endings would be tedious here, I think. But you should do it, girl. Make a note.
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