One of the strangers I met yesterday was a gentle man who reminded me of my friend P; and last night P visited me in my dreams. But he was dying, just fading away, from an ailment nobody could explain or diagnose. We sat on the sofa and I put my arms around him; he lay with his head on my breast like a child, murmuring a prayer, very slow (which was odd, for an atheist). It may have been the Lord's Prayer -- it had at any rate the weight and cadence of ritual. This morning there's a sadness in me which is hard to shake.

Swimming in an icy ocean, I kept hearing snippets of conversation. I swam upwards towards the surface, and found myself making my way up the levels of a gigantic warehouse complex. As I reached each new floor, I could hear and see through the stairwell that the floor beneath was exploding, filled with lava.

The top floor led me to a library/hobby shop where I knew I had to find and paint models of old military planes to keep the lava beneath my floor. My director and a stranger were there, and the director asked if I was off-book. I couldn't remember my lines, so I said nothing and started painting. The stranger asked if I was hungry, and I was, so he called to order breadsticks and pizza...but there was a miscommunication. He asked for 8 slices of pizza, but the pizza boy brought 8 full pizzas, and I got stuck with the bill. I don't know how the pizza boy survived the lava to reach us.

A scrawny version of Sylvester Stallone is posing as a detective. His name is something like (but not quite) Rocky Balboa.

An extremely thin, older woman who resembles Diana Vreeland hires him, leading him to believe that this is a detective job, but at first it seems she mainly wants him to get rid of some shabby old furniture for her. The woman's personal assistant, who is someone like Rene Auberjonois kibbitzes as Balboa single-handedly tries to lift a large couch onto his back.

Shortly thereafter, an indistinct gang of bad guys are threatening people all over the city. The personal assistant is jumpy, checking for trouble everywhere around him. He's about to open up his car, when a hand reaches out from the front passenger seat and pulls him into the car and we can just guess at what happens to him from there.

Somewhat later, in the lobby of the Park Avenue-ish apartment building where the Vreeland woman lives, Balboa lights up a cigarette. S. is sleeping on a couch (maybe the couch Stallone was trying to move?) in the lobby of this building.

I warn him that S. will be upset with him when she smells the smoke, and I wake just as she begins waking up and starts telling him off.

The first image is a baby in a bed.

My brother and I are discussing/arguing the relative values/merits of pre-cable and post-cable television.

The next image is a debate/discussion of these very values/merits by a panel of experts.

Then, the image of a post-cable television, I think, that I have somehow, pushed over and broken its connection.

My brother and I are looking for another connected television. We are in our mother's room--it opens up and becomes an apartment. There are two women sleeping here--neither is our mother. Regarding the main one, I have the thought--she is a magician.

My brother is talking loudly, like a child. I am trying to shush him. The main woman wakes up and chides him.

The next image is a group of tables outside, like a patio restaurant. I am talking with the magician. We are talking about adventures. I, I think, am saying I am not so interested in Odyssian adventures, but am more interested in Boccasian ones.

In from of us, it is snowing, or sanding. A police car is transforming: a big car to a small one, and it slides in the snow or sand. We laugh.

Unlike my previous logs, I feel this is a complete dream, not a fragment. At least it is as complete as these things go.

I would, if it were possible, write down all the bits and pieces of the dream that I had last night, but.. I honestly can't remember it all, very sketchy.. certain things I remember vividly.

She's dead, everyone kept telling me she was dead and I thought it was my mom.. or my sister? I went into the kitchen, not any kitchen I've seen before, and she (someone, possibly my sister) had set up two chairs by a drop sheet which was a resting place for an odd shaped box. She was trying to wrap the box in garbage bags and so I helped. It was a coffin and.. she opened it, and a girl layed there, not very young or very old.. beautiful, but no one that I know. She lay with arms above, or beside her hair that lay haphazardly about as if it had been arranged and then.. a doll. Half of a naked doll lay beside her, just the upper half and no lower body, but was it just because it was covered that I didn't see one or because it was really gone? I can't remember that particular detail. We wrapped the clear garbage bags around the coffin and then.. she sat by the top and touched it and the girls head and arms fell gracefully from it, somehow. We wrapped it again..

I was in a high school.. it was the same dream with the same people but, there were terrorists, I guess.. I wasn't sure at times if I was one of them, or one of the students. They seemed to single me and a few others out. I was hitting them all with steel rods.. it seemed to kill them or at least slow them down, one good swing. I saw my favourite teacher once, but he seemed so distant, everyone did really even in the previously mentioned scene where upon we were all in the same room. I always seemed to be talking to myself because no one else was truly listening.. I didn't care, though.

This was before the high school bit, if I recall correctly, but I was in an apartment and it was really dreamy with big rooms and two bathrooms and it reminded me of a place we looked at once when we were considering moving out, only a lot nicer. Of all of the bits of my dream, this is the only one I can trace back to somewhere.. last night I was looking at pictures of a motel/hotel/inn from a URL that CowboyNeal or someone had posted in #everything. heh

There were quite a few other bits that I do remember, but this dream has not left me in the mood to care enough to write them.. maybe later, but probably not.

i was riding in a black jeep wrangler with a whole bunch of people (about 20... waaay more than can fit), including celeste. the road we were on is blocked off because of a block party, which seems to be in our honor (that is, those who rode in the wrangler). all sorts of colored balloons and confetti were falling straight from the sky for some reason. celeste asked me if i'd get her a particular type of balloon from off the street. she wanted one of the yellow-gold ones, from what i could discern. these balloons were fewer in number, and were covered in small paragraphs. i could not read the words. the first and second one i found popped when i touched them because i had to squeeze them really tight in order to pick them up. the third one resisted my pressure and i retrieved it for her after attempting to read the balloon writing.


i'm in someone's house. it reminds me of my friend graig's old house, but the ceilings are higher and it's cold and unfamiliar. i am dimly aware that this house belongs to someone related to some underground organization like the mafia. my roommate from school is there, and he walks through the kitchen to where i'm sitting at some table by myself. the lights are off and it's overcast, judging from the little amount of natural light filtering in. he tells me his cellphone has no signal in the house. i notice my beeper doesn't, either. i have a small twinge of panic as i realize tricia or my mother could've been attempting to get in touch with me. he suggests we go back outside to the block party so we can get signals, but i say we can't, because i know we can't leave this house.

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