SDJ:6 - Miniature Plastic Animatronic Dioramas; Greek Food; "The Dirt-bed"; Pretzel Wheel; bad music from the nineties (April 5th)

4/5 -

Inside a large subterranean cavern, exploring.  Tide pools are all over the place, teeming with shells, starfish, sea anemones, and little plastic trinkets.  All of these things shine out from within the pools in bright pastel shades of blue, pink, orange, green, and yellow.  

I realize that I'm barefoot and have been stepping on some of these creatures and trinkets.  There are also little crabs moving across the rocks here and there.  Aware, now, of these delicate lifeforms and objects on the surface I walk upon, I place my steps more carefully. 

Belinda is here, standing perhaps 10 feet away from me; back toward where we entered the cavern.  Now that I've looked up - having noticed her - I also get a larger view of the cavern's terrain.  Rock formations jut out unevenly into knobs and crevices.  

Although Belinda and I are close to a wall, this cavern is generally quite open and spacious.  The surfaces vary in shape, but everything is the same color.  This single color reflects myriad shades, however, due to the varying degree of light shining through onto different areas.  Somehow, the spotty lighting seems to effect not only the color of the surfaces, but also their texture.  In some places the rock looks like brittle, Martian-red adobe; in others, like a hardened, porous, brownish-yellow sponge.

"I didn't realize that I was in my bare feet," I say to Belinda, "I'll have to be more careful; I think I was stepping on these little crabs."  

Belinda looks happy to be here, but is also clearly in her own, private world.  I'm pretty sure she heard my words just now, but I don't think she'll be responding.  I think she's been singing to herself.  She's singing now, anyway.  Quietly, though.  Some kind of wordless sea shanties.  She appears to be in some kind of a trance.

Walking back along the wall toward Belinda, I stop and bend down to my right to get a closer look at some of these little plastic trinkets.  I'm going to take some photographs.  

Upon closer inspection, these ones' appear to be mechanized.  They are like little music boxes or coo coo clocks; tiny characters emerge from the doors of houses or slide along the track of their continual, looped destiny.

I'm looking at one... they're so small that it's hard to focus... I think it's a young blonde woman in a blue-and-white smock, crying at the grave of - I'm guessing - her dead lover.  I try to take a close-up picture.  Looking through the viewfinder, however, I find the scene now obscured by a tiny farmhouse.  Raising myself a little to get the angle right, I zoom-in with the viewfinder on the scene over, and beyond, the roof of the farmhouse.  

The scene has now changed.  A prince emerges from the large, wooden double-doors of a medieval castle.  As with the sobbing girl at the graveyard, he is a miniature, vertical-plane, two-dimensional piece of thin metal on which a character is etched and painted.  He moves away from the castle along a tiny track, passing a certain point that triggers the closing of the castle's doors; just as his placement behind them triggered their opening.  

The prince is dressed in stately attire and has medium-length blond hair.  He does a cursory check around the castle grounds.  This is duty he performs with regularity.  He's anxiously awaiting the arrival of his princess; although I get the feeling he's neither met her nor even knows of her identity.

Withdrawing my focus from the microcosmic and returning to the world of the cavern, I see that Belinda is no longer here.  One of my cats, Velvet, seems to have taken her place.  

Velvet looks different.  She's gained a lot of weight.  She looks overweight, in fact.  Gabby must be feeding her kibble.  Her color is different too.  She's darker: black almost, with grey markings.  

I squat down and take a photo of her.  

Startled and frightened by the flash, she lunges and claws at me.  In my mind, I can see the photo after it is developed: Velvet is raised up on her hind legs; one of her front legs blurred - revealing the swiping-motion - with claws sticking out from the digits of her paw.

I grab the paw that she struck with and hold it firmly, yet gently.  This reassures Velvet somewhat, and she rubs her head against my hand, purring.  She's still frazzled, however, and breaks away with wide eyes; startled by something I can't perceive.  

Eyes focused on my shoulders, she squats; preparing to jump.  I don't want my shoulders and neck to get all scratched up, so I "scruff" her (grab the loose skin at the nape of her neck).  As I hold Velvet by the scruff, I begin to massage that area, which should calm her down.

Finally, she does calm down... and plops sideways to the ground from a standing position.  This is something that Velvet has always done when she wants me to pet her; I find it both adorable and hilarious.  Lying on her side, she stretches and purrs as I run my hand from her head to her tail.

There's another cat here with Velvet; how funny.  I think it's a male.  He's mostly black.  I've never seen him, but they seem to be friends.  This is surprising, because Velvet is usually standoffish with other cats - even the one she grew up with.  I guess they've been roaming around together; they seem comfortable with each other.

Inside a house with a group of well-dressed, portly, middle-aged men; all of whom seem focused on projecting a certain kind of swagger.  They appear to be wealthy.  I find them very amusing.  

The men are eagerly awaiting the arrival of a successful former-model-turned-businesswoman.  Once she gets here, they'll all drive to a restaurant for a business meeting.  

I've spoken with only two of these men.  The one I'm speaking with the most is a man whom I didn't know before now.  He's got a lot of gel in his dark brown hair, which is parted on the left and combed across to the right.  He's wearing a light blue, collared shirt and a brown sports jacket.

We go into my room while he waits for the woman - it's my old room at my parent's house.  On the bed is a pile of mail that I guess has built up since I was last here; so I quickly rifle through it while the guy rehearses the talking points he wants to cover during the meeting.  

Mixed in with the mail are several coupons for a pet store.  They look like silver wrappers that once sealed energy bars.  Printed upon each of these coupons is a day, a month, and a year between 2014 and 2017.  I set them aside.

"I know what those are," he says.  "For the pet store.  I go there all the time for my cats."  

Suddenly, I like this guy a lot better.  Now that he's showing an interest in something I deem more important than fancy clothes, perfect hair, and business meetings, there is a sense of camaraderie.

Earlier -

I'm headed to the computer to post something on Christopher's Facebook-wall; some lyrics I just found on a piece of college-ruled paper torn from one of my old notebooks.  He and I must have collaborated on them: about six stanzas, alternating between his handwriting and mine.  

His stanzas are funny, abrupt, and nonsensical.  I'm going to post the line "Your albatross is flossing" on his wall; until I suddenly remember that I can't - we are no longer Facebook-friends.

In my Brother's old room, Christopher is looking at a desk lamp.  The horizontal base of the lamp is grassy-green, with a lighthouse rising from this surface.  Printed on the lighthouse is the logo of the Greek restaurant where I'm assuming this lamp came from.  Christopher says that it's a good restaurant.  I've never eaten there.  

I did have a very good Greek meal for dinner last night, though, which I am now describing for him: Roasted eggplant wrapped in lavash bread with baba ghanoush, black olives, feta cheese, romaine lettuce and Roma tomatoes.  Tabbouleh salad on the side.  

I tell him that it wasn't bland in the way that sub-par Mediterranean food can be; that the pairing of olives and feta with the roasted eggplant created a unique flavor-combination, made even more interesting with the addition of jalapeno spears.*

Dennis and Mac (from "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia"), Turk (from "Scrubs") and I have created a "bed" of mostly-natural substances that we call "The Dirt-bed."  We are absolutely giddy with pride over our creation and the fact that we actually turned the concept into a reality.  

This thing is like the seven-layer dip of beds: rectangular strips of cardboard, soil, grass, and other soft, mostly-natural substances layered on top of one another.  

Sitting in folding chairs on a rooftop overlooking the lawn where the dirt-bed now rests, we excitedly go over our plans.      

I'm picturing events from last night.  The dirt-bed was finished, and we decided it should be placed on the lawn on the other side of an eight-foot brick wall nearby.  We each grabbed a corner and carried it over to the base of the wall.  We squatted down, lifted the dirt-bed, and tossed it upwards in such a way that it maintained it's horizontal plane while traveling in an arch-like trajectory over the wall.  

I see a slow-motion replay of the dirt-bed rising through the air; it's various layers separating like an extended accordion and coming together again at the apex of the arc, above the wall.  Then the dirt-bed falls; the layers spreading accordion-like once again until, finally - like stacked sandwich ingredients tossed onto a counter-top by some cartoon-chef - they land quickly and neatly, one on top of the other, upon the grass.  

At this point we erupt in a flailing storm of howls and high-fives - all of which is a memory of last night that I'm seeing replayed from an aerial perspective.

Someone needs to test the dirt-bed out, and I've drawn the short straw.  This means I'll be the one sleeping in it tonight, outdoors.  

None of us wanted this job; yet the passion we feel toward our creation is such that we were each compelled to surreptitiously visit the bed at different times last night, to lay in it and masturbate.  Passion was likely a part of why we each did this, anyway... but I also think we all were willing to gamble on the 75% chance that someone else would have to sleep in the semen-stained thing; and that we each found this to be quite hilarious. 

Now it's mid-afternoon, and the four of us are constructing a makeshift tarp/tent that the bed will be placed under/within.  We're setting up near the sidewalk on somebody's front lawn on a quiet residential street.  I tell the guys that I wouldn't mind sleeping on the dirt-bed so much if it wasn't stained with their semen.  They each try to deny what they all did, but get quiet when I point out the stains.

A girl stops by, saying that she noticed us while passing by on her bicycle.  She asks what we are working on.  She seems really impressed with the dirt-bed and the tent we're constructing, and Dennis starts to talk her up.  

I let him talk, but little does he know I'm planning to pull the rug out from under him.  If I'm the one who has to sleep on this semen-stained thing, then I'm not going to let him take all the credit and get the girl.  She's fawning all over him and our creation.  

"It would be so cool to stay inside," she says.

"Yeah," I start in, casually, "I'll actually be sleeping here tonight.  I'll probably just be reading or whatever."

"Oh, really?" she says, her focus immediately shifting from Dennis to me.  "Well I might have to pay you a visit!"  Clearly, this girl is a dirt-bed groupie.

Dennis looks pissed.  Mac and Turk are smiling broadly with wide eyes and raised brows; taking great pleasure in watching Dennis getting a taste of his own medicine.

"Do you like having girlfriends?" asks the girl who will be visiting me in the dirt-bed tonight.

"No," I say, simply.

"Fuck you!" she says.

Dennis jumps at the opportunity to gain back some ground.  "See!" he says quickly, adding "What?  Are you a faggot?"

"No, I love to date girls; to hang out with them" I say.  "I just don't want to have a girlfriend."

Later -

I'm laying down, resting in the bed at Barnaby's place.  The apartment seems different, somehow.

For the second time, Barnaby calls out to me from a separate room; asking if I'm alright.  He's behind a door that's opened just a couple of inches.  

I reply, once again, that I am alright; and wonder why he keeps checking - then realize that it's probably because I fell asleep with the light on.  I should turn it off... but now the students at the college are making a lot of noise outside.

I get out of bed and start toward the window to see what's up, but then notice Barnaby's "Pretzel Wheel" - a mobile of sorts he's hung above the bed.  

The Pretzel Wheel consists of two soft-pretzels shaped like horizontal carriage wheels.  These wheels are larger than an Extended Play record, but smaller than an L.P.  One wheel is about a half-foot above the other, with vertical soft pretzels connecting the hubs and outer spokes.    

This had been the shape... I realize now that I've eaten most of it.  I must have gotten really drunk last night, since I apparently fell asleep with the lights on and helped myself to Barnaby's pretzel-wheel.

Suddenly, I realize that I didn't give Barnaby the cat carriers.  Well, maybe we just decided they'd take up too much space in his small apartment.  He can probably leave certain supplies with my Aunt and get them when he needs them.  

A nervous chill spreads through me - do we even have cat food here?  How long have the cats been here without being fed?  

To my great relief, I remember that it was my Aunt - not Barnaby - who kept my cats.

Earlier -

I'm walking through the University near Barnaby's place.  It's bright and sunny out, and I'm enjoying the sight of the green lawns and ornate Greco-Roman architecture.  I'm looking for the Dramatic Arts building.

Walking along the pillared facade of one building that curves slowly to the left, I look at the students sitting in the front on the cement.  Some are alone, some are in little groups.  They sit with their backs against the pillars and walls of the building, studying, talking and eating lunch.  

I pass one who is playing an acoustic guitar.  A few of the students sitting near him sing along as he strums and sings some bad Top-40 song from the Nineties.  Just a little further along the curve of the building, I walk past a similar scene.  In fact, I think this second guitarist is playing the exact same song.  What song is that?  Oh, now I recognize it; it's the one that goes "It's 3a.m. and I'm feelin' lonely," or something like that.

Now I've just entered a building that, on the inside, looks like a stately British palace with well-polished bannisters, staircases, mantels, and walls made of the finest Cherry.  Down the long, wide staircase across from where I've entered is a dining hall.   An impossibly long dining table stretches along the left wall down there.  The wall is draped with the colorful flags and banners of various sects of the British Isles.  A few men in fancy suits slowly stroll around down there.

I walk to the left, and come to the dining area of a very typical-looking mall food-court.  Moving sideways through the tiny space between a seated girl and a table behind her, I realize that I have a hard-on.  Jesus, I hope I don't knock her in the back with it as I'm squeezing past her... okay, luckily that didn't happen.  I guess there was enough room after all.

Now I'm moving along the main walkway of a crowded mall.  My pace is slowed by a student in front of me who is dressed like a slacker and seems to be meandering aimlessly.  I can hear and sense someone walking behind me, impatiently trying to pass me on one side and then the other as I - in turn - try to navigate around the student.  I move to the left so the man can pass me.

My eyes follow the man - a sharply-dressed professor - hurrying past on my right.  Then I notice something beyond him up ahead.  Seated on a bench at an upright piano, a man is playing that same style of music that the guitarists were playing outside... bad, Top-40 music from the nineties.  

I suddenly realize that those guitar players outside weren't even singing or playing; they were pretending to play the music of this piano player, which was being amplified from speakers out there.  I wonder how those guys were able to trick the other students and I into thinking this piano-music was coming from their acoustic guitars?

Earlier - 

It's early evening, and I'm walking down Slater St. towards my Aunt's house.  Three homeless youths - in their early 20's, I'm guessing - sit beneath an awning against a bright-red wall that stands out due to some lights shining against it.

As I pass them by on the sidewalk, their little Jack Russell terrier runs up to me excitedly, wanting to play.  I stop to pet the dog but keep missing it's head because he's jerking it around in excitement.  His wet nose keeps bumping my hands.

After playing with the dog for a minute I figure I should acknowledge these kids, so I say "Hey.  How you guys doing tonight?"  

They are looking at me but don't say a thing.  Although the wall above them is lit, it's darker where they are slumped against the wall, so I can't make out their faces.

A second dog - a pit bull-mix - emerges from where the kids are sitting and comes up to play with me as well.  I play with both dogs for another minute, but figure I'd better leave since these guys don't seem to want me around.

"Have a good night," I say.  Again, they stare and say nothing.  I resume walking, noticing that I'm wearing my hiking pack. 

*The jalapeno spears were the only ingredient of the meal described to Christopher that weren't a part of the last meal I actually ate before this dream.  This meal was prepared at my favorite restaurant near Barnaby's place: Crest Cafe on K street.  During my time in Sacramento, I enjoyed going to Crest for their quality Mediterranean food... and to admire the strikingly beautiful pale blue eyes, and luminous smile, of a certain part-time Cashier.