1. Wreybies

    Wreybies Thrice Retired Supporter Contributor

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    Just My Dreams...

    Discussion in 'Progress Journals' started by Wreybies, Jun 13, 2017.

    Last night I dreamed I was adrift on some 1960's vacation beach for upper-middle-class Helens and Richards and their teenage kids. Girl from Ipanema was playing in the background. Maybe it was a French beach, maybe Brazilian. Private yachts were lined up in a row to one side. I could see their sterns, but they looked like they had been designed by Ford or Chrysler, all curvy lines and lots of heavy chrome. To the other side, down the beach was the hotel. A pretty girl was trying to seduce me. Poor thing. She's wasting her time. I'm wearing what looks like a robe. Maybe I'm a young Arab boy. Okay, France then. She really wants to seduce me and is trying ardently to take me back to the hotel. The scene changes and I'm in someone's basement. We're getting ready for school. Prep school. I'm dressed in expensive preppy clothing I would never personally own. It's not my house. I've spent the night. The Richard comes downstairs and looks at me confusedly then shrugs. Guess he doesn't care that I'm here or why. I feel like his son should be here somewhere and we go to school together, but he's not here. I go outside and get into a little roadster, like a drop-top MG and leave. I'm back at the vacation beach. It's not a very nice beach. It's not sand. It's all rounded stones. Pretty, but not comfortable to walk on or lay out. Girl from Ipanema is still playing. So strange.
     
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  2. Wreybies

    Wreybies Thrice Retired Supporter Contributor

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    Last night I was two sisters, a blond and a brunette. I was both of them at once. You know how dreams are. Lots of mirrors and tallness and 1920's Art Deco. No, not 1950's Art Deco with its heavy strokes and pink and blue and white; the earlier one that was more fine-boned and bronze and black and eggshell. There was a wedding. Don't remember if I/we was/were getting married or just attending. Furs, dawling. So many furs I was trying on in a store that was a house and hotel. Ravishing. Our legs were miles long. They had no end. There was a vague smudge of a man in a tux somewhere in this dream, but really it's just Us, the blond, the brunette, and the mirror. Deluxe and hitting on all sixes.
     
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  3. Wreybies

    Wreybies Thrice Retired Supporter Contributor

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    I have to admit that there was something wonderfully sexy in being those two sisters. Dreams are so strange. When I saw myself trying on the furs in the mirror, I wasn't really a woman. I was like Jessica Rabbit. A stylization of things I find attractive in women (yes, even though I'm gay). Niagara Falls of cascading hair in chestnut, and then in waves of silken, lustrous wheat, by turns. Shoulders and necklines in whitest marble. No impression of what kind of boobabe I may have had. Furs were there instead in mink and ermine and furs for which there are no real animals. Legs, god, such legs! In the mirror, reclining on chaise lounges of crimson and metallic hummingbird green. The kinds of curves that cause car accidents. Lush and burstingly decadent and strangely silent.


    ETA: Oops. Sorry. Y'all have moved on to dinner plans. Carry on. ;)
     
  4. NoGoodNobu

    NoGoodNobu Contributor Contributor

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    I don't think there's anything weird or contrary in finding things attractive to a gender you aren't sexually and/or romantically inclined towards.

    That's me with women all the time. Like it doesn't lead to anything more than appreciation, but it doesn't stir anything else in me.

    I remember just last year I was with some friends that I saw a woman with the most perfect ass I have ever beheld in my life. She overall was very pleasing to the eyes, with nice legs (she was probably 5'8-5'9 without heels), decent breasts ( 32c or 34c), and a pretty face (green eyes, clear complexion, rather sweet turnt up nose, all framed in waves of butterscotch tresses). But her ass was sculpted by the Greek gods and there is an altar somewhere in praise of it.

    No, I wasn't going to ask for her phone number nor did I want anything more from it than appreciating her figure.

    People can admire beauty in others in the same manner as they enjoy pieces of art or a picturesque setting. And people can have preferences of various aesthetics without it meaning anything beyond.

    Also: I love how you talk, Wrey. Doesn't matter if it's the art of language or the surrealism of dreams, but I always want to keep reading & hear more. Definitely an excellent writer.
     
  5. Wreybies

    Wreybies Thrice Retired Supporter Contributor

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    Last night's dream:

    Floating in an ocean of white gas with another fellah, both of us placid and blank as koi in a pond. We're naked but this isn't a sex dream. We're like babies but grown. Everything is silent. We come to a solid area almost like a shore or a ledge hidden in the gas, but it's made out of white styrofoam. There are clear plastic tubes with something red and blue inside that run through the foam. We're crawling up out of the gas to sit on the styrofoam ledge. We meet others and discover the tubes have nutrient inside, some good some not. We walk up out of the gassy soup and we're in a room, lots of us and there's food given to us and there's a TV and we're all very young teens. We have clothing now. There are older people watching us. They are looking for a pecking order to emerge. I don't know how I know, but I do, and I laugh. It's all so YA and typical and cliché. Who will be the leaders and who will follow. I'm part of it but I also see what they're doing and I don't think I'm supposed to know this much. I clique with this black guy but he starts wearing a mask, it's green, and I realize he's not a leader. Another guy tries to take me into his group and I'm not comfortable with him so I beat the crap out of him. I turn back to the guy in the mask who's hiding under a table or something and tell him he needs to get his act together because the genome is disintegrating. The adults stop and look at me and ask me what I mean by that and I laugh again and repeat and say "You know, genome, chromosomes, it's falling apart out there." I gesture dramatically to the glass wall where the gas ocean can be seen. There's nothing out there but white gas and styrofoam. They all look surprised I'm saying things I'm not supposed to know like I have memories I'm not supposed to remember. I walk away and side-eye the adults dramatically. "I know you know. Don't pretend." I go back to the black guy who has ditched his mask and we eat pizza.
     
  6. Wreybies

    Wreybies Thrice Retired Supporter Contributor

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    Last night's dream:

    It starts out in a parking lot. I'm walking and some woman gooses me. She looks crazy. She has a crazy face. Another woman sees what happens and we both wrestle her to the ground. Cops show up. All of them are Asian. Their car is a big black van. The two ladies disappear from the scene and I'm in the van. I'm a little kid and I'm Asian too. There are other kids. Something is wrong with them. They look like dolls that have wrong pieces where their legs and arms should go. Like Borg, but the way a little kid would imagine a Borg if he had never seen a real one. I know the same thing is happening to me. My body is going to be changed, modified. I'm terrified. We're in a warehouse and it becomes The Maze Dream™.* I'm running and running and through the aisles of shelves with nameless unseen products. The cops are chasing me. I feel the change happening in my body. Every time I turn the corner the cops are there and I spread my arms and I feel filaments like fiber optics spring from my fingertips out to whatever it is that's on the shelves. It hurts. Like the worst pins and needles you've ever felt. The fibers grow and twist and tangle into cords, sucking at the things on the shelves. I become Lego-like. Modular. I can be taken apart and snapped back in different configurations. There's a man next to a crane who looks at me and places me in the crane and I am part of it, part of the machine. I'm sobbing. I don't want to be a crane in a warehouse.

    * I have a number of recurring dreams. The Maze Dream™ is one of them. It's usually the same dream as The Xenomorph Dream™ where it's chasing me and I'm trying to get away into ever-tightening twists and turns, looking for a hidey-hole.
     
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  7. NoGoodNobu

    NoGoodNobu Contributor Contributor

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    Oh yay, it has its own thread now.
     
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  8. Wreybies

    Wreybies Thrice Retired Supporter Contributor

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    (mildly explicit)

    A large living room in a seedy house or apartment. Old cheap wood paneling on the walls pretending (badly) to be cherry. Skunky carpeting in an unfortunate shade of green that you probably don't want to walk on barefoot. Outside is dirty sand and pine needles from Australian pines. It's very "Florida on the wrong side of the tracks". There's almost no furniture in the room. There's an older man, not ugly but not pretty. He's gone after a second. I think he's my dream avatar. There's another man, younger, no shirt on. He has a spectacularly muscled body. He also has that too-bright, brittle, cheery demeanor of someone who's just shoveled an eight-ball of blow or a baggie of tina. He's very chatty with me and suggestive. I'm of two minds. Part A of me is there in the moment and I know that even straight boys are surprisingly easy to talk into a bit of "experimentation" when they're in this state. Part B of me is looking at Part A and thinking, you're such a whore. Part A wins. We're doing the do on the sofa and I've got my hand down his pants and thinking what a shame that there should be such modest equipment on such an impressive chassis. A girl walks in wearing a pale blue dress that's very sheer but it's in two layers with a white layer underneath so nothing is seen. She's laughing. For a second I think it's his girlfriend and we've been nabbed, but she just thinks the whole thing is funny. She says we're late for Disney.

    Scene change

    We're in line for tickets, but it's my imagined idea of what Disney would be in its very first days. It's small and rinky-dink. More like a carny. It's almost twilight now and the lights have come up, garish. There are trailers lining the narrow passage to get tickets that promise different sorts of entertainment before you get inside. Food vendors. Ice cream. Definitely one is a makeshift brothel. All of them have a portion that's painted in that powder-blue color that I associate with classic Disney. We finally get inside and it's all Wild Wild West themed. There's a section of the real Disney that's like this, but in my dream it's the whole thing, like I've confused Disney with Westworld. What I at first think is the attractions are actually where you stay the night. At one point I see people who have clearly been injured sitting along two benches waiting to be attended. It's night now, and hot. Florida hot. I'm bored because there are no rides that I can find. I look for where I'm going to stay and enter one of the Wild Wild West houses and there are already two people inside. They're in an argument and don't see me. I don't want to be part of this argument and suddenly I'm awake.
     
  9. Wreybies

    Wreybies Thrice Retired Supporter Contributor

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    Yeah, I figured if it's meant to help me keep writing, may as well put it all together where I can find it. :)
     
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  10. NoGoodNobu

    NoGoodNobu Contributor Contributor

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    Okay, I hadn't gotten the chance to read your most recent dream until now.

    It's interesting.

    Can you ever pick apart your dreams, and realise where they came from or what spurred them?

    Or does it ever make you think differently about what you're thinking about or who you are according to your subconscious?
     
  11. Wreybies

    Wreybies Thrice Retired Supporter Contributor

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    Sometimes I can see where things from my day manifest themselves in my dreams, yes. A lot of times my dreams are about patterns. Like The Maze Dream™, that one is always about patterns. Sometimes they're just anxiety, like in the dream where I was on the beach and then in a friend's basement but he wasn't there. When the Richard (that's my name for random Boomer dads) came down I was really anxious. I thought I was going to get in trouble for having spent the night and why I had spent the night.

    Also, the "classic Disney blue" is the blue in the image below. It's a powdery blue with just the vaguest suggestion of turquoise. It's very much a color from the late 50's and early 60's.

    11182261_668080533337923_7665235093000881592_n.jpg
     
  12. NobodySpecial

    NobodySpecial Contributor Contributor

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    You, my friend, I think need to lay off the spicy food before bed.
     
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  13. Wreybies

    Wreybies Thrice Retired Supporter Contributor

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    Boomeropolis

    Huge pyramid of the South American school. A place of worship, not a tomb. But it kinda' also is a tomb because all around is a vast graveyard. Headstones in a perfectly manicured lawn. Benches for sitting, paths for walking. The occasional tree. It's actually very pretty. There's a deep maudlin feel in my chest like the initial pull of a sob, but it gets stuck there, in that initial down-pull, and doesn't let go. There's a tall, skinny, Jimmy Stewart-lookin' guy. I know it's my high school best-friend, Scott, even though it doesn't really look like him. The real Scott went to paunch and faded into genericness. This man is as thin as a rake with a severe face. But I know it's Scott, regardless. At the top of the pyramid there are several stepped levels, each with different exhibits behind heavy protective plastic that's been scratched with age and passing hands. It's all about Boomers. It's everything 50's and 60's I was taught to worship as a kid. In my head I note that the 1970's is conveniently missing, but there's a whole level that's devoted to the 80's. Camara angles switch a lot in this dream and either I'm looking at the different exhibits that make up the Boomer Religion or the camera is much lower down the pyramid looking up at Scott who strikes dramatically silent poses of staring off into the distance, a perfect disciple/priest for the Eternal Church of Baby Boom. The maudlin feeling never leaves because there was a time in my real youth when I was in love with him, but he was in love with this religion. At the very top of the pyramid is a place I won't go into. I refuse. I know what's in there. It's God in the form of Reagan. Maudlin is layered over with disgust and poisonous rage by turns. Like any religion, this one is a lie, its exhibits covered in heavy plastic, its disciples enviable for the dramatic air of assurance their faith gives them, but there's no way for me to engage it. It's all behind that heavy scratched plastic, behind Scott's severe face. It feels cheap and ostentatious, and yet it's so huge. How do I get out? How do I get away? I run down the front of the pyramid and the stairs don't end, feet of lead, the air made into syrup. Scott looks down at me from miles away and also from a close-up shot at the same time. His disapproval is scathing and my heart is wrenched but I have to leave this fucking place, this graveyard of lies with its giant holy pyramid of sacrifice and plastic shrines. I'm too tiny for my truth to matter.
     
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  14. Wreybies

    Wreybies Thrice Retired Supporter Contributor

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    It's an old-timie office with half-walls in wood and the rest in glass. Rows of secretaries outside. Everything is sepia brown and pale cream. It's quitting time. We're leaving, picking up our jackets from an old wooden coatrack to cover our pale cream shirts and suspenders holding up old fashioned trousers with the little split V at the back of the waistband. I see myself from behind and I am astonished at how big my butt is. In real life I am the butt-less wonder. The scene keeps replaying on a loop. We never quite make it out the door and then suddenly we're not there anymore. We're at a cocktail party. Horn-rimmed glasses and domes of early 60's teased hair. Everyone is smoking. Everyone is drinking. No beer. Beer would be a soft drink for kids at this sepia-toned cocktail party. This party is about straight vodka and gin and whiskey, neat, in rocks glasses. In my detached mind this is something I learned while working as a server and bartender. When older people order alcohol they don't fuck around. But these people aren't older. Not yet anyway. These are the people who will become the older people of my real life. I smile inwards thinking "So, they've always been like that."
     
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  15. Wreybies

    Wreybies Thrice Retired Supporter Contributor

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    The world is rain. It never stops and has never started. It's always been. The sidewalk around my house has a layer of moss, mold, and lichen so deep that it peels off in inch-thick sheets. The metal awning above is the same. I have to clean it. I've let it get so bad that I'm in trouble with the police. I'm on probation. Nicole Kidman is my probation officer, but sometimes she's also Glenn Close. She's evil. I know she will do me grievous harm. She wants to put a collar on me. It's the exploding collar from Cloud Atlas. I won't let her. It's night and it's raining softly and she's trying to put the collar on me. I bite her so hard my teeth reach the bone. She pulls away but her arm is unharmed. There are other people in the woods behind my house. They're in trouble too. They have collars but are hiding. I run to them but the grass is slippery and muddy with the rain that has always been. I fall and fall and fall.
     
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