Category: Dream Journal

Entries in this category are typically unfiltered reactions to waking up and penning down dream journal entries, with very little context.

Dream Journal: Are You Carl Macek?

Drudge. Cubicle. Filling in data points. Filling in forms. Type, format, re-sent. Type, format, resent. Resent. Resent everything. Blink and the supervisor is there, saying, “Hey, you know about the product,”

“Yeah? I do?”

“Yeah, it’s one of your things.”

“…do you know me?”

“Does anyone?”

Walking down the hall, file of data to enter under my arm. Ache in my hand. Room full of storyboards. Massive medical machine in the corner trailing pipes and wires onto the body of the guy over by the storyboard. Images on the boards, of Shinji Ikari, Rei Ayanami, Asuka Sorhyu-Langley. The red marker pen across all of them. Lines, circles. Words swimming into focus with the bright white light behind them.

“The ending’s a downer too, we’ll have to stretch it to make it worth watching.”

“Is that the point?” Another voice.

“It’s okay. We’ve got something to look over.” Saw me. “Ahah, you. You, yeah, you, we need you to come in and write us out of corners. You can’t make any new footage or demand any new scenes, but you gotta restructure the script for the new names.”

“New names?” I murmured in a daze.

“Evan,” he pointed at Shinji, “Angela,” at Asuka, “and Lian,” at Rei.

I woke up.

Dream Journal: Word Hunter

The reality crew were in my office and I was dreadfully embarassed at them, while they walked around photographing things and saying oh it’ll be fine, I mean you signed the contract. It wasn’t a very impressive or nice little office, either, some hole in the wall in a second storey of a mall while outside the sun was too hot and shone on the window I couldn’t black out because of the terms of the lease.

“Well I’m actually a descriptivist-” I kept trying to say. “My personal feelings about words are that they have no inherent meanings but usages of common acceptance-”

“Nice, nice, real nice,” they shot back, the scrawny little man with a mop of black hair who looked like he’d make an excellent background extra who was later revealed at the end of the movie to be a terrible serial killer. Just didn’t seem like he was listening to me at all. “So you just wait here until the contracts happen?”

“Yeah. I mean eventually, someone steps out of line or someone who can pay me hires me and I just uh, do my thing.”

“Ooo, that’s when it gets rough?”

“Sometimes? I mean most of the time I just stop using the word and that makes it slowly dissolve and disappear-”

“… is that it?”

“No, no, I mean sometimes the word needs to be argued about and-”

“Ooooo!”

“Yeah, that’s… that’s when things get messy.”

The phone rang. A blur of spaces and times. Remembering moments where things got rough. Kneeling across a word’s ‘chest’ as I beat it down, because it refused to stop. Chasing a word through tbe back streets, leaping off chain link fences to get over barking dogs as I pursued a word at the behest of a client.

Dragging a word up a glorious red carpet, to the front of a throne, battered, my hair loose, a smudge on my cheek, as I stood before the Empress, the Witch Of Words – “Here’s the word you demanded be apprehended.”

Slowly, she extended her scepter to me, even as she peered down at the intangible mass of communicative pronunciations next to me, glaring resentfully back at her.

 

I woke up.

Dream Journal: Visiting Canada

I don’t like it when my dreams tell me something about myself that seem silly.

In this case, we were in Canada. We were in Canada, near Jeb, to visit, for a convention about videogames, where we were speaking. It was strange, too, because we arrived well before the sun rose and it was cold. There was snow on the ground, but of course, this being me – when I hunkered down and ran my hand through the snow, to ‘play’ with it – it was shaving cream. Or slightly congealed cream. The point is, it didn’t do what I’m sure ‘snow’ does – it just moved like goo.

Then later in the same dream, we discussed driving to Alaska in the afternoon.

I felt like I just had a really ignorant person’s dream.

Dream Journal: The What What Eee?

I try not to Dream Journal about the dreams that feature actual people, especially if there’s anything in those dreams that’s more about my subconscious wants and fears than anything to do with the actual people’s espoused views and opinions.

Still.

Two nights ago, I had a fucked up dream about a sort of hybrid of a Tycoon style game, a costumed MMO, and a fighter. Specifically, I was in a virtualised space with friends as we rebuilt the entire WWE as if we were creating an MMO. We had to go full spreadsheet manager and construct wrestlers as personalities, looking at introduction spaces and slots for when new characters could be added. And then, most odd of all, which I didn’t realise at first, was that it was a PVP game.

So I was constructing events trying to make major, important, cool looking events… but I didn’t realise other players – AHEM DOC – were capable of setting up conflicts, or refusing to sell my events. Oh sure, people not selling events were bad, nobody got points out of that, but the person who set up the event lost more. And then, I swear, as a turkey in a suit refused to fight to build feuds with a weird HHH knockoff I had who was a buff lady, Robo-Ghandi runs onto the set and chairs the turkey in the back of the head.

Messed up fuckin’ dreams, man.

Dream Journal – Not Skyrim

Broad, rolling snowdrifts. Deep black and grey rocks jutting from beneath. Miles and miles of flurrying snow. Horses that didn’t care for us, footsteps beneath us that trudged wearily against the ground.

Me, and at least two others. The Empress and the Fox, a barbarian. We sought out the language of dragons. I spoke it, in a moment of desperation, to destroy a wall and save us from an onslaught.

And then –

“That’s not how you conjugate that.” Said the barbarian.

“What?”

“It’s not pronounced in that tense.”

“I – ”

“Look, I’m glad we’re okay now, but if an actual dragon was here, you would be so embarassed.”

The Empress liked to nit pick in how the Dragons wrote their words on the runes and in the old scripts. The Dragons were sloppy and informal, and she liked pointing out when they used the wrong word. ‘That’s not what that means,’ she said.

An hour of questing, we realised we had no idea what we were questing for. So we told Mispy to put on a princess dress while he coded, and we would rescue him.

Dream Journal: Little Brown Hand

Can’t remember much of it. A divan. A curtain. Walking up dozens and dozens of stairs, listening to her.

She was maybe… nine. Ten. Not sure. But she was young, and thoughtful, and she spoke constantly, constantly about topics I didn’t quite understand. About ideas I was close to understand, things that reminded me of the way I looked at things when I was a kid. I think? I don’t remember what I was like as a child all that clearly. Maybe I’m just remembering what I’m told it’s like to be a child.

She was bringing me to meet her mum. Her mum and I know each other. She was excited, excited she’d found me because I shouldn’t be around in these parts, because finding me was… impossible? And so, this little girl held my hand and dragged ahead of me despite the snow and the cold, talking to me about physics and art and books, oh, her mum’s books.

She was brown, but Polynesian brown. Not a type of person I see every day, but who I do see from week to week.

I remember her name was Hope.

Dream Journal: Fox Game

I dreamt of two videogames distributed online, with no seeming connection but each with online play to ‘manage leader boards.’

One was a very pretty but simplistic game that looked a bit like Ocarina of Time 3DS made with a sort of feltness to the world texture. You played a little semirandomly generated kid who had to wander around a big wide world and solve puzzles to advance to things. You could pull pulleys and lift weights and there were timing puzzles and platforming sections.

The other game had an aesthetic where everything was drawn out of crayon. In this game, you played a fox, using fox senses and abilities to go to places nobody else could. You could go through burrows and sniff things out and hear things from far away, all drawn in this super charming, cute style. And I played, of course, this fox game.

It took a few hours of play for me to realise that as the game opened up and I hit puzzles I couldn’t solve on my own, that the little boy in a hoodie, with blonde hair and clumsy shoes, was in fact, another player.

Can’t remember anything else.

Dream Journal: Chocolate Factory

It was a store where I worked, in a sharp little apron. Not a restuarant, but a chocolate store. You could come in, and I would write you a sentence, in chocolate, which was designed to be an indulgent, sweet thing to say. People consuming the chocolate’s words would understand and internalise the meaning of the words in a way reading them wouldn’t.

One of the Titans from Attack on Titan entered the business, and asked for an Indulgent Sentence about them. I had to politely tell them I couldn’t think of a single nice thing to say about them.