I have seen a part of paradise.

I dreamed that I lived in a huge, rambling, rickety Victorian mansion by the side of a small lake near Seattle... at least, I think it was Seattle, though it had much of Bellingham in it too. The woman who owned the mansion was a large, fortyish eccentric who had inherited the place and converted it into apartments, which she rented out for a staggeringly low $15 a month. The walls were painted in dark colors; the floors were wood, and your footsteps echoed on them as if you were on stage. My rooms had a wide, sweeping skylight and huge windows with a view of the lake and city beyond; the windowsills were wide and suitable for sitting in and writing, or staring out at the view and smoking a cigarette. And even in this old Victorian mansion, big enough to be a museum, but rickety and old, there was high-bandwidth Net access in every suite. Even though the water out of half the faucets was undrinkable and most of the toilets were broken (an inconvenience which I seemed to accept with affectionate ease), there was Net access.

Tucked over in a corner, and a few steps down from my living room, was a painter's studio, with a few unfinished works. It was part of my suite of rooms but was not mine; somehow I knew that, and I wondered how I would feel when the painter invaded my space to paint.

There were balconies on which the other tenants congregated, with great floppy comfortable couches were set; they would sit out there and smoke and talk and drink in the evenings, which were warm and sweet and felt exotic (for I could remember many such evenings in the past; I had a whole dream-memory of this alternate life). All the tenants seemed to be brilliant and fascinating in one way or another; the landlady seemed to collect those she deemed worthy and gave them a place here. It was a remarkable community. I knew it was a privelege to live here. And it was so, so comfortable and cool to sit on one of those big old leather couches on the fourth-floor balcony, late on a summer night, and talk to a few of my fellow tenants, or have a huge party throughout the house, all our friends and even a few new people. It was like Freak Manor with more style. Living in this place was the epitome of hip.

The place was like a labyrinth. It made absolutely no sense from an architectual standpoint; you would find bathrooms and showers and passages and rooms in the oddest places. It reminded me of a stage for a play, rather than a house. It added to the intensely Bohemian feel of the place, and I loved it dearly.

It wasn't just the place or the people in it that made me wistful when I awoke. There were stories afoot; this house was surrounded by some sort of intrigue or controversy, and it was fascinating. There was something going on here that I wanted to be a part of. There's more, of course; conversations in this dream and dream-memories and past dreams, but it's too disjointed to express here. Like when I went for a walk, and there was an Amtrak train that had been converted into a roller coaster, and it would splash through Whatcom Creek near where it meets the ocean, under a bridge; or when I was talking to a girl who looked my age, one of the other tenants, in her suite of rooms, and she said that she was too old for me.

This is the second time I have dreamed of this fine House, which has yet to be given a name in my dreams. That makes it the first recurring dream I have ever had. It's a new experience for me, but good Lord Morpheus, I'm grateful. Let me dream this place again.

Paradise, paradise, paradise... I had one of my own.

I was in a restaurant with oaken walls, reading the paper only to see a page that struck a chord in me - the name "Rissman." To the laymen, Didi Rissman is one of the girls in my life who actually shared an interest I still have. Anyways, I was reading an article about living in Manhattan... references to living up north and seeing nothing but not-so-theatre-savvy people whose only experience was Forbidden Broadway.

I was reading the article, and I saw this picture of Didi in a pair of pajamas -- red, polka-dotted pajamas. Silly me, I think I'm done with the restaurant and I have to go... I went to the coat check room, and I saw people waiting to see Didi only to be told that she's talking to a manager. If they can wait, I can wait. I mean, a Marine once told me that patience is a very important virtue in being a sniper, right?

I was in another building now. I took an elevator up, and I saw dark, discolored marble walls and lots of doors to bathrooms. They're easily open doors, but I can see lots of signs for "men" and "women." The existence of so many bathrooms boggles the mind.

I went to one of those bathrooms, and I out of there because the door is not lockable. Not to mention the bathroom is nothing but a closet with a toilet.

I woke up, and I saw the moon standing above the orange "wannabe" moonlights that blaze outside the home office. I think I should write to Didi again.

I had just arrived by ship some 40 or 50 kilometers outside a Swedish town. I knew that the town was on about the same latitude as Mo i Rana in Norway. Perhaps it was Luleå or Haparanda? Anyway, I had to walk a few kilometers down a road through the wilderness, until I came to the end of a railroad track. There, I started waiting for the train that would take me to the town.

After a few minutes, I found myself onboard the train. I walked up to a counter and checked how much the tickets cost. They were very cheap -- only 9 SEK (about one USD).

Suddenly, I realized that I didn't have any luggage with me. I rationalized that I had to have forgotten it on the place where I went ashore from the ship. I knew that I had to get back there, before anything got stolen. I looked at the trees outside the window to find out which direction the train was going, and I asked the people in charge on the train what to do if I wanted to go "that way" -- pointing in the opposite direction of where the train was going. I didn't get any clear answer, but it was implied that there was another track alongside the one I was on. It should be possible to leave the train at the next stop, and wait for the other train going back to where I came from.

I looked through the window again, and noticed something odd. Now the trees were flying by in the opposite direction from the last time I looked. I hadn't noticed any change in speed, so I couldn't make myself believe that the train had actually stopped and started to go back again. Instead, I ignored it, and attributed the change in direction to a glitch in my sleeping brain.

Mourning: Someone I knew died. I have these sorts of dreams, but usually I know who it is that died. In this dream, though, all I knew was that it was someone close to me. The wake was being held at the deceased's apartment. I arrived early with a friend (who used to be a lover, briefly). Before anyone else showed up, I curled up with her and just cried. I cried hard. Messily, pathetically, and weakly, I cried. It felt good. The meaning of the dream seems to be in two parts. First, I've never had much experience with death, particularly death involving people close to me. Second, I don't have anyone close enough to me that will hold me while I cry, and this makes me lonely. There's also a hint that maybe this is something I need; as a chronic depressive, I've never been able to let go and cry around significant others, even though they wanted to be supportive. Maybe next time.

We were like beautiful beings from another realm of existence, swimming through our dark black surroundings, thick air or water that we could breathe.

As we swam out of the scene before this, in which we were people, I could feel myself morphing into a new body, almost like a dinosaur, with wings and a tail.

I think I must have been a dragon. We moved past neon glowing pools of liquid within the dark water in which we swam. The scenery was alien and beautiful, and perhaps we were on another planet.

Frames shifted, and we were sliding in the midst of soft purple rocks, into things that might explode and empty spaces like wormholes.

I went in a wormhole once, twice, and each time it took me back to the beginning of that dark purple-pink frame and I was sliding again, like an infinite loop of time and consciousness.

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