Tag: privacy

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Dream Journal

Revisit to Australia

Visiting Australia, I never thought I’d see it again. I’m traveling deep inland and the green hills and my feelings for the land are very specific, nostalgic, touching. There’s been a series of contaminations lately, and quantities of high-quality cow fat has to be dumped. I dig a shallow hole to pour out what someone calls “beautiful 90s fat” into the dirt while the wizard Gandalf comforts me.

Renting a place in Mexico. We’ve still not acclimated and made friends, partly because it would mostly be expats, so we mostly stay in our room. This isn’t so much an issue since there’s sometimes a beautiful golden light in the evenings in the corners of our room (which is like my childhood bedroom in Kemper court). The house where the room is has a private road veering off to one side, though I don’t realize that’s what it is at first. I see a Mexican man sleeping on the road surface in the shade near the first curve. He would be hard to see in the shadow there, which seems intentionally dangerous, even suicidal. I take stock and realize I’m being imperceptive of the cultural environs, after all how many cars are really going to pass this bumpy road passing by the front of this dinky house.

In what must be a different dream, we discover the room our landlord has rented to us is still being used as a commercial kitchen. It was reasonable enough when we assumed it had been converted for residential use, but we don’t even have any private area… it’s literally a working kitchen using rolling industrial fridges.

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Dream Journal

Going Through the Box of Records

I’m digging in my old bin of records.

One, the sleeve of Carmena Burana, is falling apart and empty. I can’t recall where I got it but it’s time to throw away.

Another is a record asking for privacy, which I put at the front — it’s name actually does spell out some request for privacy.

Then there’s my Intonation record, probably my all-time most played, which I find enclosed with a recording of it. Amazingly, the recording is from pre-2014, before I started listening to it quite frequently. Tucked in with and attached to the recording is an old temporary driver’s license of mine, it’s embossed letters on heavy black plastic looking nicer than my real one.
**”
I didn’t think I remembered any other dreams, but writing those down I remembered fragments of others.

It’s the day after family event, a wedding of my Aunt Therese (who isn’t older than me?). Now I don’t know where to go to join the day-after events, which I was told we’d have. I seem to remember there was to be a reception, on a long cold beach like in Eureka or perhaps the North Sea.

Eating out my wife. Can’t figure where she put her head, though I realize now it’s cuz I had her upside down… and it’s not where her head is supposed to be anyway.

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Dream Journal

No Privacy for Sexytime at Cozy Hostel

I’m staying for a while in a hostel, a very long narrow two-story building that’s like a lodge. It’s not swanky, but it’s scenic and has lovely aged wooden construction and friendly common areas, where strangers gather and sit around chatting and drinking. I have a cozy spare private room there I’m sharing with my brother Patrick. It’s a special place, a beautiful relic — viewed from above, I see a version where a fan artfully redid it in a magical cartoony Warcraft style.

At some point I run into a friend of my cousin, a skinny blonde girl, someone who’s stayed at my house before. We hit it off enjoying the outdoors near the hostel, some flower garden or botanical hall for guests. We decide to head up to the main lodge, waiting in a grubby loading dock for the oddly cited elevator.

We start to make out on a couch once upstairs. I’m hoping to move things to my room — where at least we’d only have to keep out my brother — but she’s insistent and we start to have sex there in one of the common areas. Inevitably someone interrupts us and we hurriedly stop. I’m a bit frustrated with her at this predictable outcome.

A bit later and we’re socializing in a room decorated with curiosities, curved couches along the wall, and a big picture window. And she starts going at it again (though I can’t even remember if it with was me or another guy across from where we sat before). I remember the reactions of the group being mixed, from conflicted fascination to willful ignorance. It’s not uncomfortable for me, but I do have a feeling of exasperation; it seems this is just how she is. She had no specific interest in me, and I passingly consider whether we should’ve used a condom. But in the end, the situation does come out rather well — it seems once the ice has been broken those assembled are pretty ok with an friendly. impromptu, afternoon orgy. Though whether she could’ve expected this or not is another thing entirely.

Visiting an oddly mom-n-pop country Apple store (to be clear: Apple the company, not the fruit). There, on a display of shoeboxes, is a display model for the new iPhone mini. It looks much like an iPod mini, the one from 2004, with the chunky last-century grey buttons of an old Nokia phone. An unexpectedly easy pass.

Awake in the pre-dawn light of my workroom. Building a campfire, carefully piecing out kindling into a blackened metal ring right there on the rug. As the fire burns down and the sun comes up, I fiercely whip the edge of carpet, making that edge briefly glow with every strike. When I’m done and put out the fire, I find that the rug is barely warm underneath.