Dream Log: March 13, 2000

Very strange dream this time. I was part of a test group of people to study the effects of dreams on the unconcious mind. I was in a group of people, led out into the middle of a dark forest. We came upon a clearing, where the hillside was covered with lush green growth. The forest floor was trimmed as if it were a golf course. In and around each tree in this meadow, were various forms of sporting equipment. From the tree I sat under, hung a small basketball hoop, with the grass like a putting green underneath. Upon falling asleep (in the dream), I began to dream about playing b-ball. I awoke from this dream, to notice the group leader taking notes above me on the hill, then I awoke to my alarm clock.

- / +

she was going to leave the church and it panicked me. She was calm about everything.

irc where you didn't know who was saying what, people collaborated on sentences, filling in like mad libs

the boy on the couch in love with me

chocolate-covered vegetables had seemed like a wise purchase, but I had been high.

I was walking into a dive bar, a few people sitting at the table to the right of me. The bartender looks familiar, but I can't place his face. I'm carrying an upright vacuum cleaner- one of the ones that still uses dust bags instead of those cheap plastic 'cyclone' things. This vacuum has no HEPA filter, no adjustable brush height, no ergonomic handle. It has guns inside of it. Guns? Why do I have guns in a vaccuum cleaner, if it doens't even have a HEPA filter? They are big machine guns, I have been playing Half-life lately. The counter-strike modification. It gives you lots of big guns, but no vaccuum cleaners. The bartender pulls out a gun and points it at me. I smoothly slide the zipper of the dust bag open on the vacuum and pull out a rather large gun, I think it was an M-16, but I'm not a gun buff, so I don't really know for sure. I start to run with my vacuum behind me, picking up the beer nuts that have been carelessly dropped onto the floor. The bartender is shooting at me, glass is shattering, I can't help but think about Pulp Fiction, and Samuel L. Jackson, with his greasy jerry curl. I dodge a few shots and try to return the fire, but I am out of ammo. I reach into my vacuum cleaner for another gun but there is nothing but dust and beer nuts.
I look up to see the bartender smiling from ear to ear and just as he is about to end my little vacuum frenzy, I woke up.