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Welcome to my Dream Diary!

Congrats on finding my Dream Diary page! Here I will transcribe from my pen-and-paper dream diary all of my hopes and desires and aspirations and designs. Welcome and I hope that you enjoy! Got some dreams of your own? Let me know on the Guestbook page!

UPDATE: I mistook this page as my normal diary page and I accidently posted some things that really happened to me. I cannot fix this becuase I cannot remember which ones are which.

I'm walking down to the gas station to buy a Hoosier Lotto quick pick. I've felt for a long time that I'm a Lotto kind of person. It is a night time (around 10:30 or so) in early February and there is a light drizzle of rain. I am bundled in my official AT&T jacket and a brand new orange hat. I am alone... Or so I think. Bike tires rustle the wet on the cement behind me. Courteously, I move to the side of the walkway. No one passes. I look behind me. A young man is stepping off his bike. "Just like a ninja, huh?" he says. Was he sneaking behind me long? He asks if I have a smoke. I do not. He continues walking with me. We exchange names - mine is Matt, his is something hard to hear. After some clarifying exchanges, I understand his name is Alucard. He reveals this is Dracula backwards. We continue talking: He's heading to visit his cousin who lives near the McDonalds. He's part of the underground. He calls me "Bro-Bro" often. I'm heading to buy a Lotto ticket. I study film at the university. I recently bought this orange hat to keep myself warm during the cold weather last week. Wild weather we've been having. I want to ask about the steel bat he has hanging out of his backpack, but think better of it (he is, afterall, part of the underground. Do I really want to know what goes on?). He asks if I smoke "green." I ask, in all seriousness, if that is a brand of cigarettes. He means weed. I do not. I tell him that it makes me anxious. We near the gas station, he notices a cop car in the parking lot. "I hate cops," he says. "Some are actually pretty cool," he continues. "Well, as cool as a cop can be," he corrects himself. He tells me of cool cops that he shared weed with and had street races with. Inside the gas station, he waits with me in line. He makes a squeezing gesture in the air with his hands and indicates that he means this towards the woman ahead of us in line. When we get to the clerk, I order my Lotto ticket and he tries to put a pack of cigarettes on my order. He tries to reason with me that they are only like $3. I do not buy them. Outside, we say our goodyes and head off in opposite directions.

I tripped down to Southern Indiana to make a documentary about an attraction. Dani came with to keep me company. On the way down, we came across a small town hosting a fair. We stopped to enjoy it a bit. Because of this, we arrived to the attraction late and I was unable to shoot because the light had gone. So we put off filmmaking duties until morning and set ourselves to find something to do for the night. The town was small, and after a short amount of exploring, we happened upon the square. We found a large bar decorated extravagently with neon. Bits of the neon were bent in the shape of a cowboy that would alternate between taking his hat off and putting it back on, or so I remember it being. This seemed to be the only place open for the night, and so we decided to visit. It was cold outside and warm inside. There was an 80s metal cover band playing loudly. Dani and I ordered drinks and talked about nothing in particular. The band, with a good amount of noise, finished a song and went into another. It sounded a lot like the one they had just finished, but we didn't pay them much mind. The bartender talked with me and Dani for a bit. She was happy that we came in. The town didn't get a lot of visitors, she revealed. We said we were happy to be there, and shared about our business in the town. The band continued to play. They were playing Judas Priest's heavy metal hit, "You've Got Another Thing Coming." Dani pointed out they had been playing this song for a while. I agreed that at least it felt like they were playing it longer than they ought to be. Upon hearing this, the bartender flashed a mischievous smile. "What does she know?" I wondered to myself. She excused herself and continued on with her job. "If she's keeping information," I said to Dani, "that will interfere with my documentary, she'll regret it." Dani pointed out my suspicion was ridiculous, and he was right, but it still worried me. We planned out the rest of our trip. There was a Walmart parkinglot in the next town. We'd crash there for the night, wake up early, grab a breakfast of bananas and coffee from the Walmart store, drive over to the amusement park, and arrive in the early morning to shoot before the attraction got busy. We were happy with our plan and ordered some more drinks. The band was still playing "You've Got Another Thing Coming." I made a joke that maybe that was the only song they knew, though I forget the exact wording of the joke. We fully focused our attention on the band. The amount of time they had been playing the song was, at this point, undeniably odd. I wondered if they were playing an extended jam-band version. They did have three guitarists, after all. Then again, up until that point, I hadn't been paying much attention to the band. Maybe they hadn't been playing as long as it seemed. Maybe I had misheard the previous song, maybe it hadn't been "You've Got Another Thing Coming." I had these thoughts, but I knew better. It was simply bizarre. Dani, who had a passing familiarity with the song, turned to me and said that they were approaching the point that would be the traditional end of the song. Whether they would really end it appropriately was unknown. But they did. "Right where Judas Priest ended it," Dani told me. "What a long, strange trip," I said to Dani. The lead singer revved up for the next song, "WHO WANTS TO HEAR SOME MOTLEY-FUCKING-CRUE?" The audience indicated interest. Dani and I feigned interest with a few noisy claps - out of respect. "Well," the lead singer yelled, "you've got another... thing... COMING!" As he said this, one of the lead guitarists broke into the opening riff for "You've Got Another Thing Coming." Realizing what was happening, Dani and I laughed. The bartender gave us a knowing look, nodding slightly. I apologized for sending negative energy her way.

We fell in love in Wisconsin, after our first was born. We had hit it off well enough before, ofcourse, but it really picked up in Wisconsin. Wisconsin, the land of romance and the American Dream. The Beatles' Greatest Hits CD that we borrowed from your father wore out before we finished our first Wisconsin Summer. The American MidWest is great any time of year. Like a couple of rolling stones, we ended up in Wisconsin by following the wind. The Summer of Love really took place in 2015 at a budget hotel in The Dells. The only show we could get on the TV was Pawn Stars, and we were both taken with a VW van someone was hocking. We would read poetry to eachother during commercial breaks. We finally figured out what the beats were trying to say when we replaced every other word of Kerouac with every other word of Ginsberg. You'd read one, then I'd read one. Oh, how much they understood about us. I have you captured on a polaroid, naked on the bed underneath your flower-colored hair and Rick in the background kicking at the VW's tire. I still remember how many The Rolling Stones lyric videos we could stream on our data plan each month. Roughly twelve a week. A while ago, I found one of our typewritten 8.5x11s. It stirred me up. A little bleary, worse for wear and tear, I read it:
sweet of wine still on tongues
touching necks
necking touches (necking sort of touches)
dreaming of our fingers
and what lake geneva does

Underneath are drawings of our genitalia that look vaguely like different kinds of plants. I think we drew them when we first tried mushrooms. That's the same night we would have conceived. We named our first Buffalo Springfield, after the music group. I feel bad for anybody who didn't experience the 60s. Truly a Renaissance era. I'm writing now because I bought a henna kit at Barnes and Noble today. It made me think of us.

I was sitting in my apartment, admiring all the nice furniture that I have. There was nothing fantastical about this. I ran my hand over the couch, the book shelves, the table, and the desk. I spent so long in admiration that I lost track of time - I became late for work! So, bidding adieu to my house fittings, I rushed out the door and to the laboratory. I got there and head honcho Marndy greeted me. She didn't mind that I was late, but I apologized none-the-less. At the lab we were working on a brand new science equation that had some vague, abstruse use. None of us were very sure about it, but we weren't supposed to - we weren't the practicioners. I got to talking about my furniture - admittedly, in a boastful manner. Tom, a coworker of mine, was impressed. He asked if he could come over to see some of it. Always happy to show off, but worried over security issues, I made plans with him to meet at the firestation - a designated "safe meet zone" (usually meant for Craigslist things) - on Sunday. I would rent a trailer and haul some neat things (though the neatest things would remain in the safety of my apartment). I snuck out of work early to get things set up. Sunday seemed to come quick. I sat in the firestation parking lot for a while. Tom never showed. I headed back to my apartment, and as I turned into my addition, I saw Tom turning out. "How weird!" I thought. "He must have thought we were meeting at my place... except I didn't think he knew where I lived," I continued thinking. Then it dawned on me. I rushed in to my apartment, and - to my horror - all my furniture was gone! I wondered how I could be so reckless. I sat in the emptiness. I wallowed in despair. After some time, I figured that at least I had the neat furniture left in the trailer. I peered out the window at it, and there Tom was, unloading the last of it into his car.

A meeting I had was just cancelled last minute, and I find myself with a good deal of time to pass. I wander down a popular strip of street. Did I leave the hair dryer on? I wonder if I ought to spend my newfound time walking back to my apartment to check. I plop myself down on a bench. The weather is particularly fair today. It would have been so wrong of me to have left the hair dryer on. Certainly I would have not only turned it off but also unplugged it and packed it away in its drawer. But then again, if I'm misremembering, it might start a fire and kill Marie. This is the most popular strip of street in town, I think. And there are a lot of businesses lining the sides of the street. It smells bad. I've walked the alleys behind the businesses before, so I know that that's where they keep their trash. I decide not to go to my apartment. I have this worry often and Marie, so far, has been fine. I decide, instead, to go to a discarded-book store. I pick out a book about television and two sci-fi hardbacks. I peruse the "classics" section and am very happy to come across "Ulysses" and "Finnegans Wake" by James Joyce. I have been looking for these books forever. "I come across 'Portrait' and 'Dubliners' often," I tell the clerk, "but these are much harder - at least for me - to stumble upon." She tells me that that's because most people throw their copies away. She is not a fan of either book. Outside, I take stock of my new treasures. I typically do the smell test before I buy any book, but the excitement got the best of me in the moment, so I do it now. Uh-oh. Neither smell of mildew, but there is a distinct vaseline smell, particularly coming from "Finnegans Wake." I don't know what this is symptomatic of, but I don't take chances. I plan to cover them with baking soda and stick them in the freezer later.

Superman and Batman are finally facing off! How exciting! But to make things fair, no gadgets or superpowers are allowed. Superman is still stronger, no doubt, so he kills Batman. There is life after death, and it ain't all good. Batman, for his moral ambivalence, goes to Hell. He descends through a dark tunnel towards a great ball of fire. He sees alcoholics and gamblers and partiers burning in the fire. They scream in excrutiating pain. There is no end. "The worst part," thinks Batman, "is the loneliness." Back on Earth, paramedics arrive to the scene of the fight. They tend to Batman's body - luckily rigor mortis hasn't yet set in. They hook him up to the EKG machine. They are able to resuscitate him. Batman, alive once more, immediately repents for his previous ways. Superman gets ready to continue their fight, but Batman withdraws. He has seen Hell, he knows what it means to really lose. And besides, Superman is not human - he has no soul - he cannot really win, not in the ultimate sense. "Sorry Superman," says Batman, "I'm playing a much bigger game now. And it's one you'll never have any idea of."

It was a MidWestern winter - one of the cold ones - and a buddy and I found ourselves short on walking around dough. My buddy, an entrepreneurial fellow, came up with the idea that we could put ourselves to work shoveling snow for some neighbors. Surely they'd pay a couple of young teens - we were young teens at the time - a pretty penny for the service. It had just snowed through the night before, so there was plenty to work with. I liked the idea, but suggested we borrow my parent's snow blowing machine to minimize the labor involved. Ofcourse, we had to seem sincere when baiting for business, so I also suggested that only one person - holding a shovel - approached potential clients while the other waited a few houses down with the snowblower. As if we weren't out together. The shoveler would get the contract, the snowblower would move in, we'd be out of there with the cash in hardly any time at all. We did this plan and it worked fine.

I was walking down a street late at night. I was alone other than a man leaning on a wall near me. He had an air of recognizability about him, but I couldn't put my finger on it. It was as though I ought to have been able to recognize him but I could not. With the demeanor of a snake, he awknowledged me. "See you in Hell," he said. I figured he was attempting some joke, but I didn't care for it. I turned and walked down an alleyway hurriedly. He didn't seem to follow, but before long I found him in front of me - an impossibility, I decided. He again said, "see you in Hell." I attempted to run again, but it became apparent I couldn't get away from him. He was wearing a black leather vest. He was relatively short - noticeably shorter than me, at least. He smiled often, but I wished he wouldn't've. I was confused why this stranger was bothering me. He was a punk of some sort. Wherever I went, he effortlessly followed, saying only, "See you in Hell." He had a grin that could shit a sheep. His features seemed empty and ridiculous, like those of a snake. But he seemed more or less fitted to the space. This all took place in London at night, with a yellow light keeping everything manageable.

Sunday is a day of rest for construction workers, so I took the opportunity to videotape vacant construction equipment. I was out alone, getting my toes wet on The Square. What I mean is that it was only my first construction site of the day, and it was right on The Square. I was admiring the bright orange on the camera's viewfinder. "Construction orange was made for videotape, especially this videotape," I thought to myself. But another thought was brewing, unbeknownst to me, in the head of a fellow near by. "You want something to videotape?" the fellow asked. "I know where there's a dead body," the fellow continued. I've never had the desire to videotape a dead body, especially now in the wake of the Logan Paul incident. And besides, only in a giallo could a dead body compete with construction orange, and I'm not Italian. "Really, I can tell you where to find a dead body." I like talking to strangers, but I'm wary of interactions that start like this. I pride myself on my politeness, so I engaged in the discussion anyways. "Oh my, a real dead body?" I said. "You know where RCA Park is?" I do know, and I indicated that that is the case. "You go there, and then you know the trail behind the pavilion? You want to follow that for about a mile and a half. You'll follow it until you find a tree, a lot like this tree..." - he pointed to a nearby tree, though I didn't need a reference - "a big tree, and it's very symmetrical." I told him that I'm sure I'll know it when I see it (though I don't plan on searching it out). "When you see the tree, turn around and you'll see two graves, like hand dug graves, and right around there are human bones." "Shit," I said. He continued, "I took two DNR officers up there, the first said it was the bones of a female, he knew by the hip, and asked where I was when I discovered the crime scene - he did call it a crime scene. I told him where I was, 'I was walking along and I had to take a piss, so I went and as I was going I threw my cigarette down and that's when I saw the body." Brave man to admit to a DNR officer that he littered in a public park, but I suppose the human remains were more pressing. "Then the second officer came and claimed that the bones were actually just deer bones and that it'd be best to forget about it." There's a cover up going on, and it runs deep. I told him that I didn't have any desire to get mixed up in anything like that but that I was thankful he felt comfortable enough to confide in me. He misunderstood me and warned me not to go alone. Later, I found a really neat excavator that wasn't even behind a fence.

I was feeling sentimental for the days gone by, so I took a drive to the old neighborhood. The smell of traintracks and geriatrics - the smell of my 20th - hit with an anxious ferocity. It was the first time I had visited the stomping ground in over six years. Energy of my sister's failed engagement hung in the air. Spectres of her many frustrated moments with first John still haunted these parts. I was sad to see these moments still floating around. Thank God that Erika eventually hooked up with second John. I thought of the terrible dogs I once had to live with. They were small and stupid. I thought about all the mean old people I had to wait on at the local retirement home, and how often they made me cry in only the one month I worked there. I don't care how old one's brain is, they need to inform new waitstaff if they need a special spoon, not just yell and moan all willy-nilly. He ought to have been in the special needs dining room, anyways. I remembered waiting for the bus. I remembered smoking a hookah pipe. I remembered hiding baby Marie. Caught up so deeply by these memories, I did not realize I had entered my old apartment, made myself a mug of tea, and lounged out on the patio furniture. I snoozed a brief nap before realizing the moral and legal implications of my being in such a place at such a time. I had no right to be where I was. I began to leave. But as I did, I noticed something uncanny: the decor that my sister had put up {I was living with her when I was living at this apartment, and she, much more than I, cared about decoration} was still there. The more handy things - kitchen wares, tables, couches, shelves, etc. - were replaced, but the more ignorable fixtures - distressed wood signs, motivation quotes in spray painted picture frames, etc. - were still hung up from when Erika and I {and John and Hayden} lived there. They had, with time, faded slightly, and there was a good deal of dust on them. Up until this point, the visit to this place got me down - the memories of this area are generally dismall - but as I looked at Erika's old kitchy wall hanging, I realized, "yeah, I suppose life isn't measured by the number of breaths you take, but by the number of moments that take your breath away." I gave the frame a quick dusting, and left. As I did, the current occupants caught me. Quick on my feet, I told them that I was maintenance, and that I had come to polish up the worn-out wall hangings. No bite, they called the police. Not one to trust the police, I broke my cell phone into many, many pieces and littered them in various ponds and puddles.

When I was 15 I wasn't allowed to drive. But it was right at that time that I was most concerned with getting out of the house and negotiating my social identity. Generally, I had Vikki, who was, at that time - and still today - a handful of years older than me, cart me around to different shops so that I could find consumables that I felt adequately articulated myself. I have many fine memories of this time, like when I bought a pentagram wristband from Hot Topic and later had to promise my mom that I wouldn't wear it upside down (which proved to be difficult because which way is which when it comes to wristwear is vague), and like when Vikki and I persuaded a Best Buy employee to let us purchase The New York Dolls' new album a day early because if it were to be released the day after, then surely they must have it already in the back (they did). The most striking memory is that of the time Vikki, who at this time was my grandmother, drove me to B&B Loan, which had a record store in the back corner. I liked to go there often to buy used CDs. This particular time I bought Meatloaf's Bat Out Of Hell . My grandma drove a 2004 Impala that had a CD player, and so when we left B&B Loan, I popped the CD in. I skipped to "Paradise By The Dashboard Light," which is a lighthearted song about horny teenagers. And right in the middle of the song, there is a segment that sounds like a radio anouncer covering a baseball game. My grandmother, a baseball aficionado and avid softball player herself, said, "baseball? Why are they covering a baseball game in the middle of this song?" And I explained to her that it is a double entendre, that even though it sounded like he was anouncing a baseball game, he was actually decribing two teenagers making out and who were going further and who were about to get to homebase. She said, "what do you mean, homebase." I said, "you know, like, all the way." Surprised, she asked, "anal sex?" I said, "no, no, no, no! All the way is just normal sex." She said, "then what's anal sex?" I said, "they went all the way home, which is just normal sex. I don't know." She said, "no, third base must be normal sex, a homerun is anal." I laugh at it now, as I'm sure she would, too, if she were still with us. Anyways, I think she was putting me on. I mean, who doesn't know the baseball metaphor for sex?

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