In Amsterdam

July 3,  2019

I only remember the last part of a much longer dream. I was wandering through a huge ancient stone building that felt like it had been retrofitted to be a prison. I wandered from room to room and felt as though I knew that somewhere I'd come across an animal. I came to a room setup with a row of half a dozen outsize metal bathroom stall doors. I tapped the last door in the row open, and it slowly swung into the space it concealed. Inside was nothing but a tall blue furry alien shaped like a cross between a giraffe, a horse, and a very sad faced tapir. It had high shoulders, but wasn't more than five feet long from nose to tail. It looked directly at me but didn't move. I left that room and found myself in a vast open atrium filled with piles of hundreds of roughly four by eight foot slabs of stone that could have been quarried in place from the drock the building was built with and constructed upon. The blocks all had grids of raised icons carved on the surface. Three other young men were walked around on the jumble of stones. They said that the stones worked like telephones, they could be used to communicate with the alien gods of the religions that were represented by the icons. I joked with them, "So you mean you could dial up Catholicism and its guilt, just like that?" The guy I spoke to said, "Yes, exactly". End scene.

June 22,  2019

Last night's dream sonata was all about not having it together when nothing else mattered. I was driving through what looked like a hilly coastal town in New England, on my way to my first day on a job, or was it an interview for a job? In any case I keep reciting the address which is like 7280 V-something street, and suddenly I'm almost at the end of the street that's supposed to get me there, and V-something road is nowhere to be found. Instead I'm at 100 Somewhere Else Street, and can't get the GPS to search for the proper address, which it was supposed to already be programmed with, and I can't believe I've somehow let this get out of hand. I look at my watch and realize I have just over 10 minutes until I'm supposed to arrive, and I have no idea where I'm going. That sinking feeling that this is neither going well, nor going to end well, resonates for a long while before I wake up.

May 26,  2019

I remember the end of a long dream from last night. I was outside on a rocky hillside. Think off the slickensides at Red Rock Hill in San Francisco. They are deeply weathered orange cherts that break up into rough cubes ranging from a couple inches down to gravels and sands. I needed to get down the hill and followed a track that appeared to trend down. The problem was that when it passed through a v-shaped declivity it turned sharply back up and and down the hillside without getting me down onto the road into the valley. I thought to myself that there was no way that would work, so I turned directly downhill, even though I couldn't see my way to get from the cliff down onto the path below. Since I didn't want to backtrack and start over, I worked my way down to a point that dropped off straight down onto the path, but when I got there I realized that I'd been tricked by an optical illusion. It wasn't a ten foot drop off the overhanging rock that it had appeared to be from up on higher ground. Instead, it was a short step which I'd misread as a perilous escarpement. Relieved, I stepped onto the path and woke up.

May 21,  2019

Last night I woke up at 4:00 AM from a dream about rockets. We were in an oddly small hangar prior to boarding a rocket plane. I hesitated getting on the craft and after my companions had boarded, the pilot maneuvered it out through the far side of the building toward the launch field. I felt certain that it was going to be a disaster, and worried that even if I wasn't on the flight, I still might be part of an explosive failure near the ground. Instead, as I walked toward the open hangar door on the opposite side of the facility my flight had just left from, another launch began around a corner behind my location. Enormous sprays of sparks and burning yellow and blue light competed with a deafening roar that signified the takeoff of a 25 foot cube (which looked to have been purloined from an oil drilling rig) and turned out to be a flying platform powered by two rocket engines. The exhausts bellowed and flamed and carried the platform past me as it headed up into the sky. At 100 feet up, its flight halted and hovered on two cones of flame. Then it quickly descended to a soft landing back on the field directly in front of me. The engines cut out and surprisingly, I could hear the pilot, standing in the middle of this improbable contraption (which was clearly made airworthy only through computer flight controls) a lab coat his only flight gear, as he looked at me and said, "How about that?" Relieved that a disaster with my flight wasn't involved, mystified about what could possibly be going on, I woke up and didn't pretend, even just to myself, that sleep would come easily again.

April 23,  2019

I dreamed that I was in a rental car heading north in hilly California on a freeway late at night. I pulled off into a lane that led into a huge parking structure. Deep inside the building, the road split. The left fork went back to the freeway, the right brought me up a gated ramp. In front of it were four or five men. I got out of the car to talk to them. The closer I got to them, the clearer it became that they were patchwork chimeras, produced in some dark experiment. None of them had two eyes that matched, and their faces looked like a merger of too many soft plastic parts held together by unnatural forces. They spoke in tones that made it clear they had practiced lying and persuasion and little else. My instinct was to buy time, asking nonsense questions, trying to focus on my chances of escape, trying to see around their twitches and grimaces as they pushed and plied me with a need to move past the gate. Seeing only deadly danger lay that way, and with no other way to go ahead, I went back to the car, and escaped into wakefullness, no longer interested in the rewards of sleep.

April 22,  2019

I dreamed that I was standing behind a seated Pete Buttigieg and started giving him a neck and shoulder rub. He seemed OK with it until I got to his left shoulder at which point he said, "New tattoo." I said, "So it hurts." I took my hands off him and then had to wonder what I was thinking of. I mean, really, what led me to touching him in the first place, and how could it possibly have been appropriate? The dreaming brain sure works overtime. I woke up feeling guilty about behavior that I enjoyed but didn't actually do. It makes me wonder if some forms of infectious Catholicism can be airborne.

April 21,  2019

I woke up from a dream that had Ed (my ex) and I trying to get someplace in a hurry in present day Chicago at rush hour. He was driving us south along a street that ran along the freeway which was some thirty feet below us on the right. I commented that traffic (which was dense stop and go in both directions at best) was really moving well. And immediately felt bad for saying it. It wasn't as though he hadn't noticed that it was going to be slow going. We eventually came to a point where there was construction and no way forward so we got out of the car and tried to get across the construction area on foot. We found ourselves in a shed with an opening on the far wall inside that opened onto a single lane of traffic that we needed to cross. The oddly shaped shed made it a blind crossing so cars would race by seemingly at random. We debated how to proceed but finally stepped out to cross the lane. It turned out the lane had been blocked off so there were no more cars coming through. It was a both a relief and a letdown. And oddly, it was quite clear that the lane wasn't wide enough to accomodate the cars that had been speeding by. I suppose that's a pretty typical dream brain conundrum, where actual facts are construed to be as fungible as the forever lying Republican operative Sarah Sanders and miserable dummkopf-in-chief Donald Trump would have us believe.

April 14,  2019

I'd love to know how many of our top 10% of wealthy folk also collecting Social Security, and taking advantage of Medicare. C'mon. There's gotta be a statistic out there somewhere. I mean, there was a report the other day that that the richest man around, Jeff Bezos, only takes $84,000 a year in salary, but that also means he only pays into Social Security on that tiny bit of money. It looks like yet more tax avoidance to me, from someone who can well afford to chip in his share.

February 2,  2017

Six things worth changing in America, the sooner the better.

All State and Federal employees and elected officials should rely upon Medicare and Social Security. There's no reason for them to get special treatment. It isn't as though they are unpaid volunteers.

Gerrymandering should end. Software that knows nothing about politics should be used to move us toward equal representation at the State and Federal level. Gerrymandering is a bad faith attempt to grab power by undermining the ideal of one man one vote representation.

The Electoral College should end. It has yet to serve a purpose and it is even more inequitable than most gerrymandering.

Single payer health care is the only fair approach for this country.

End Citizen's United, corporations are not people.

Reset the Social Security deduction limit to tax the first $5,000,000 of income and index it to the CPI every year. You'll never see a problem funding Social Security if this is done.

November 3, 2016

New York Dream Journal 1975

Fade in to the dream time.

It is a clear quiet night on the outskirts of a North African coastal town. Dry sparks of white stars and a sliver of the crescent moon add their glow to the deep blue black sky. It's still warm, but much cooler than it was during the day. Two of my best friends and I are climbing the exterior steps that lead up to the roof of an adobe covered house. We're wearing dark robes, talking softly, laughing, and happy to be able to cool off and take our ease in the comfort of the night. I recognize my friend Ritchie, but the other, who seems to know us both just as well as Ritchie and I know one another is someone I can't name. We laugh and talk and our faces shine in the glow of the moon and the stars. The moment fades to black.

Several years later, back in real time.

It's a beautiful sunny summer day. I'm sitting on a log along a path that winds around the southern side of the hill that is Buena Vista Park in San Francisco. The unknown young man who seemed to be such a friend in that New York dream of North Africa, comes walking down the path in shorts and a T-shirt. We greet one another without any sign there's a connection. But when the conversation turns to the East Coast, where we'd both spent time, it turns out he was good friends with Ritchie too. His last name? Pentecost.

I got to know him, for at least the second time, or so it seemed to me. I had a powerful crush on him. Eventually we spent an affectionate but chaste night together. He understood that I wanted him badly, but this time around I wasn't his type. He was mine though. He was so compact, attractive, familiar, and sure of himself, all I could do was long for him and let him pursue the men he desired.

October 29, 2016

An open letter to every web designer on earth, and their clients.

Please, I clicked on your pop up request on your site's home page to sign up for your newsletter solely in order to close the pop up. No, I don't want your newsletter. And NO, I don't want to ever see that pop up again. C'mon. Use the cookie you dropped on my system to remember that. And, for fun, how about putting an easy-to-find link to subscribe to your site's newsletter in case I finally wake up one morning and realize that I can't go on living a happy life without getting daily pitches from the folks at "___fill__in__your__site's__name". Is it really asking too much of you to show that much consideration? Or should I write a script that signs up with a dead end email address, or 500,000 dead email addresses to annoy you and your client as much as you're bothering me?

October 24, 2016

Djawana know what I think?


Well I'll tell you anyhow!

I've just got to say!

If I was the moderator of those 2016 presidential debates, I'd have had a cutoff switch for the candidates microphones, and I would have used it. And I'd have rehearsed that with them beforehand so they had a clear understanding of what they were facing. Not only that, I'd have a clock on screen that they could see to know when their freaking time was up.