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THE WEBLOG ARCHIVE: Dreamlog

June 14, 2005

Dreamlog: The Cat is taking the Rice Krispie Treats. | 08:50 AM

I am at my cousins' house. The health inspector asks if I live there; earlier, I agreed to say that I have. It was, the health inspector notes, published in the newspaper that I am a permanent resident, so it must be true. The newspaper, he opines, does not lie. I turn away, nodding noncommittally. The health inspector says I'll need to sign a paper verifying my residency... I'm not comfortable with that. I begin to ponder ways of signing without lying.

The health inspector is there determining if the house is a fit place to live. I walk around cleaning up; a helmet on the top of the bookshelf in the living room that must be delicately placed on the collapsing part of the shelf; rubbish surrounding a wastebasket on the floor. The living room is large, full of wooden things. Uncle and cousins talk in the kitchen next door. Does another health inspector arrive?

Earlier, I was looking for the rice krispies treats that the cat has spread around the house. At least, it seems to have been the cat; there is a stash of baked goods in its litterbox. A rice krispie treat, two brownies. I leave them there.

Later, I am walking through a park and pass my high school math teacher. He points out an interesting spiral pattern growing (or perhaps put) on one of the trees. A mushroom, or crepe paper. Beige. Mathematically interesting. A blonde girl we don't know joins the conversation; math teacher doesn't know here either, she must be a freshman. The trees are in the hallway of a high school, possibly mine (though not mine), or a college. A tattooed biker opens the door behind the spiral and walks away. Several other people have joined our group, all looking at the pattern, discussing what it is. Blonde girl opens the door, another tattooed biker is squatting over the toilet in the bathroom inside.

He explains, annoyed; "This is where bikers pee."

It is senior year of college, or high school. I begin to panic about what I'm going to do next, when I graduate, with the rest of my life.


Izzy comments: "I had this exact same dream last night. Only they weren't rice krispie treats. They were beers."

June 08, 2004

DreamLog | 11:38 AM

Wheel of Fortune taping; smart kid (glasses, messy hair) in the audience is answering everything, no letters needed. Good guesser, bad strategy; no money made without spinning the wheel.

Intermission. I go to the front of the stage, sit at the bar under the overhang. Chat with the tech crew in waiter vests. Drink shots of cranberry juice when the waiter brings it around. Two fingers of juice. Snacks are those little silver balls they used to put on top of cakes, served in tiny sliding drawers. I'm eating out of two different drawers.

Intermission's over, can I bring snacks back to my seat? Heavyset woman behind the counter: No, you have to eat them here.

Chug the cranberry juice, put all the little silver balls into one container to try to sneak them. Some rainbow sprinkles sneak in. Don't like rainbow sprinkles as much.

Starting back, I am stopped by a woman with red hair in a waiter vest. "Didn't I teach you to play [name of card game unremembered]?" She looks familiar. "You're [my name]," she tells me, "I took care of you when your mom was in a show."

She looks familiar. During Grapes? I ask. "No, at that theater in Tribecca, on the corner of [...]" I'm picturing that triangle where Varick hits Canal. Soho Playhouse?, I ask, wondering if the Soho Playhouse existed then. She looks familiar.

I look back up at the audience. Lots of heads. Far to the back, father, stepmother, brother sitting in our seats. Earlier in the dream, something about a swimming pool. Small blue waves. Turquoise. Now, I am barefoot. My sandals are back at the seats. I can almost see them.


John Hurron comments: "Was browsing through blogspot when I stumbled here"

December 10, 2003

Dreamlog: Back to School | 12:42 PM

A few weeks back, I had a dream that I went back to High School for their Graduate Program, which must have been a loverly dream, because I woke up with a warm, fuzzy feeling.

Last night, I had a dream that I went back to College for their Graduate Program, which was a full-out dimly-lit ominous sound-effect gloom-fest. Lots of warm dark earth tones, like a WB drama. Walking across a noirish quad, having realized I've just missed registration and I'm 10 years older than anyone else, brow furrowed in an attempt to figure out why exactly I re-enrolled, and all that.

Conclusion: If choosing to pursue a Master's Degree, then my BEST choice may be my grade school. This is proved by transitivity.


November 07, 2003

A Midsummer Night's Dreamlog | 01:02 PM

It started at seven.

My mom stars as Lady Macbeth, but the postcards said eight, so that's when the crowd starts dripping in to the stadium-style seating. She's halfway through a monologue when something goes wrong, so: intermission. I suggest — since most of the audience just arrived — that they take it from the top. My cel phone rings. Luckily, it's intermission. People keep coming in.

I make my way over the seats below me and go backstage. I want to tell someone they have to to start over. Flyboard trees are in the wings. Backstage is bright and sunny, a white hallway filled with actors. An olive-skinned woman — maybe the stage manager, but she isn't wearing stage manager clothes — waylays me and escorts me back to the house. We're too late, we have to hop over the big opening dance number. The audience laughs, applauds when we get offstage.

I look for a seat. Puck — played by whatshisname, you'd recognize him if you saw him — appears; head in hand, elbow crooked, lying on his side. Audience: ovation. I wait for him to start the opening monologue. He doesn't start the monologue, there's some modern stuff the writer put in. They're wearing beige afternoon suits and and straw hats, maybe even playing croquet. It's going over okay.

A girl in the seat next to me sucks my finger and lets it go. Her sister is Juliet, she says, that's how she's going to play it. I pull my hand away. The woman on my left is talking on her cel phone. Is it my wife? I tell her to hang up, there's a show going on. She'll just be a minute, she's talking very quietly.


September 19, 2003

Dreamlog | 10:55 AM

We are crossing the bridge, double decker bus surrounded by pylons. A few feet away, it touches down, the funnel of wind, the twister. Someone yells "Hurricane!" It gets closer: we brace ourselves, grasping our seats, speeding to get off the bridge. It hits: air spinning, twisting, I am feet above my seat, the bus is lifted off the road. Cars up. We are heavy enough. It passes.

Later: a hotel. The courtyard. Someone is smoking. I take out a cigarette, it crumbles. I don't smoke. We gather in the main dining/conference room/lobby, sitting around tables. I step out side for a moment, in time to see it: the funnel of wind. Back inside, I say it: "Hurricane! Away from the windows!" I fall, crawl along, away from the walls of glass. Storm hits: we fly.


July 24, 2003

Dreamlog | 04:40 PM

In the past few weeks, my nights have been for the most part dreamless, although I have a hazy impression of a dream about talking to a toupee-less Buddy.


June 16, 2003

Dreamlog | 04:19 PM

I was reading Ulysses.


June 07, 2003

Dreamlog | 11:05 AM

Walking down Greenwich Avenue towards 7th, accompanied by a woman arm in arm with Bill Clinton. Clinton is shorter than I imagined, the top of his head even with my shoulder, a charismatic dwarf. We talk of many things. Around us, a street fair. In a doorway, four giants, well-built, naked, four shades of bronze, towering over us, perhaps holding the lintel in place. An American flag hangs from their heads, an art installation? A protest?

I mock as we pass... are they patriots or patriarchs? This tickles Clinton, he chuckles. He chuckles, and doesn't stop.

He is chuckling still as we reach 7th Ave. A truck runs over some detritus; it rolls out from under the back tires towards the curb. I point out that it looks like a fox. Clinton is still chuckling. Then I notice: the detritus has picked itself up and is trying to drag itself out of the road.

It is a cat. A grey, fluffy cat, limping, right eye red with blood. Cars zoom by, it is almost hit again. I run over, yelling, waving cars away, and pick it up. Its paws flail wildly. It is attempting to purr. I am crying.

Its paws, almost fingers, flail. It nearly mews. I say goodbye and head up 7th to a vet. I remember there is a vet nearby. I am taking the cat to a vet. I can't stop crying.

Clinton is still chuckling as they walk downtown.


Silvana comments: "Hi Jonathan, I am out of school for the summer and have some time to look around the web. (I am 43 years old and can still say that!) I like what you have done with the Dreamlog. Clinton is a symbol of your shadow and the cat of an intuitive and emotional part of you that has been hurt. Peace, Silvana "

May 23, 2003

Dreamlog | 08:54 AM

Graduation day. The children are lined up around the coliseum. The circus is about to perform their last performance — ever. I take my seat in the second balcony. The dictator: "I hope none of the performers lose their heads. Of course, some of them already have." He chuckles. I lean over the railing to see the dwarf take his place on the baclony below. He catches my eye, nods. His beard is white. Somewhere on the ground level, two of the children attempt to plan the best graduation prank of all time. Little do they know.

The parents must know: I stand up. "We have discovered who publishes their book," I say. My cohorts on the other side of the room rise and announce: "The People's Press, Ohio." A startled gasp. I continue my speech. One woman stands, she has red streaks in her hair. I tear banners bearing the dictator's slogans from the columns. They fall, piece by piece, into the circle below. The banners don't say what I thought they said.

I start the chant: "Do. Not. Obey." No need for a prank this year. "Do. Not. Obey." More people are standing, chanting. Our voices echo across the amphitheater. "Do. Not. Obey. Do. Not. Obey."


May 01, 2003

New Features | 03:30 PM

Following Lock in to the wonderful realm of Movable Type means I'll be rolling out some delightful new features on jvg.com. First out of the gate: Live DreamLog Analysis. Yes, now you can stick your finger into the juicy pie of my unconcious right here on the site.

For those of you have already submitted you analyses via email, no need no worry: I've plugged them all in already. For those of you who need to catch up, a brand new DreamLog archive, where you can sniff your way into the muskiest corners of my mind, then tell the world what you found there.


April 28, 2003

Dreamlog | 12:25 PM

Sliding, surfing down the subway steps; someone behind says "Wow, he was never any good at sports in high school." At the bottom, hop the turnstile — the two old ladies know me — then out the back door and fall waist deep into snow. I call for help, pretend I'm stuck for the benefit of another guy from high school, who walks away without offering assistance. Nice guy. Drag myself out of the snowdrift and across the lawn, buried only thigh deep there. Crawling up the hill: have to get to the house at the top, something to do. Slow work. My hand breaks through the snowcrust, light glows bluely up from one of the ground fixtures. Almost at the top. I grab the underbrush to pull myself up.


Marty comments: "You have been bitten by a zombie vampire and can barely crawl..."

Lock comments: "I cannot help but read this exciting new Dreamlog archive as a single running narrative that should be submitted with all due haste to the Fringe Festival. "

April 17, 2003

Dreamlog | 12:39 PM

Backyard at my grandmother's house: a large man is taking the deck furniture. She has failed to make the payments, he claims, and it is therefore being repossessed. He tries to attach a chair to the hook that hangs from the helicopter. The chair is green, metal. The paint is chipping. I grab the hook. The helicopter hovers above. "I find it hard to believe," I reply, "That this 50-year old furniture is not long since paid for." The man steps forward, too close, too tall. In the window: the cat, hungry, meows. My grandmother does not have a cat. Later, as I leave, the huge tree in the center of the lawn, buffeted by wind, cracks and falls. It misses the house.


March 28, 2003

DreamLog | 10:04 AM

Vampire Nazis. VAMPIRE NAZIS?


Marty comments: "Were you a vampire Nazi ("VN"), a victim, or onlooker? "

March 03, 2003

Dreamlog | 10:37 AM

We are showing Laura Bush the book in a convertible parked on a suburban street. The homes surrounding us are colorful, victorian — we may be somewhat earlier than now. Dubya, emerging from the house across the street, points out numerous spelling errors — does he have the pre-copy edit version? The back cover looks different. Dubya brings his new kitten; puffy, small, black and white. He puts it on the the girl in the back seat's lap and wanders off. I see him standing by my car, half a block back. I follow to make sure he isn't angry, his bio in the book is less than complimentary. He leaves when I get there. The car door is slightly ajar. I check inside; one of the crows has been strangled. Its corpse lies on the floor, dents in its neck feathers the shape of tightened fingers. The other crow is quiet. Dubya is walking away.


March 01, 2003

Dreamlog | 11:26 AM

The girl turns her mother into an ice cube. I put it in the freezer to keep her from melting. The girl floats up the basement steps: her face is green, angry, rotting. Her father sits in the kitchen. Earlier or later, all of my parents play swimming pool volleyball with an ex-girlfriend. Game over: she is too busy to stay and chat.


January 30, 2003

DreamLog | 10:48 AM

A grassy hilltop, covered with audience. A career conference. No one applauds for my friend; her speech was boring. The moderator thanks her and moves on. Smoke drifts down the path. Four people: They may be Belgian — I throw a tomato. Nelson Mandela walks by with his entourage. Shit: I forgot to move the car.


January 24, 2003

DreamLog | 11:02 AM

After helping them carry their packages into the apartment – piling DVD box set upon DVD box set – I say goodbye. The boy wants to show me his BB gun, aims at me as I leave. Three shots. One ricochets through the half-closed door to bounce off my groin. I stand, in pain, in the hall, for a moment. Back inside, I bump into the DVD pile, knocking over boxes, destroying the symmetry. I find the boy standing with his mother and older sister in the kitchenette; "Don't shoot it at me, don't point it at me, I don't even want you to have the gun in your hands when I'm around." The mother asks, "where did he hit you?" Reply: "The testicle." Mother and sister giggle, then laugh. I storm out, past their collection of gumball machines.


Silvana comments: "In the dream you are helping people bring DVDs into the house. The people are a woman and her two kids – a daughter and a son. The young boy shoots you in the groin with a BB gun. You return to the apartment and nock over the DVD pile and the two females laugh at you. Sometimes thing are as they seem and sometimes not. When you woke up and remembered this dream did you “register the ego response” to it? What did you think and what memory or feeling came up? At least one person in your dream may represent a character that is located deep in your psyche. For example, the little boy is you. The archetype of the child? The inner child is playful, but malicious. He is playing with a toy that can create real pain and in that way it’s not a toy at all. How is this similar to the way that you function? In some ways, are you playing with things that may seem harmless, but in the end hurt you? Jonathan, dream interpretation is very, very personal. Regardless of pop culture and everyone’s desire to interpret dreams in a simplistic way, there is nothing simple about dreams. I consider dreams almost sacred in the sense that they bring up fundamentally important matters. I don’t know the relationship that exists (or existed) between you and your mother, or if you have a sister, but this dream may be bringing up some of those issues. The dream may be based on a memory that has effected your psychological development and that is somehow related to the present. Maybe this is enough? "

January 15, 2003

DreamLog | 05:02 AM

Sitting next to the stars of a niche British sitcom, I crack jokes during a discussion of Semitism – you look like a jewish version of yourself, except black – as our plane flies over the bridge. In celebration of a holiday week, two inflated balloons of Chinese dolls – geometric caricatures of stereotypes, spherical heads with Xs for eyes around a cylindrical nose perched on top of spherical bodies – hang from the stanchions near the suspension cables.

Our plane dips, weaves through trees, between buildings. A rollercoaster. The talk turns to early jobs, or is it fear?

I watch my gloves, purple and black, puffy ski gloves, slide around under the seats. My hands, clutching the armrests (the only thing keeping me in the seat, I should be wearing my lap belt), don't pick them up. I am advised to relax. Why not? What else is there to do?

I laugh: fun! We dive, narrowly avoiding another aircraft. Dip. A particularly sharp downturn, and I am able to see the road below over the top of the plane. Weave. The plane turns invisible; I laugh again. Dive.


E. Johan comments: "I have no Idea who or what you are but I think, based on your dream, that you may be CRAZY. Then again I only have $10.28 left in my checking account so I obviously have no credability (sp? I'm to lazy to do spell check). "

January 07, 2003

DreamLog | 02:41 PM

Country music. COUNTRY MUSIC?


December 30, 2002

DreamLog Analysis | 12:24 PM

I have invited several experts to analyze the DreamLog. First out of the gate is Silvana from DreamLoverInc.com, who criticizes the non-narrative structure of my subconcious in his analysis of DreamLog #4:

"Your dream was a bit hard to follow. Strangely enough, most dreams have an organization. They are either simple images or they are stories with a beginning (a problem or situation), climax and an end.

The obvious symbolism of phones ringing is a desire for communication. Usually it is the desire of the unconscious to communicate with the conscious. The phone wrings and you question if it is laundry day? It could be that a phone call from the unconscious means that you may need to do some psychic laundry... You had three suits that apparently needed cleaning. The number three suggests that there is something important going on in the psyche -- it is considered an active or process number. Odd numbers generally represent the masculine. Clothing usually represents our persona. So, the phone rings, you think of cleaning and what needs to be cleaned are your suits. The suits may be symbolic of a particular persona that you project and that part of you may be "under construction" of some kind.

The rest of this dream is a bit strange and I don't know what to say about it. You did not experience the action first hand, but were seeing it on TV. Something may be playing itself out in front of you, but you may not have any power over it. The action may be taking place and you have nothing to say about it. A woman, a man and a dead lover??

Anyway, I can't seriously interpret this dream. I don't know anything about you and the way that you wrote the dream is not that conducive to interpretation. A simpler, more of a narrative type of a description would lend itself better to interpretation."

Note to self: Apparently, masculine personna needs work. Cut hair? Feign interest in football? Or would another visit to Urge do the trick? Perhaps on naked go-go boy night?


December 23, 2002

DreamLog | 11:35 AM

We are waiting for Dennis as people fill the theater, including two very fat boys. All of the white people sing along with the folk singer performing on a side stage. No one else enjoys him. When the Latino pop star starts his act, the stage slides forward to cover the audience in the pit. We are above, in the conveyer belt seats, and so are whisked past the pop star rollercoaster-style, higher and higher until we are in the dark and far backstage. A technician shows us the door that leads downstairs. After a series of hallways, we watch the pop star from the wings. Trying again, we emerge at the stage door. The fan waiting with her two children rushes over, but I close the door behind me. All of the doorknobs are orange, a peculiar shape. We start back to find our seats, but I am naked after our conveyer belt journey. My friend gives me my boxers: colorful, patterned. I look for a place to change. The sign on the bathroom door says "bipeds only." To the side of the main bathroom, a smaller white-tiled area has showers with toilets beneath them. The men under orange tarps in the middle of the main room wake up as I urinate; slowly, body parts appear as the tarps deflate, a leg, another. Muscular men file in to bathe; I am in need of exercise. They discuss something as I turn on the shower. Two short bursts of water.


December 20, 2002

DreamLog | 12:50 PM

The phone rings. "Is it laundry day already?" I ask an empty closet. Three lumpy suits are folded over hangers.

On TV, a woman is seducing a bulky man in a room which smells like her dead lover. Intermittent flashbacks punctuate her account of the last time she saw him; Her lover was angry, he stood in front of a roll-top desk and yelled. The bulky man asks questions. He might be a detective.

The phone has stopped ringing. Did I miss the landlord's call? I look in my dresser for jeans.


Silvana comments: "Your dream was a bit hard to follow. Strangely enough, most dreams have an organization. They are either simple images or they are stories with a beginning (a problem or situation), climax and an end.

The obvious symbolism of phones ringing is a desire for communication. Usually it is the desire of the unconscious to communicate with the conscious. The phone wrings and you question if it is laundry day? It could be that a phone call from the unconscious means that you may need to do some psychic laundry... You had three suits that apparently needed cleaning. The number three suggests that there is something important going on in the psyche -- it is considered an active or process number. Odd numbers generally represent the masculine. Clothing usually represents our persona. So, the phone rings, you think of cleaning and what needs to be cleaned are your suits. The suits may be symbolic of a particular persona that you project and that part of you may be "under construction" of some kind.

The rest of this dream is a bit strange and I don't know what to say about it. You did not experience the action first hand, but were seeing it on TV. Something may be playing itself out in front of you, but you may not have any power over it. The action may be taking place and you have nothing to say about it. A woman, a man and a dead lover??

Anyway, I can't seriously interpret this dream. I don't know anything about you and the way that you wrote the dream is not that conducive to interpretation. A simpler, more of a narrative type of a description would lend itself better to interpretation."

December 19, 2002

Dreamlog Update | 03:41 PM

A lunchtime fortune cookie yielded the following prophecy:

But which dream? Does fate decree that I will end up at a friend's house with no pants on? Am I soon to be intimidated by albino rabbits? Will I attempt to convince a friend that we are dating? Or is it an enigmatic message from RouletteGirl, who is working on a show which contains a scene that takes place in a fortune cookie factory? (italics mine)


December 16, 2002

DreamLog MetaBlog | 02:45 PM

At a newly-married friend-couple's house, I awake from a nap and quickly attempt to blog the following:

DreamLog
Backstage at a new, large-scale Tiny Ninja Theater show, I notice a small child dressed in yellow running repeatedly onto the stage. The star of the show has to carry him off, interrupting the performance. At the child's third attempt, I waylay him and ask him why he keeps doing it. He explains in baby talk that he just wants to create his own Tiny Ninja scene for the online contest. I lead the child and parent off toward the box office, where they can access a computer. Earlier, I get out of the subway with my wife, en route to a dinner at my high school principal's house, which is, for some reason, midtown. As it turns out, an ex-girlfriend will be in attendance. My wife is not well pleased.
I am unable to do so, and one of my friends explains they "have problems with blogger" on their computer. I attempt to remember the dream for later blogging, but am distracted when I realize that, even though I was able to sneakily put on my pants by hiding my lower body behind the sofa, my underwear is still sitting on top of my pile of clothes next to the computer, and someone might realize that I had, until moments ago, been naked from the waist down. The party has not been going well, even up to this point. We've mostly just been sitting around looking at each other.


Lock comments: "You're a delusional freak. "

December 11, 2002

DreamLog | 09:46 AM

We were sneaking into somewhere through an abandoned ice cream shoppe (we had done this before), which involved climbing down a tube into an underground space with 4-foot high ceilings. I went first, and was followed by a young child who wasn't part of our group. As we explored the area, I saw that in order to reach our goal we would have to pass a darkened area with albino rabbits and cats running around, which seemed at the time to be quite intimidating, perhaps because of the dramatic lighting. None of the rest of the group had come down yet, and I noticed that the child was unconscious. Gas leak! I thought, and grabbed the child and started to attempt to escape up the tube. Later on, at some sort of reunion, a college acquaintance stood on my bag to talk to me and cracked the screen of my PowerBook. He seemed somewhat larger than he used to be, and blocked my view of the stage. When the show started, this proved to be a benefit.


December 09, 2002

DreamLog | 11:25 AM

In last night's dream, some friends and I tried to convince another friend that I was dating her, for some reason. Then, we did something else. It's all very vague.


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