Backlogged Dream Journal Entries

8/24/10
Some kind of picnic or gala. Don Draper is there as my father figure, while I'm relegated to the kids' table.
Frustration.
I discover there's a different homemade apple-butter at each table, so I scurry around sampling. The apple-butter takes on a white creamy texture more like sour-creamy, but still tastes like apple-butter.
Then a coach-type is scolding me for being great at the sport but I've got to get better with the women. So I go drive, catching up with Don Draper, and then wake up.

8/28/10
I'm a new member of a diving team. Teams go around almost a track underwater, collecting fish, shells, and other target objects in a frenzy of activity.
I can feel that I'm slow and ineffective, but getting better, more valuable, and I start contributing and thinking of new strategies and remembering where to search.
In a sneaky move, my team installs a few huge blue plastic tubes to help our flow and distract the other teams. Bits of seaweed cling to the outside of the tubes.
Felt like visiting Michigan State.

9/2/10
Sounds of a revolution. An office and desk in an older building, perhaps a university.
A woman—older, professor-type—alternately looked up to and scorned.
Loading the mag of a pistol from a box of mixed bullets, keeping the odd bullets for other potential uses.
An envelope marked "4:30: He's been snooping."
The gun at the small of my back in my waistband.
Bodies surrounded by cops.

9/18/10
I'm in a hospital or doctor's office, and I go to wash my hands, taking some telescoping object with me to wash as well. The bathroom is there, behind all those people.
Muslims, many in traditional garb, are gathered in protest or something.
One comes angrily forward, demanding to know just what I think I am doing trying to profane their presence on my way to the bathroom.
There's a stirring.
Volume increases, people start jabbering, and suddenly I'm in the middle and the target of an angry boiled-over tumult.
Some people try to interject on my behalf, becoming Uncle-Tom targets of anger. The mass is embroiled.
Violence.
People pushing, grabbing collars, circling, screaming, threatening, grabbing, pushing, surging, snarling, growling.
And I'm in the center of it all, being thrashed around. In my own circle of violence and counter-violence are a few specific faces, while everyone else around is a blur.
Then two friends grappling become a hug, which spreads among the chaos.
I'm crying.
Quiet.
Debris and sobbing and understanding and remorse.
Exhaustion.
Peace.

1/29/11
A series of vignettes, all taking place in a space I understand as the climbing gym.
I wander around lonely, in search of a climbing partner, seeing birthday parties and groups of kids forming, but my time is ticking and still no climbing.
Out a window I watch the tops of the World Trade Center toppling, panic noises and confusion. A few people egress the piece of tower, and one little girl is borne up on an updraft or something, falling skyward in a little white dress.
Then a kid shows up as I'm stretching or warming up. I can't tell if he's retarded or just ugly, like the Kakos kid from church, but he's extroverted and talks a storm.
A guy my age shows up—known by the ugly kid—who is also seeking a climbing partner, so we strike up a conversation. Food topics, juice or soda, and other et cetera indicating greed on part of the kid.
There's a slight outdoors shift, though still "in the climbing gym," and we see a variation of frisbee being played.
Then a small pomeranian-type dog runs out on a powerline like a squirrel. I'm told it's a sort of invasive species—or maybe just the one—and then the thing has a fat joint. This leads to a discussion of how it would strike a lighter with no thumbs.

9/30/11
Somehow Brooke and I get involved in a foursome with a woman and a newly-woman. The setting keeps changing, including a dorm-like hall, a post-bar walk through SF, and someone's home. There, we all inspect each other's shoes for white flakes. I have none. The tranny has "almost none." Brooke has none, but mentions my lack of flossing, as if it were another possible STI indicator, to which I protest, I have been flossing plenty.
We all give the go-ahead and sign the papers, but doubts remain, esp about the tranny (who is still rather mannish).
Some movement happens and some things I don't remember, and then I am in a mall trying to navigate to the men's room with a tray full of wine. I find my way in, navigating back through the tunnels/hallways of consciousness, and wake up having to pee.

11/18/11
Sitting at a beach-side cafe table with Jag and (Mairaj?). They get up, go away. A spoon flies at me from behind a rock—I catch it and start eating my cereal, re-torquing the silver decorative spoon to make it straight.
They reappear, and I know they've thrown it, representing magic. They announce the spoon as a token that I am the sage/magician/wizard of our group of friends, and present me a janitor/mechanic-type overshirt, with "apprentice"/"assistant"/something on the tag, inside out, with ballpoint writing describing my new position.
I put it on, and pretend to vibrate, shake, tremble, as if overwhelmed by the power, tilting back and falling over in my chair.
From the floor, I say, "That's my official acceptance speech."
Erik joins and they tell him what went down.
"Nice," he says.
Then we all start roaming or looking for something specific to do.