On Tuesday morning I had a dream where it was night time. I don't remember much. Not enough to convey feelings or at least an oneiric sketch. It was partially spooky, mostly due to the darkness, but also there were people there who may or may not become part of my waking life.
I do recall one thing. I'm standing on a dark suburban street and there's no light pollution. The house I'm looking at is comprised of one floor and reminds me of what I associate with homes built by the Works Progress Association as the Great Depression was winding down but World War II was heating up. It had a western feeling to it. The façade was heavy as if it was drawn with a heavy felt-tip pen rather than hulking timbers making up the frame. Its profile was close to a stereotypical house being a square wearing a triangle for a hat but the proportions were markedly foreshortened. The living area, or the square, was more of a rectangle and set back from the lawn by a covered front porch framed by two stout pillars. The upper floor was an obtuse angle with the longest side forming the base. In the middle of the obtuse angle was a large window about three feet by four feet framed by rough timbers. The glass was broken out. I went close to take a look inside but wound up going down the area between the house and its neighbor to the left.

I finished reading Remarkably Bright Creatures by Shelby Van Pelt. I ordered it some time ago, read it in fits, but set about finishing the tale as of a week ago. It's about an old woman's relationship with an octopus in an aquarium and how the octopus helps solve a mystery about her life which affects other lives. It's a pleasant happy tale where everything gets wrapped up in a neat package at the end. Three quarters of the way through something important to the plot drops. My reaction was, "Ah geez. Spoiling it already?" Rather I remembered what Scott McCloud wrote about western comics vs. eastern comics in Understanding Comics. Western comics are about getting from A to B. Eastern comics are about how one gets from A to B, often taking a meandering path. A bit like Iain M. Banks's Consider Phlebas where there are many side adventures before Bora Horza Gobuchul and his associates get back onto the "main quest". At that point I wanted to see how the characters puzzled out what the author let slip a few pages beforehand.

At the moment I am stressing myself out. Will see how tomorrow goes but at least there's still Ted Lasso, not to mention I have therapy on Thursday.

I am not going to smoke weed. Nor am I going to pull tarot cards. I have to live on my own, alone. As I have always done so.

a dream from april 6th, 2015

A cold's been fucking my unlubed ass sideways since Friday. Reckon I'm on the mend, but my diaphragm feels bruised from all the coughing. The back of my throat is drippier than a chick on MFC. Here's hoping the situation isn't compounded by liver failure from the doses of Mucinex and NyQuil.

Sleep has been fitful, only going out for the count once my body reaches its breaking point. One dream sticks with me.

In the dream, I caught wind there was an active shooter incident at my former job. My source being the one girl in my office who was consistently on our supervisor's shit-list, much like me, because we were there to work, not kiss ass.

One of the biggest asskissers in the office, a pencilneck geek in the words of the late, great Freddie Blassie, walked into the center, pulled out a pistol, and started indiscriminately shooting everyone.

The exchange felt so real, and I was tempted to email her in waking life to get the score.

Clearer, albeit stuffier, heads prevailed. I don't rightly care about that place.

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