21 Dream).

When my family moved to a more rural location in 1988, when I was about ten, Melany was the first friend I made at school. She lived on a dirt road just off the road we lived on, too, and I spent a lot of time over there, at her trailer, or she came over to our place, and her and I and a few other friends in the area hung out even more often during the summer.

It remained that way until high school, when things in my life became remarkably weird and I changed as a result, and in many respects. The distance between Melany and I grew, mostly because I felt she expected me to be someone that I no longer was, and honestly believed I had never truly been in the first place.

We’re Facebook friends now, both of us are in our forties, but we’re not close anymore at all, nor do I ever suspect we will ever be again. That’s one reason why the dream I had of her this morning is so curious to me.

The other is this new, recurring theme of dead people in my dream-life.

We were on a front lawn somewhere, and though I can’t be certain, it feels like the front lawn of the suburban home I lived in for the first decade of my life. From out of frame we both hear the voice of who I know to be her daughter calling, though I never saw her. She was explaining to Melany that someone was in her trailer, and when Melany asked her who, her daughter informed her it was Melany’s father.

Instantly, Melany stops doing the yardwork, or whatever it was that she was doing. Her face falls, her eyes tear up and quickly grow red. I know her immediate sadness is due to the fact that her father has been dead now for years and the mere mention of him overwhelms her with unbearable emotion.

It was as if the whole possibility that the ghost of her father hanging out in her trailer was immedeately forgotten, that the possibility that it might be true wasn’t entertained by her for as long as a milisecond, so intense were the emotions she was experiencing. She was absorbed in her grief entirely. Rather than consider that he might have actually returned, the mention of him only reminded her that he was gone, reminded her of how agonizingly much she missed him.

My heart went out to her. Impulsively, I came up to her, wrapped my arms around her, she wrapped her arms around me, and I hugged her — one of those incredibly long, deep hugs where you open up completely, where you don’t hold back, where your energy and that of the other person melds, resonates, temporarily merges into one. The hug lasts a long time, but its not awkward or uncomfortable — even when, during this period, our faces come close to each other at least twice and I fight this odd impulse to kiss her. I find this not just inappropriate but bizarre, as she is merely a friend. Even so, its quickly forgotten by me — as swiftly and mysteriously as the prospect of the ghost of her dead father waiting for her at home was evidently forgotten by the both of us.

When the hug is over, she seems disappointed with me, frustrated, even angry. She tells me that I was supposed to do more. I honestly feel confused. I ask her, “What is it you wanted me to do?”

I don’t know what happens to her after that or how our interaction ended. All I recall is that shortly thereafter I feel frustrated and depressed and I walk away, behind the house, and out into a large field behind it. With me I have my cigarettes, a lighter, and a bowl with some very loosely-packed weed in it (its just shake; essentially bottom-of-the-baggie weed dust).

Though the field looks nothing like the field that used to exist just beyond the chain-link fence of my family’s first house, in the dream, that’s exactly what it was. It looks like autumn. I remember thinking how I want to go out into the field one more time before I left, which was exactly how I felt, and what I in fact did, just before we moved from the first house in 1988.

Nearby some tall weeds, I crouch down to take a smoke — be it the weed or a cigarette, I can’t be certain, but as I crouch down and look in the direction of the house, I see my mother inthe far distance and seem to lock eyes with her, and so immediately abandon the plan anyway.

I stand up and walk further, through the field, passed the field, until I come across an open doorway to a strange, creepy building. I step inside before I really take the time to consider the idea and, with a sudden surge of anxiety, immedeately realize my mistake. I get the sense that its a huge warehouse or something, though before me is only this vacant, sort of lit hallway that leads to somewhere I can’t see.

I immedeately try and step back out of the doorway, but as I step into the frame some guy abruptly walks up to the door, gets uncomfortably close to me, seems to take something from my pocket, and walks away. Though I have no idea what he’s taken, I feel violated, afraid, and angry.

A Visit From Beyond (10/18/21 Dream).

I’m at my parent’s house in the area of the kitchen and dining room, walking around with my Aunt Betty, having what feels like an enduring and involved conversation. We must be in the kitchen, as I’m looking through the open area between the kitchen and dining room, through which I see my Uncle Fred, who’s sitting down at the kitchen table, looking away from us as he rolls his eyes. My sense is that Betty was favoring me in some way, doing something for me, and he was annoyed and perhaps jealous.

That was all I could recall of the dream, and I truly wish I had some sense of what Betty and I spoke about. I do know that it felt nice talking with her again, and she was the lively, quirky lady I remember.

Betty, my maternal grandmother’s sister, died some seven years ago, maybe longer, and Fred, my mother’s brother, has been dead for a year or two now. Both met their end in a way that utterly depressed me and further solidified my sense that there is no real justice in the universe, nor creator being. I mean, there are countless good reasons to dismiss both notions, no good arguments for them, and I had pretty much settled on that fact long before either of them died, but the deaths of both certainly provided further reinforcement.

Betty literally lived a century and until the last few months of her life she was a unique, quirky, active old woman. Then she fell and broke her hip, after which she made a much more profound however figurative descent. Her once clear and sharp mind turned against her. Suddenly she couldn’t remember her birthday and began remembering things that weren’t true, that never happened.

Fred’s descent was even harder on my mother, who in the final month or two of his life unfortunately confirmed her suspicions that he was a hoarder. He suffered anxiety attacks but insisted there was instead something physically wrong with him. He stopped bathing, stopped eating, and declined rather quickly. He, too, began remembering things that weren’t true and never happened.

I don’t fear my own death, as I don’t think life began at birth or ends when we die. We might hang around a bit, disembodued, but ultimately reincarnate. And if I’m wrong and we’re truly gone, I won’t be around for that to bother me. What does frighten me, however, is the manner in which and the circumstances under which I might die. I don’t want to lose my mind. I don’t want to suffer a slow, miserable, frightening decline. And it hurt me seeing how it ended for them both — perhaps Betty most of all, as unlike Fred, who had some control over his circumstances, Betty basically had it thrust upon her.

I toyed with the idea that perhaps they really visited me in my dream last night, though I know its most likely the usual — a symbolic letter from the unconscious aspects of my own mind. Given the similarly horrible manner in which both made their corporeal exit, perhaps it reflects fears associated with my own, eventual demise, though the content of the dream, or at least what little I recall of it, didn’t seem to suggest that beyond their presence and the aforementioned association.

After all, as I said, I truly enjoyed my conversation with Betty. I only wish I could remember what it was we spoke about.

A Collection of Mundane Dream Pieces.

In line with my typical routine, I wake up, start the coffee machine, and go to the bathroom as I check my phone. I see the face of Kelly, my store manager, on Facebook and I laugh, because I just saw her. I was confused a moment, and then I remembered the dream I’d just awakened from.

10/17/21

I had been at work, approaching the stock room, and I notice a box back there that had been there for days. I squeezed between two people, approach Kelly, who was by the dish sink, and asked her if she wanted me to throw away the box. In the process of doing so, my eyes met hers and her eyes are red, and its clear that she had been crying. I felt horrible that I hadn’t noticed and apologized profusely. I looked away a moment, and when I looked back she had taken the soap suds atop the soapy sink water and entirely covered her face with them. I laughed and patted her on the shoulder.

As of late, my dream recall has entirely sucked. If I recall anything, they are quick flashes of scenes or lone images, and most of what I recalled are things that could have just as easily happened in real life.

Early in September, I believe, I recalled a brief image of my check engine light, which has been on since shortly after acquiring the truck, suddenly went off — interesting, as typically my dreams regarding vehicles depict rather concerning scenarios. This trend appeared to have confinued, too. On the 19th, for instance, I recalled a dream scene in which I was trying to pull into the parking lot of the apartment complex, but a person was parked on the right side of the entrance, facing the road. In response, I hesitated for a moment, uncertain if I should pass and try again, but then expertly turned and pulled my car around them.

9/30/21.

I had a dream image that bothered me, even given the largely forgotten context of the dream itself. I saw a hypodermic needle, but both its precise appearance and its location perplexed and worried me. For one thing, I found it in my apartment or a similar location, not at work, where I occasionally find them in the restroom or parking lot. I hate needles and don’t do hard drugs, so finding it in this personal location bothered me a great deal, both outside and within the context of the dream. For another thing, the syringe was metallic and futuristic-looking.

10/2/21.

I left the door to my apartment open and was shocked to find nothing was stolen.

10/11/21.

I walk into a crowded bar with two people, who both sit down promptly. There was nowhere for me to sit, however, nor was anyone talking to me, so I walked away. I meandered into large, dark, vacant room in the back of the bar, looking to go out for a smoke. I never made it out there before awakening, but I heard someone on,the distance say my name to someone, clearly wondering if I was who they suspected I was.

Save for the futuristic syringe, all dream recall as of late has dealt with rather mundane circumstances — though the part about the soap suds in the dream this morning was slightly odd. Even more curious, I discovered on Facebook that today is Kelly’s birthday.

Clash of the Talkers.

Some people, like these two guys I work with, just love to talk. Live to talk. I’m not judging, its just their nature to squawk your ear off, typically about nothing of real substance. And while I can find it irritating, of course, as I’m certainly of a more introverted nature, nothing is more agonizing than being around two talkers in a heated argument with one another.

Like feeling the angry vibes rising to a fever pitch isn’t bad enough, now I have to bear your incessant mouth noises competing with each other on top of it.

My kingdom of shit for some fucking earplugs.

Digesting The Leftovers.

A friend of mine once told me that he didn’t like the TV series The Leftovers, particularly its ending. While I don’t share that opinion, I think I understand its underpinnings.

If you into it gripped by the mystery and continue watching it for the sole purpose of getting answers, you will be bitterly disappointed. The show was never about getting answers, though, and it isn’t as if they were unclear on that point, either — after all, for the final two seasons, the opening sequence featured a song that served as a reminder at the opening for every episode: “let the mystery be.”

I think placing emphasis on this aspect of the show is the result of the efforts made by Damon Lindelof, who formerly worked on the television series, Lost — a good show that didn’t provide enough answers and many felt had an unsatisfying ending. The show certainly made promises left unfulfilled and it seems apparent that Lindelof decided he didn’t want a repeat of that experience, so he made no such promises, but quite to the contrary.

If you proceed to watch the show with the understanding that it is an exploration of how humans deal with anomalous and sometimes tragic experiences, however, you’ll far more likely come to appreciate it.

The central mystery was The Sudden Departure, when 140 million people mysteriously vanished in a cataclysmic moment all over the world. As this anomalous experience was global in scale, it effected all who remained, giving the show the opportunity to explore a plethora of coping mechanisms and how those that adopt them come to interact with one another.

The coping mechanisms include striving to come to some sort of understanding regarding what happened through science, or striving to find some meaning in it through the context of preexisting religion, or through development of cults inspired by the event. Other coping mechanisms include drugs, denial, psychosis, and relationships.

I identified most strongly with Kevin, who continued to experience a wide range of anomalies seemingly triggered by the Departure. He experienced vivid dreams, some of which seemed to have telepathic or precognative aspects, false awakenings, sleepwalking and an alternate personality, encounters with the dead in the form of spirit obsession (“she’s not in you,” said the guy who also played Mr. X on The X Files, explaining to Kevin the distinction between spirit possession and spirit obsession, “she’s on you”), visits through transient death into a kind of shamanic underworld or alternate reality, and apparent resurrection after being killed multiple times. Alongside these experiences he also had experienced that seemed genuinely psychotic, as when he “saw” Evie but it ended up being a total stranger.

There were also synchronicities throughout the show that the show never addressed through awareness of any of the characters, mostly dealing with Kevin and his adopted son, who ran off to join a cult (the mailbox, their mutually hurt hands, and so on).

Life is full of strange experiences, though some of us have stranger experiences than most, and even have them with disturbing frequency. The Leftovers does a good job of exploring how we attempt to deal with them and integrate them into our lives — even if clear answers regarding those experiences are never found.

Truth, whatever it is, is complicated, and the show best articulated that through Kevin’s experiences, in my opinion.

Having said that, I still hope to find some answers regarding the persistent anomalies in my own life.

Another Episode in the Life of a Guilty, Sore Thumb.

We needed a cleaning tool at work, so the manager gave me ten bucks from petty cash and I walked the short distance to the dollar store. As usual, I decided to get two cans of Monster Java Mean Bean while I was there. They didn’t have what we needed, so I just grabbed the Monsters and waited in line.

As I was waiting, a young, slender, mixed guy greeted me like I was an old friend. I smiled behind my mask and said hey, that it was good to see him. I asked him how he’s been, and he said much better, and I felt he meant his job here at the dollar store. He even walked up to me and gave me a fist bump. I didn’t have the foggiest fucking clue who he was.

This kind of shit has happened to me constantly since I left high school. People would walk up to me at work or on the street, even pull over in their car and seem so happy to see me, would seem to remember me perfectly from school, but I couldn’t recall them at all. Since then, it has continued to happen, though now typically they turn out to be former regulars or former fellow employees. When I can identify them or at least discern where I knew them from, anyway.

This guy came up to the counter when it was my turn, took out his card from his wallet, and told his coworker at the register that he was going to pay for my Monsters. He explained to him that he used to work with me and made some comment regarding his shitty conduct while we were working together.

I asked him if he was sure, and he said he was, and I thanked him and left.

I don’t know why people often seem to like me, or why they’re so nice to me. I’m certainly not complaining, but it always makes me feel a bit guilty — particularly in circumstances like this, when I at best only vaguely recall having known them and I apparently stick out like a sore thumb in their memory.

Profile Pic & a Creep, Discussion.

As I’m checking out Facebook on my phone, I see her name, her new profile picture, and intense waves of sexual energy flood through me. Some women are so attractive that looking at them is almost physically painful, yet I continue looking, which I suppose makes me a sort of masochist.

Its a good pain, though.

Its just that the sight of them, or perhaps merely a photo, summons forth this intense, overabdundant energy you want to unleash upon them in the most wonderfully filthy way and yet you’re forced to contain this energy — maybe that’s where the nearly-physical-pain part comes from.

On this occasion, though, it was remarkably intense and left me with the insane desire to go above and beyond the immedeate, almost unconscious “heart” reaction I gave the photo. I wanted to comment on how amazing she looked, I wanted to message her, tell her about the two dreams I had regarding her, try to establish some overt form of contact — all insane shit I refused to allow myself to do, of course. I don’t want to be one of Those Guys. I refuse to be one of Those Guys. I don’t stalk, I silently obsess to the point of insanity. That’s my style.

I occasionally have this urge, but never this extreme. For fuck’s sake, I just jerked off before work, as is routine, so the sexual energy was replenished rather quickly.

“Maybe its not your energy,” I found myself thinking to myself. “Maybe she put a spell on you.”

“I think you overestimate your importance,” I reply to myself. “Of course, I’m not denying that remote influence is possible. And I do suspect she is into witchy things, and if she is, I feel confident the sexy beast would be rather adept at it. But any suspicions that she’s dream-invading or remotely influencing is absurd. You’re hardly on her radar, and there has been no external indication she’s even vaguely interested in you in even a platonic fashion. This is all you. This all your horny, daydreaming, intensely-emotional and agonizingly under-fucked self. You’ve been damming up your libido with self-denial like a psychic beaver for a very long time now and this gothy dominatrix is chip-chip-chipping away without even trying.”

“Maybe,” I said to me. “In any case, we are certainly going to masturbate ruthlessly to the thought of her once we get home and get sufficuently high, though.”

“Without question, you creep.”

“Well at least we can agree on that, creep.”

Customers of Confusion.

We close the dining room of our fast food palace of misery and chaos every day at nine o’clock, and on Sundays the entire store closes at that time. Its been this way since the dawn of the pandemic, and since shortly after Covid hit we’ve also had signs up on both drive-thru speakers informing anyone who pulls up that we close up early on Sundays.

Sometimes, due to being perpetually shorthanded, they’ll close up dining room early throughout the week, so early that the doors are locked when I arrive for my shift at three in the evening. When I go out for a smoke during my shift I used to tell people before they walk all the way up to the door or before they climb out of the car that we’re closed inside just to save them some time. Some are thankful, but most scowl and cuss at or in response to me as if I not only locked the doors myself but that I did it strictly for the purposes of ruining their day. As a consequence, I now do this selectively.

On Sundays, the situation is even worse after we close the entire store at nine. People will park at the drive-thru speaker for ten minutes, blind to the sign announcing we’re closed, waiting for someone to take their order. Vehicles will line up behind them, awaiting their turn to ignore the sign hanging in clear view before their selectively-ignorant faces before they finally, finally grow tired of waiting and then — not always, of course, but bloody often enough — cuss and scream and damn the place as a whole to hell before peeling off to put their low degree of maturity on full display.

This Sunday was no different in that respect, though it was a wee bit heavier on the weirdness and confusion.

As I was leaving last night and driving around the building towards the exit, I saw a pretty black lady in a dress with some beehive hairdo walk along the drive-thru pad. I decided when I drive by her I’d inform her we were closed. I watched as she put her purse down on the drive through pad and then walked toward the speaker, leaving it behind her without glancing back. That was only the first peculiar observation.

Within moments, I stopped right beside her just as she got to the speaker, hung my head out the window, and said, “Sorry, ma’am, we closed at nine.”

Unless she’s partially deaf, she had to have heard me; if by chance she couldn’t make out what I said, at the very least the sound of my voice certainly should have alerted her to my presence. It did not. She didn’t turn her head at all. Didn’t budge.

I then repeated myself, this time even louder, at which point she actually became alerted to my presence. Very casually, she then turned her head towards me and began placing her order, just as if she were talking to the drive-thru speaker to the other side of her.

“Hi,” she said in a voice that, while extremely polite, seemed unnaturally high-pitched, “can I get one of those frozen Cokes?”

I looked at her in a way that I feared betrayed my confusion and, as politely as I could manage, I repeated myself yet again.

“Ma’am, we closed at nine.”

“Oh,” she said, “you close at nine. Thank you.”

And then she continued walking on passed the speaker, her purse still on the drive-thru pad behind her, where she’d left it.

I’ve pretty much given up on people making any sense to me.

Maybe ADHD.

For years, I had my suspicions, though I never really looked into it, partially because I feared being right. Then a video popped up on my YouTube feed recently and I watched it — and subsequently got sucked down a rabbit hole. Hearing the alleged symptoms of ADHD, some of which I had never heard of before, really got me thinking.

Motivational issues. Emotional dysregulation. Distractability and hyperfocus. Daydreaming all day. Sleep issues. Anxiety and depression.

At first I didn’t think the hyperactivity part of the equation fit well until I learned that it can be inverted, particularly in adults — one may not be behaviorally hyperactive, in other words, but mentally hyperactive. In my case, that undoubtedly fits the bill. My brain never shuts up and I daydream all fucking day.

I knew there had to be a test online, but I wanted to make sure it was a test from a legitimate source, so I messaged a girl I know who’s a therapist and she provided me a link. I dodged taking the test for days until I finally sat down and took it. I scored a 40 out of 58. I was one point passed the “Attention Deficit Disorder Possible” camp and one point into the “Attention Deficit Disorder Likely” camp, which is to say that people who answer similarly to me on the test typically qualify for a diagnosis of ADD or ADHD.

Of course, I would have to see a therapist to get a proper diagnosis. And perhaps I don’t have it after all, but if I do and can get on medication, maybe I can get a better grip on my emotions, fire up my focus and motivation and get myself closer to where I fucking should be at 42 years of age.

The Gray Alien Girl (8/19/21 Dream).

The dream was strangely realistic, the environment just as it would have been had it happened in waking life, and when it first came to mind upon awakening I at first, in my confused, still half-asleep mind, assumed it was an authentic memory.

I’m at work, and earlier in the dream I had seen a depiction of the face of a Gray alien somewhere. Due to that, I was surprised when, upon passing by front drive thru, I had caught a glimpse of a tattoo of Gray aliens on the arm of some new girl at work whom I’d never seen before. She was skinny with long hair. Unaware that I was in a dream, I immedeately became intrigued by what I took to be synchronicity, but being shy, I didn’t say anything to her regarding the tattoo.

Later, as I went into the front drive-thru area to get a cup of coffee, it comes to my attention that the girl’s shirt also featured Gray aliens. Standing with my back to the drive-thru window, as I got my small coffee, I laughed, looked at her, and said something like, “So what’s with you and the little guys?” As I said it, I held out my hand, indicating their short stature.

She was standing a short distance away, near the cart where we put all the sauce packets, facing me, smiling. Though I can’t recall what she said, she seemed to be dodging the subject entirely, acting cagey, but in the most polite manner conceivable. I felt saddened by this, because I was hoping she would reveal that, like me, she had actually seen them.