Münchhausen (Just Strawberries)/That Unaired '70s Pilot

 I was in a romantic relationship with Linn Berggren.

(😍)

 I believe our love was forbidden, 'cause I went to great effort to hide it from my sister.

(Who was sometimes my brother.)

Strawberries also figured into the dream. One strawberry was the size of a pumpkin. It had begun to spoil, so I had to gouge out all the rot before I could eat it, leaving me with no more than half. I figure this was a subconscious reference to Wild Strawberries.

(They're both Swedish, after all.)

* * *

I watched the unaired pilot of That '70s Show. There were quite a number of differences between this pilot and the show that would follow. It was more of a variety show than a straightforward sitcom, with lots of musical skits. Red and Kitty were quite different characters; they were swingers, with Kitty being in a relationship with Hyde. Also Red was played by Kurt Russell.

The Pervert's Guide to Party-Crashing/Simple Man's Dream/WhisperingEmpanada ASMR/First You Wanna Kill Me, Now You Wanna Kiss Me...

A party was being thrown at my house. Slavoj Žižek crashed it, then got blitzed and ended up crashing on the couch on the back porch.

While this was going down, my sister was elsewhere. She did something foolish which caused her to take a rather nasty spill, earning her a large blood-blister on her chest, over her heart. This blood-blister was potentially life-threatening, so someone called an ambulance and she was rushed to the hospital. Me and my parents — who were alive — only found out about this after she returned home from surgery the next day, tearfully relating the story to us as she peeled the bandage on her left breast back, showing us where the blood-blister had been removed. Suffice to say, neither of my parents were pleased by this news.

* * *

I was a teenager back in high school. I had a new teacher, who was Alannah Myles — an Alannah Myles who was sometimes muscular, sometimes her familiar slender self.

She possessed mystical powers. At a dance, she used her powers to instill me with the courage to dance with a girl I had never seen at school before. So the two of us danced; we both had two left feet, but we enjoyed ourselves nevertheless.

Then the dance ended and the girl disappeared. Alannah told me the girl had been like me, a poor soul crippled by social anxiety. I was told I'd never see her again, but the purpose of this moment was never to set us up as life partners, but to kickstart our spiritual evolution.

Now is where the dream gets absolutely bonkers. This portion is so bizarre, my hamfisted descriptions can't do it justice. Turns out Alannah was one of many angels sent to Earth to kickstart the spiritual evolution of all of mankind. Myself and millions of other people around the globe had been chosen as the first recipients of this program. We were force-fed deep-fried, sausage-sized slugs; experienced Noah's Flood from the perspective of those who'd drowned; and forced to snort a powderized poisonous insect which burned at the touch and was 90+% fatal. All this and a series of other scenarios were meant to reinvigorate our empathy, though I'm pretty sure a good number of them were counterproductive.

The dream ended on a hopeful note for the humanity. A Rob Zombie cover of Bryan Adams' "Heaven" played as it came to an end, like a movie going to end credits.

* * *

The Marxist-Leninist YouTuber BadEmpanada

came to me while I was in bed. Leaning over my ear, he began reading in a low whisper some anti-Christian screed from a heavy ML textbook he was carrying. I knew he was only trying to get a rise out of me, so instead of lashing out, I smiled, saying he was an amazing ASMRtist.

* * *

Mira Furlan spit in Kevin Sorbo's face.

Then they kissed passionately with full tongue action.

Hotel Kraken/The Insecticidal Jedi/War of Gnostic Aggression/Voodoo Jambalaya

I decided to walk to Alaska.

(Which in this dream world was only 14 KM north of my town of residence.)

After reaching Alaska, I eventually decided to go back home. I figured the best way back was to swim the entire lake which stretched between Alaska and my home. However, soon after swimming a little ways, I found a massive crevice had opened up in the lake bed and the entire lake was slowly but steadily emptying, the water swirling down like in a giant sink.

Figuring these waters were too treacherous to continue navigating, I swam back to Alaska and booked a room at a lakeside hotel. As it turns out, this hotel was built atop a large kraken which was inhabiting the lake.

As the lake continued draining, the kracken was sucked down into the Earth. I escaped, but not without banging my head on the jagged rock of the crevice the lake was draining into.

* * *

It was winter. The family had discovered a load of young kittens half-frozen somewhere outside. As my sister and father were bringing them in, I attempted to play with them. At this point, they'd spent their formative weeks without much human interaction, so they were already distrustful and half-feral, though some were tamer than others. Funnily enough, they'd made friends with a small baby mouse and a fuzzy little insect. Also, there was a Jedi with a chartreuse reverse mullet helping bring the kittens in. 

Upon discovering the insect, he slowly and sadistically crushed it under his boot, despite my desperate pleas to spare it. Enraged, I picked the Jedi up and broke his back over my knee.

* * *

I travelled through time and space to the Antebellum South. Once I got there, I visited a park. I started talking to the folks there about the Gnostic gospels, explaining that most were lost/existed in fragments 'cause they'd been suppressed by the religious authorities of the time. This pissed off many of them, and they sent for guards.

(The guards wore heavy 18th century dresses of red, gold-embroidered fabric.)

They began torturing me, with one jamming the end of his musket over my right middle finger, firing straight through my arm and out my elbow.

As one guard levelled his musket at me to end me, I wrenched it out of his hands and beat him to death with it. Seeking escape, I hid under the skirts of a group of slave childen who were disguised as a guard within one of the heavy red dresses. They then smuggled me out of there.

* * *

A boy in his late teens/early twenties entered into a relationship with an older man's wife. The man found out about the affair. Being both a Vodou bokor and a damn good cook, he whipped up a pot of cursed jambalaya. Cornering the younger man in an alley, he scooped some jambalaya out of the pot and forced the kid to eat it.

I know there was more to the dream than that, but I don't remember the rest.

Sometimes an Androgyne is Just an Androgyne/Jane Seymour, Orson Krennic, & Inigo Montoya Walk Into a Mansion ...

I was a disembodied entity travelling through a living cityscape straight out of an M. C. Escher print.

Inhabiting this cityscape were mouthless, legless semi-humanoid beings which somewhat resembled the robot from the Looney Tunes short Robot Rabbit.

Playing through the air was music I can only describe as "synthwave jazz".

Then I found myself within an infinite corridor similar to the one from Escher's Another World (Other World Gallery).

In each partition of the corridor were two persons — one unique individual, each with their own particular neurosis, and one identical matronly woman in horn-rimmed glasses discussing Freudian/Jungian psychology. I found myself in the "alpha chamber", the only chamber with three walls; on that wall behind me hung a poster with a pictographic representation of an infinite corridor. I was inhabiting the body of a bald, ugly, stoop-shouldered man with an irresistible compulsion to kiss the hand of every woman he came across. After he/I forcibly kissed the hand of my matron, she showed him/me a card. On the card was a drawing of an androgyne. Unable to process the male/female aspects of the drawing, he/I froze, incapable of any action.

The dream probably would've continued, but I was rudely awakened. 😦

* * *

I was in a forest. My sister gave me a marijuana brownie. After eating it, I quickly grew anxious, as she'd made it with sativa. After telling her she should cultivate some indica strains, I wandered off into the woods with my girlfriend, Jane.

(Literally Jane Seymour)

We were both wearing 19th century clothing; she had on a heavy dress with a bonnet, me a black suit with a string tie. I hugged her close to me as we walked through the woods together, all lovey-dovey.

We soon emerged in a clearing, where we found a prodigious white Antebellum mansion.

We went inside. The interior was entirely pristine, completely uninhabited.

As we prepared to settle down in our new home, we went to the open front door and peered outside. Coming towards us was Orson Krennic, with him a mob of ornery white Southerners.

They swarmed into the house before we could get away, apprehending us. I believe they fully intended on lynching us. Before they could, Inigo Montoya came to our aid, running one of the blackguards through on his sword.

I really wish I remembered how the dream ended. Jane and I escaped, at any rate.

High School Polyamory/Retconned Death/幽靈海灘/Star Wars: Dune

I was a teenager, standing with my girlfriend in a school hallway by some lockers, making out passionately.

As we stopped to take a breath, a lovely girl approached us. She was clearly attracted to my girlfriend, and my girlfriend to her, so they French kissed right in front of me.

I wasn't angry or jealous; I only wanted my turn at kissing this girl. But when I leaned in, she stopped me, making it clear she wasn't interested in my tongue. Respecting her bounds, I took an amicable step back.

My girlfriend and I were soon approached by another girl.

(She resembled an older, bespectacled, brunette version of Ponyo from the eponymous anime.)

She wanted a kiss from me. I didn't find her attractive, but I didn't want to leave her dejected, so I slipped her some tongue.

* * *

My father showed up, alive. Though I knew he was supposed to be dead, no one else remembered his death.

I don't often have bad dreams, but this was certainly one of them.

* * *

I visited my local food bank to receive a hamper. Unlike in reality, the food bank was the size of a hotel. Thousands of people had come to receive food, but there wasn't enough staff to serve them in a timely manner, so tempers began to rise, with visitors cursing out the workers, some of whom began suffering nervous breakdowns from the abuse heaped on them.

The dream then shifted focus. It was the '80s, and a boy was standing over a cliff overlooking a large lake. A prepubescent white kid, he was dressed only in swimming trunks. He either jumped or fell in, dashing his head against the rocks on the way down. With a bleeding head wound, he floated onto the shore of a local beach, where he was spotted and dragged in by beachgoers. This boy, who was white, suddenly was black, and his head was missing. It was implied his head was eaten by the ghosts haunting the beach.

This beach belonged to a small park only a couple acres in size. Prior to the 1920s, it had been used as a graveyard for Chinese immigrants, though by the 1930s, it had ceased to be used as a burial ground; only a pair of turn-of-the-last-century cremation ovens left outside to rust and a handful of water-eroded graves stood as testament to the original purpose for this plot. All this was related to me by the ghost of a Chinese woman who had died in a fire; her burns diminished as she told me the story.

* * *

When Denis Villeneuve said his Dune would be Star Wars for adults, he meant that literally; the script for his movie placed Dune inside the SW Universe. The Bene Gesserit were an all-female Jedi splinter group; Duke Leto and Poe Dameron were one-and-the-same character; the Harkonnens had a fleet of TIE fighters.

One absurd image from the dream has stayed clear in my mind: a TIE fighter, chained to the moon, desperately trying to take off but failing, repeatedly chipping its panels against the stony ground. No, not the moon of Arrakis or any other world from Dune — Earth's moon; the big blue marble hung right up there in the sable sky.

Limited Flexibility/Who's That Homeless Man Goose-Stepping Across My Mother's Bed?/Tales of Mystery and Imagination: Deluxe Edition/So I Grabbed Dina Meyer's Sweet Can

The following's a fragment of a larger dream I no longer remember.

I met a girl. She was big — tall, taller than I, and voluptuous.

(With a huge, round pussy.)

Unfortunately for me, she was homosexual/homoflexible.

(She was using deliberately obscurant metaphors, so I couldn't figure out which.)

In either case, her attraction to the opposite sex was marginal and her attraction to me nonexistent.

* * *

This dream was incredibly short. It lasted fifteen seconds at most.

My mother and I were standing at our kitchen window, looking outside. That's when we saw a homeless man cut across our front yard. He resembled a young(er) Harry Dean Stanton, wore a red-&-white baseball cap over longish hair, and was pushing a shopping cart, goose-stepping all the while. She and I exchanged glances; she was mortified/bewildered by this man's presence and desperately wanted to know who he was. Then we both turned to the living room. The man was suddenly there; he goose-stepped across her bed, air-gripping the handles of the shopping cart he no longer had.

* * *

I bought/received/found a copy of The Alan Parsons Project's Tales of Mystery and Imagination on vinyl.

It was a deluxe edition which included three records.

* * *

The following's a fragment of a larger dream I no longer remember.

I was in a buffet, helping myself to eight slices of toasted French bread — four with just butter, four with dark plum jam. Beside me in the line was a young Dina Meyer.

She let me grab her sweet can.

Mommy, Would You Like Some Sausage?/There Will Be Mermaids

A confession: I don't know how much longer this blog will continue. With my father's death, my mother's chronic hospitalization, my sister's breakup with her boyfriend, four months with a terrible roommate, and ongoing financial difficulties, 2019 was a terrible year for me. My ability to recall dreams has gone to shit this past year, no doubt due to all this stress. It's been over a month since I last recalled a dream in any detail, and even then it was hazy.

What follows are the last dreams I've had worth sharing. Unless my dream recollection improves, they may be the last ones you'll get to read for a long while.

* * *

I was standing in a room with a woman. The white walls were empty, blank save for blue light which created a gradient effect upon them. The woman was a lovely brunette, with long hair which trailed down her back. She was wearing a gray bathrobe. Loosening her robe, she let it down about her shoulders, exposing them to me. Leaning in close, I began kissing her graceful back and shoulders, slowly, tenderly.

Then I was suddenly in my basement. A man I didn't recognize was putting a damp, sausage-shaped pillow up on a line to dry. He told me the pillow represented loneliness and longing.

* * *

What follows is a fragment from a larger dream which, true to my luck, is mostly a blur now.

I was watching a deleted scene from There Will Be Blood. Daniel Plainview had sent his son, H. W., down into a great deep lake without diving gear to build his lung capacity. At the bottom of the lake was a submerged palace. While exploring inside, the kid encountered a mermaid. She was about his age, friendly, with black hair and a pretty smile. I think she had dark brown, almost black eyes and webbed hands, but I may be misremembering.

Swedish Tongue/Back to the Dead/Burtonverse: The Special Edition

It was the '60s and I was in Sweden, on the set of a movie being filmed by Ingmar Bergman. I'd been hired as an extra, but due to an actor's absence, I was promoted to bit player. I was to deliver my lines in Swedish, but not being fluent in the language, I had to recite them phonetically; I flubbed them badly.

On the plus side, Bibi Andersson and I shared a mutual attraction; we spent the whole time flirting and consulting a Swedish-English dictionary to bolster my understanding of her tongue.

*swoon*

* * *

In the near-future, the end times came upon us. The human birth rate had fallen to zero and the souls of the dead were no longer permitted to pass into the afterlife; they remained tethered to their decaying bodies, intelligent zombies which maintained an uneasy, sometimes hostile co-existence with the living population.

Marty McFly had developed an addiction to pizza; he ate multiple slices of pizza multiple times a day every day until he became obese, died of heart disease, and came back a zombie.

He continued eating pizza — old, dry, mouldy pizza topped with human skin.

* * *

Dreamt that I watched alternate cuts of the Tim Burton Batfilms which had been re-edited to better conform with the Schumacher films. Not only had a mention of the Riddler been inserted in Batman '89, but a new scene with Dick Grayson had been placed in Batman Returns; he was Vicki Vale's new boyfriend, and he was shown driving a shape-changing holographic car.

The dream ended on a mortifying note. In a Returns post-credits scene, the soul of the Penguin — reduced back to infancy, back in his gothic baby carriage — was sailing down the River Styx. As his androgynous soul made its voyage along those brown waters, the disembodied spectral head of Tim Curry materialized over it.

Looming large over the carriage, Tim Curry's disembodied head metamorphosed into the disembodied head of Pennywise the Clown, complete with large, burning red eyes. Looking directly at the viewer, me, he showed a ghastly grin of sharpened teeth. For several seconds I had no choice but to stare back into those hideous eyes before I forced myself awake.

All the Dream World's a Stage...

It was about 1992/1993, and I was the 15/16-year-old star of a "shot on shitteo" teen sitcom.

My hair was long — so long, it trailed down my back — and styled a mite feminine.

In an episode we were filming, my character joined a play, a committee, or a play committee (the dream was a tad vague). A female character

(played by the incomparable Lindsay Ellis)

was in/on this play/committee; my character quickly became smitten with her. Also in/on this play/committee was another girl (I got the vague sensation this was a girl I knew in real life, but I couldn't get a fix on her identity); my character quickly became smitten with her.

My character ended up bungling his play/committee duties something fierce, drawing the ire of his peers, love interests included.

No Soap for You

This dream was set in a Soylent Green-type near future, after the Americas had devolved into Third World countries, where hoarding soap was illegal.

The Mask

got into a fight with a supervillain who resembled Billy Idol.

They unleashed nuclear attacks upon each other, but as they were both essentially omnipotent, they weren’t able to inflict injury on one another.

Then faux Billy became a chrome-sheathed villain with no face.

Every superhero from the MCU confronted Chrome No-Face and crucified him to a crystal objet d’art, reciting a prayer as they did so. I thought to myself the prayer was too exclusively Judeo-Christian for the more syncretic orientation of the Marvel Universe.

I was then inside a dilapidated office building.

While actual office work went on inside some of the rooms, in most people were just partying and engaging in substance abuse and illicit sex.

I was striding room-to-room, lip-syncing to the Nine Inch Nails song “The Hand That Feeds” which was loudly playing from some nebulous source. While doing this, I came across a woman who resembled Tori Amos. I took her by the shoulders, lifted her to eye level, then kissed her succulent lips.

Russian Drug-Trafficking Ponies vs. Yog-Sothoth/The Lady Vanishes/Wet Fever Dream

I got mixed up with a small group of Russian drug traffickers operating out of some snowbound region north of the tree line.

Bryan Adams was a social studies instructor, the ringleader of the traffickers, or both. They were trafficking blue crystal meth à la Breaking Bad.

The traffickers invited me to an orgy. One of the Russians, a 40-something blonde with a nice rump, offered said rump to me.

*↑*

But the orgy was taking place in a small, crapped office with garbage strewn everywhere; my libido was swiftly overtaken by disgust and I couldn’t stand to linger there, so I got the hell out.

*↓*

The traffickers transformed into MLP-style ponies.

A Lovecraftian deity – probably Yog-Sothoth – showed up and consumed the traffickers.

* * *

Andrea Nemeth

and I were each other’s first, true loves. Though we’d been separated at some point in our early teens, we managed to reconnect through the Internet during the late 2000s. Then around 2008, she vanished abruptly. She ceased sending me e-mails and her presence online became nil.

The only physical clue I had to the cause of her disappearance was a case of insulin vials.

For the next several years, I tried figuring out what happened to her. I got nowhere.

* * *

It was frigid and snowing outside. I had come down with a cold, and I was so physically weak that I kept falling over on my face, nearly paralyzed. At some point, I had a fever dream within a dream that I was clumsily trying to make love to a middle aged woman with long, straight, raven-black hair.