It's a mindfulness exercise, partially decentralized via the web, but we gather over the three days to be. Part of the deal is that we rotate up bodies, sleeving into each-other for a day or two or more. I've drawn V's out of the hat. And now I'm walking by a strip mall in the Kelowna Summer, realizing that I'm ten-ish years older, aging like a cis woman does. Long-faced. Poised. On waking reflection, I realize she's a voice actress.

On the last day we might use a full pod. A silicon-skinned clanky. The kind they give you if you've been mangled in an accident. I wouldn't mind going full borg, even if they are primitive machines. I wonder how it would feel. There's a bus crash on the news. We offer a survivor a new body.

I'm getting a lot of dreams where I'm sleeved thus. Casually. Blissfully. A consistant theme in the sleeves.
Over there, in my family's house, in dreams as long as I can remember, there have been secret rooms. The slide in the church basement (age 4), the extra room between my bedroom wall and the washroom (10? 12), the club washroom with a hatch into the underworld and the red-headed psychopomp's friend (27?) until last night where I remember remembering another dream. My dreams build on each-other you see.


Here, tonight, in the basement/crawlspace there was, if you shimmied around enough, a thin 2' high 2.5' wide corridor with two 2' x 1.5' vertical shafts in it. If you went down there, you would finally know - is it a vestigial chute from unfinished construction collecting trash or the secret extra basement? The one you've thought about, wondered about. But if you went and checked it out, you couldn't get back out without help. And if no-one know you're down here doing some domestic spelunking... well, that'd be that. And even if they did, its a maze and your voice might give out before they found you.

Anyways. That house, in this dream, was my grandparents', now always somewhere not in the Okanagan but between Ioco and North Van. And if I (in this case also Spiderman) went there, I could not get out on my own. I needed a camera on a pole, or a waldo or a drone or some damn thing that I had only parts of in a trash bag with some laundry. So I was going to cross the street to get the Kingsway bus West, home.


On the opposite corner, we were readying for war amidst the migration. The evacuation. Not 100% real, wait-around-then-piss-yourself-in-fear war, but more like the Battlefield games. And I'm there and my hair is pinned back above my BDU collar in a nice dark women's NCO reg cut, I had... let's inventory... full spectrum field glasses, a smart map and an entrenching tool. Great. I'm an indispensable geographic/spotter/observer unit without a fucking gun. That's more like real warfare for you - we're the ones who win this thing, but who will -play- as this class?

The Sergeant, a balding redheaded man who has a gun and needs to go use it because this is getting less like a game every second, yells "Hyun-Sing - get in the one-man!" I guess he means me? Deadname of Eun-Soo? Lunar compatriot of Emily Watkins, now back in time to launch the apocalypse? Sure. Anyways, he needs me to escort the civs out. The one-man, once his now mine, is a nice low-profile Scuttle Tank about 70cm' high and 1m wide. Great for swarm tactics. The inside is like slipping into a shopping cart. But it has a full-colour HUD and it trundles along the walkway where the crosswalk would have been if we were an early 21st century city.

We don't bother with encryption. The enemy can't understand us and vice-versa. I know my signals, and the Scut's directional antenna is picking up fast approaching Queen chatter at 6-high. I could turn to level the main gun now that I have one, but that's the one direction that my damn vision is blocked by the red and blue entry plastic. My feet can direct the Scuttle so I reach out and pick at it and light shines through. And more than light. I calmly see the enemy's shadows, hovering in fast. I know my comrades have our rear.

Onward? Onward. I'll try to get a clear view.
Another dream of a movie that I want to see but which hasn't quite come out yet. This one - Alien: Covenant
http://www.digitalspy.com/movies/alien/feature/a670539/alien-covenant-everything-you-need-to-know-about-prometheus-2-including-release-date-cast-and-spoilers/

At first, we just know that we're doomed. All of us in a sprawling industrial structure, all of us in a nightclub or cathedral. Knowing that one among us has been infected; that it will turn him to an inhuman raging beast. And knowing that the same thing is in me, pushing me, pushing me, sharpening my reactions, my assertions up to and over that 65% agitation mark of no return, and in my head I'm crawling eagerly to a point of no longer giving a shit about human limits, or morals. The woman in the trailer who points out that "we don't know what the fuck's out there?" I'm her, if she decided not to be automaticaly marked as 3rd-tier lead. If she was played by Charlize Theron, of the prequel, and of "Monster."

And in all this something that was never human in the first place has scuttled out into the terrestrial ecosystem and it will breed. And it will kill all of us.

And then the second part. We're on the ship. Or I am. And one of The Engineers is there. Only she's a pleasantly dowdy red-nosed (9' tall, extraterrestrial) British retiree caravaning by the sea in her giant biomechanical space horseshoe-with-vagina-entrance. And she's downplaying the risk of the escaped creature. To her it's nothing unusual - tea? And two other engineers come over. These ones are pale and Other. And since they may smash impudent humans, I am polite as hell with Our Makers. But one puts his hand on my head, and he knows. Because I'm this character here (https://youtu.be/Dsh_wFI0uMU?t=74). And he asks if that's what's bothering me, and I say yes. And while their weapons are terrifying, and their pets or pests might doom your planet, Engineer medicine is pretty straightforward and painless. Admittedly their idea of a typical feminine appearance is what you'd expect from a race of marble giants with genitals that speak to a larval invertebrate fixation, but it's still an improvement. And I'm gonna take it because I know they're dying and the looters will be here soon to let their demons out and into our world. And when one says that all we do is ask for things, I'm candid and mention that we feel inadequate in comparison and what's a couch to crash on for a star-trotter? And he smiles and says that he'd love to come over. And the looters will come soon, and the demon will get out, and we'll all be lucky to live.

What's curious is that I was archetypically female, and probably cis, at the top of the dream, and decidedly female - and transitioning - at the end. Like 10 years into starting hormone blockers my subconscious is saying

--- /This is real. It's happened. The world might be on fire. And you just might not survive. But you're going to be okay. /
 The dream:

Well, crap. Just when you think you've annihilated one alien warship, it turns out the entire thing is a trap and that warp in space that ran their engines is playing merry hell with the impulse drive. Which is to say: the Enterprise is going down.

We crash-land on a snow-blasted landscape. Between this and the battle, 60% survive. And, in the distance, a valley, IR, and chlorophyll. We're here for the long haul, so we descend.

The deeper you go into this green gouge in a frozen iceball, the warmer it gets. Deeper down, the people who have lived her for centuries have adapted, settled. Which means a complex series of humanoid-sized tubes running down into the lake-sized spring. It's... a waterslide.

Some of the crew, tired, a little freaked out, and now giddy, and want to hop in.

"Speaking as your cultural officer, I'd advise against that. One: Prime directive. They have waterslides, but do they have warp? Two: Warp or no, these are obviously really important to them. Like, they're the only above-ground structure. They may be signif-"

The round of whoops and splashes goes to prove that you can lead a group of shell-shocked Ensigns to water but you can't make them stay out of it.

A few mornings later, Kirk knocks and enters the buried titanium wreckage turned bunker, in which my bedroom lies. I'm groggy. Since no one is listening to their cultural officer, I've been catching up on sleep.

Kirk gives me the bad news. They've been crucified.

"Okay. How can I help?"

____________

Often, when a sci-fi movie comes out, my dreams will generate a version of it. 

Like The Maxx says: "The shows in my head are always so much better."

We're all down there, in the twisting depths. And we don't know who is pulling the strings but this entire ordeal is set up to see if we crack. Having solved the other challenges, the vending machine that is also the slide to the next stage implies some pretty horrible glass-and-filth things if we activate the slide "wrong" ...and some moderately horrible (glass OR filth) things if we do it right.

One of us breaks away to backtrack up, reach the surface that way. On a higher, more spacious level he encounters a large number of younger women in some looks-centred profession (commercial actors? hosts?) who have a different set of challengces. Les repugnant to us, more to them.

Who is putting us through these paces?

A second person break off to ascend past where we entered, high and higher un-levels. Eventually she reaches the case of Next Gen, only with a few substitutions (Diana's CAFAB-looking son, for example)

______

 A dream of Snowpiercer. Only this was really good and had no plot holes. In fact, the rest of the world was running along just fine - it was merely perpetually chilly out, a sudden but not dire ice age, and other trains and commerce were proceeding in the usual fashion. We were just going too fast to see anything. Still, the rebellion had to continue.

______

At the Battle of Stalingrad. No overt fighting in the safe zone. Just lots of cautious movement for fear of snipers, and gross deprivation. Always always cold.

Sleep following on recovering from food poisoning, and a 02:30 angst-induced "two-character exercise" for which I was absent. (conclusion - the act of shopping it around now indicates its salability later)

___

He Who is Visiting has positive cancer tests

___

All of us are working service support jobs for The Avengers. They're off somewhere. That dog isn't of earth. Breastfeeding it is a good way to get your organs sucked out - see diagram. Suggest dog-food instead. Talking to its human. They are nomadic.

___

Going to meet a woman by the neo-skytrain in... Largely? Elevated long-running, wide-bodied post-West-Coast0Express transit vehicle. She has a profile akin to the one who taught me to "breathe" (tall-ish, dreads), but it's not her. It's someone I haven't met yet. I go to get my ticket but the train leaves. That was the last one for awhile. I guess I'll have a long trip.

___

Sorceror's/Adepts club. Unknown Armies style. Two gifted types in attendance (in waking life: 1. do we call them "mage," 2. I have met, bob of dark hair, light tan skin... the name I can't remember?) join flesh (literally) to embody the three-faced one. A few tweaks on the flesh like clay, a few tests hand-walking, pressing a coin into our skin until it leaves its face, rubbing it smooth again, and wondering if I'm steering it too much (but of course, we are all now "I") and I/We are ready to go.

After coming in from the night, realizing I am an older version of the one who plays Anne-onymous. Someone is here to contract us to something overpriced. My landlord is coming. The people on the ground floor have skipped out.

I am grateful for the Cat. On Thursday, she arranged for her old chum to walk me through basic makeup. A week prior, she came with me for professional acting headshots in three genders. On Friday, following her advice, I took the day off and actually slept well. I will have to do more of this.


The following are steeped in dream-allegory. Usually to sci-fi and, to a rarer extend other forms of spec fic, as I consume it. On TV first, then on film, then in larp it seems (this is new!), then in text.

I am told that other people on the spectrum also relate to their world in pop nerd culture allegory.



On a side note, these are following up on an earlier week where I dreamed I was acting in contemporary American re-makes of two shows: Ghost in the Shell and... something else. Curiously, GITS and BSG are both being rebooted South of the border.





Ogres and Fairies

A woman and her partner are in a field in a large garden on a fine and misty morning. Their relationship is strained. Both are pale. Her hair is black and shoulder-length; zer hair is a dark tawny, boyish and ragged.

As if someone had torn open a bag high above, small gifts - hats, rings, and other jewellery - rain out of the sky. The partner becomes larger, more ogreish as ze sweeps them up in zer hands. The woman becomes smaller, blocked out of the showering by her partners thorny, lumpy mass.

Someone tosses a pair of homemade lace butterfly wings, the size of an actual butterfly. Perfect. Beautiful. And a carryable size. But the ogre sweeps them up in zer hands. But now, somehow, there are actual butterfly wings. The woman, now tiny, dashes out to collect them. She catches them.

I strap them onto my back and fly off.

I hide in a dugout cabin as The Owners come past. Youths all, gabbing. Terrible and dangerous. And also huge in relation to my current size. I am about to leave when a young owner, looking eight if she were a human, and her mother come in. If I am caught, it would be unpleasant. If I am caught fleeing, it would be worse.

I dart up to alight on a rafter. Their conversation sounds normal, but I can't parse a single word. Like they are exchanging the idea of speech.

Eventually they leave. So do I.



A long corridor in a hospital. Extended care. Degenerative neural diseases. I mean a *long* corridor. It is the way between Their world and ours.

I flit above everyone, on the exposed pipes and ducts all painted hospital-white.

Two patients are there, Distressed and semi-coherent,  on suicide watch. One reports surviving abuse. She is referred to a psychiatrist.


There is a police department that misses me, a Captain. The two officers do not know that I am in the room with them, listening from behind some books on a desk. They speak of the people they've interviewed. It is a procedural show that I am in then? Alright then. I'll look into this, all tiny and absent.

I flit back to the hospital. To one of the patients in interview, she shudders in an armchair. Why so distressed now? I overhear their conversation - ah - it is the psychiatrist that is abusing her. Mystery solved! Now how to go about-

-the patient is up off her chair and over to the psychiatrist. She stabs him in the neck with a screw driver six, seven, eight, nine times. And she leaves.

Well, shit. Suddenly showing up and talking to her wouldn't exactly work. She'll Disbelieve me or crush me.

I am gone.


Out, in a sunny misty street. I run into an old friend.

The pixie woman flies up at her old friend. To attract her attention. The friend sees, the refugee pixie and acknowledges her, and her changed state. This, or something like it, has happened before. The ogre-partner - there is news of zer. The specifics are... what? Strange. Depressing. Alien. Full of closure. 

I can't hear the details as I am viewing from down on the ground. Now I am wearing all green to match my tawny hair. I have no wings. I am like a grasshopper. I am her male counterpart. I leap up to participate in the conversation, feeling somewhat left out.



This is a clear reference to Changeling: the Lost, which I played on Saturday.

I have been that tawny-and-green lad before. Ze is a guide for those who journey through other states of consciousness.

I have also been a winged Fairie in dreams. But full sized, with great billowing black wings, riding the currents of night. Also female then.





An Exodus after Caprica

They never found a planet. Not one unoccupied, or one willing to receive them. The intervening decades have not been kind but they have been formative. And our generation has grown up in dark, steel-and-glass spaces between stars. It is always night for us. Harsh sunlight without an atmosphere? That is not "day." It is like one hot light in a dark theatre.

There were spaces of other survivors from other colonies - despotic and with a certain reliance on cannibalism. We learned from them. But we were compassionate.

We are here. In a garden. At night, more or less. A nice place to stroll under lattice windows that keep out the vacuum. A small sun in the distance perhaps. But always night.

I explain our history things to the latest round of nuggets, as we call any student now. It was a term favoured by a woman like my grandmother-of-position if not of-genes. Her name was Starbuck. I carry that name too.

We are here.


Look at other dreams of BSG for contrast



Why these dreams are unusual:

from John Varley's Steel Beach.

Context: Hildy Johnson is one of the few humans on Luna who grew up on Earth. Ze is a newspaper reporter. Ze lives as a newspaperman, reporting in a society where people don't really read any more, but ze's employed in large part because because the Central Computer ("CC") has figured out that if humans don't spend a few hours a week engaged in some kind of "work" - even if it's standing around staring at an automated construction site while leaning on a shovel - we start to go a bit poorly in the head.

Even someone as well-adjusted as Hildy has attempted suicide four times. The last three were at home in private. The CC intervened, then wiped zer memory of the event. Most recently however, ze deliberately got into a barfight with a very large engineered thug. Ze remembers lying on an operating table... and then waking up on a desert island? Weird.

That was a year ago. It's an easily-inhabited island, curiously so. It's been a simple enough survival effort. But today a ship stopped off and a man in a uniform came ashore, claiming to be a figurative embodiment of the Central Computer, who had created a short hallucination with a year of memories attached. i.e. a dream

Before, if things collapsed, at least there was air to breathe.

Nowhere in the solar system did humans now live where the air was free. To "forget" how to implant memories in the human brain the CC would no doubt have to forget many other things. He would have to limit his abilities and, as he pointed out, unless he decreased his intelligence deliberately to a point that might endanger the very humans he was designed to protect, he would re-chisel this particular wheel in due time. And it was also true that the CC of Mars or Triton would certainly discover the techniques on their own, though the rumor was none of the other planetary computers was so far evolved as the Lunar CC. As nations which often found themselves in competition, the Eight Worlds did not encourage a lot of intercourse between their central cybernets. So all the reasons he stated sounded reasonable. It was railroad time, so somebody would build a choo-choo. But what didn't ring true was what the CC had left out. He liked the new capability. He was as pleased as a child with a new toy monorail.

"I have one further proof," the Admiral said. "It involves something I mentioned earlier. Acts that were out of character. This is the biggest one, and it involves you not noticing something that, if these memories had been generated by you, you surely would have noticed. You would have spotted it by now yourself, except I've kept your mind occupied. You haven't had time to really think back to the operating table, and the time immediately before that."

"It's not exactly fresh in my mind."

"Of course not. It feels as if it all happened a year ago."

"So what is it? What didn't I notice?"

"That you are female."

"Well, of course I'm—"

Words fail me again. How many degrees of surprise can there be?

Imagine the worst possible one, then square it, and you'll have some notion of how surprised I was. Not when I looked reflexively down at my body, which was, as the CC had said and I had known all along, female. No, the real shock came when I thought back to that day in the Blind Pig. Because that was the first moment in one year that I had realized I had been male when I got in the fight. I had been male when I went on the operating table.

And I had been female when I appeared on the beach of Scarpa Island.

 

And I simply had never noticed it.
 

 

Something continues to shake loose in my unconscious. Something regendered, properly gendered. This is very healthy.
 This level of fatigue on a night like tonight
It is like tipping back into a rich dark sinkhole
And falling, free and scared into sleep
Immersed in dreams in the river that runs under the world
Hercules in a test of strength TV show against  mere mortals. Muppets. When the scaffolding disappears, Xavier helps us find Magneto. Psychic devouring ensues.

I am her lower-ranking second agent. In the maze of worlds, we find a "massage parlour" with a key. Turn it once and you used to work there. Turn it twice and you get a promotion. Turn it three times and you run it, and work your old job - and don't sleep much. Turn it four times, and now I'm the peculiar lady running this place in front of envious workers.

I'm trying to navigate back to the roomshare in a decrepit mansion. The world is sunlit at 3:30 am. Mildly buzzed salarymen, done their gambling, drift home with me.


Showering before bed is good, but it can add an extra task when I should just close my eyes. Turning off the heat at night makes it a lot easier to sleep. Now I need to focus on getting to bed, ready to sleep *in time.*
 
This month's task: spend an hour before bed without bright lights, including screens.
Dreams of an unsuccessful wrestle with the captain's mother, followed by duel with the Captain (a Crybaby-style Johnny Depp dressed like Hook) that ends with one fell slash and the smell of ruptured intestines. Victory, and an agonizing death.

 

Dollhouse +5 years

Dreams of a mob fleeing from South America in an APC, tracked from sattellites in league with Perrin's New America. I am Echo.

Prohibition is still going strong, and I'm setting up a party in a large rez dorm. A fire breaks out and Prof. Arturo is adjusting the remote. A girl breaks away from her mother and jumps through the vortex. "Corazon" her mother calls after her. The professor goes.

I guess it's my turn next. Jump. And land in the mean streets of another world.

The alarm interrupts our adventures.

Up for a stroll 05:30 in the old industrial patch near Hastings where I used to live. Just near the big warehouses that double as music studios. I walk towards the sun rising over Grandview.

Lucid? Almost lucid?

A crowd of people run South, up the bicycle path. It's like a cross-section of Vancouver is out jogging this morning.

I turn North. Wow. There's a lot of people here.

I pull one woman aside. 

"What are you doing?" I ask.

She turns - close-cropped graying hair and a retroreflective blue-striped tracksuit - a smirk.

"Helping you dream" she says.

And she runs off.

 

Hermes has been trying to get my acknowledgement, my attention, my respect for some time.
__________________
 

Imagine  a jagged mountain shaped like a kolrabi, top and bottom.

It floats, slowly rotating two or more kilometers above the rural valley.

Like a Laputa. But this is no refuge for idle intellectuals. The minds here are honed and their edge tested.

Well, maybe not that honed. I am in slow orbit of its mass, π/12 off the equitorial. Its Higgs Bosons, tilted and skewed off of spacetime by psychic whim, keep it heavy and high off the earth and me, attuned to it with the help of my suit, in freefloat around it. I lost my grip some time ago, likely having blown a test to scale in properly. I can only hope not to make an ass of myself on the way in.

The main equitorial dock rotates into view. And oblong rectangle and much more 

Okay. Adjust my descent. I twist my mass a few degrees, but I'm not skilled, not powerful enough to make it. I'm going scrape hard, then slip out of orbit. It's a long way down to the Earth - or more likely, and worse, it's a public rescue. Not a fall, but a fail.

Rotate the mass of the pod and slip the aft into the Earth's well 10% and invert the spacetimeplane on the reverse. θ -> π/12? I think. My teacher thinks. She thinks in my head. I think in her head.


We think.

And the sixty or so students within do that. Their/our applied subjectivity gently nudges our mass-existence onto the slope of the Earth's gravity well on one side and away from the other. The structure, tugged by the Earth, tilts. Mass shifts. I float/coast/freefall...

...through the dock. And inside. Uninjured.

It's like Giger took up interior decoration. It's like termites ran Ikea. It's alive, sort of. Not like us. Obediant yet terrifyingly dominant. Smooth. Peanut coloured, pea, and muted saffron. Rounded, arched, rippled. Translucent lights added with orthodox electrics powered by repurposed digestive acids. Beautiful.

I float across and into the main classroom, rotating on my back and looking "ahead" through my shaggy brown hair and over my nose-ring. I coast down, and gently pitch until I land on the foot-high radial ripples that are our chairs, our benches. I catch my breath.

My instructor, our psychic queen in her heavy diving suit, smiles.

Well done. She thinks, and turns to the class.

What? Oh. Was that the test? Is she pleased. I slipped off. I fucked up the climb. Was that a set-up? Or just an obvious consequence of my behaviour that she foresaw and... used?

My mark is solid. I am in the top tier. There is another like me. I catch a glimpse of her. Like the rest of our class our uniforms are beetle-like; leathery, chitenously armoured and symbiotic. Tendons for strength-amplification and gas-cycling lumps that keep us alive and tethered to the psychic mass. We are perfection in utero.

"You are going to be going into the deep unconscious" she speak not with her cortex but with her larynx, as she does when she means business.

Oh. This is the final exam. Right.

"You will be walking around the world. In the dark. For about three weeks. You will be facing the deep subconscious fears projected from one of your classmates."

I've heard of this. This is what separates the children from the women.

"This is a 3 out of 13 on difficulty. Pack food. Team up."

And a tent. Something to bound your space and shield your subjectivity from that monstrously infinite holy blackness.

Also - the scale actually goes from 1 to 13 and then over from 1 to 3 again in the "lethal to all" super-range.

We're babies at this.

And yeah. I'm scared.

I catch her eye quickly. Not the teacher-queen; the other one like me. Except she is pale and black-haired, with black-framed rectangle glasses. Fifteen years old. Picture Homura. But I know her in waking life. This is Brook, just under different circumstances. Eyes brush past. We know. We are among the best of grades but we are not social alphas. We learn because we love it. And we do not want to stand in the alphas' way. We let the social acknowledgment of peership fall slack and turn away.

But her and I on a team? Unstoppable. Or at least optimal. Not really fair to everyone else though. We should take along someone who is struggling. Not someone who fails because she makes trouble. Just someone who is a bit behind. I mean, how else would this be fair? Or a proper challenge?

And, another question seemingly unrelated - whose fears will be actualized in that dark place?

Ah. Of course. To keep it fair.

No.

Our Queen doesn't believe in fair. To keep it a challenge.

It will be one of us. Her or me.

Is it "Challenge Accepted?"

 


Damn the alarm clock. That was just getting good.

 

 

Consider. The offer of dream-help.

Consider: Watching "Hearts of Darkness." About the making of Apocalypse Now.

Watching Coppola talk about growing by facing your fears by becoming them, then moving past. Watching how messed up US/Vietnam-war films are, and how incredibly colonialist just-short-of-hate-speech the source text is. My fear of being a bad person. Of being thought a bad person. Facing that. A recent incident that prompted two earlier posts is the penultimate exam. Facing that. Coming out better, one hopes. Still facing th
at. To be thought is to become? No, too weak. I'll need to do something more direct. This is going to take awhile.


Consider:

What lacked in my life that I struggle to make up for?

Body/identity integrity. Ostracized. Bored.

This by contrast: Gender integration. Included by those who matter. Engaged, eager and challenged.


Consider:

Night-terror-like spatial distortions in closing my eyes under the effects of Wellbutrin



Consider:

Eleanor Lamb. Emma Frost. Homura Akemi and Sakaya Miki. Psychonauts

I really missed having a media-archetype-saturated science-fiction dream


Consider:

Dreams of acrobatics in lunar G

Dreams of trying to find gender euphoria in adolescence that were interrupted by waking, much like this one, because I was on the wrong track. Am I know in this residual pining? If so, how? Detect and fix. The solution is in fear. In becoming it.

 

 

Thee events, each held three times. I compete in the "exhibition," a sort of modified downhill obstacle course and win. There is a large cash prize to be had for the best time.

I stay behind to help people wrangle enough bins to clean up the mess, offering my own supply of bins

An instructor wants me to help a student overcome her computer addiction.

And then I am read the small print -  you have to run in all three.

___

In helping others, I have lost the time to help myself

I've spent a lot of time doing that in the last few days: helping a drunk neighbour find her car, acting as a counselor. I helped someone scout for trans actors, but in not sticking up for myself, probably lost the chance to audition. And money is tighter than I'd like

And in not helping myself, I have restricted my ability to help others in the future. And also set myself up in a "I lose / you win" kind of situation.

Dreams: 

Staying up all night into the next morning. My reflection looks weirdly tired. Going to my Mum's place in the hill. In a cab. Can reach 120km/h by pushing on the wheel/road/assist device in just the right way. Can actually go 53,000km in a day. Why not go across Russia?


1970s Aboriginal Cultural appropriation military awards to Miss Piggy as guest on The Tonight Show, ca 1978

Robotic puppy/toy. Put it on your head and wear a hoodie to make it look like your head and it looks like a demon. Put it under your shirt and it kicks like a baby



On a side note, I'm taking a dopamine reuptake inhibitor. I'm told that vivid dreams are one of the side effects.

I keep having dreams where I'm in a confined space with an everyday-looking but very dangerous man. He doesn't want me to leave the car,the warehouse, whatever. So I go for the throat with whatever object is at hand - a pen, garden shears, something pointy /andor sharp. I hit my target - there's a hole where his carotid should be; his spinal cord should be severed. But her keeps coming at me, restraining.

The one I just had was long and especially awful. The attack was more clear. The outcome of not freeing myself was being tortured and executed. The space was a large industrial site. And the violence was explicit - ragged skin flaps, exposed spine - and he just kept coming, cocky as he broke my ribs.

I think this dream has been happening since transition. What is this man, the fear that creates him? A different experience of the threat of stranger violence, as a butchy passing-transsexual woman rather than as a feminine cis-looking guy? Or is my futile fight a symbol of my 90%-of-the-time inability to shake the feeling that I haven't actually transitioned, no matter what I do? Or just a straight-up desire for power over the people I'm afraid might rule society?

Dreampt that I wrested the golden ring from Cersei after a scuffle. I spring the dragon from its cage and it is mine now.

Found someone else from Earth, who was peddling VCR parts as miraculous curosities

_____

 

A sentencing circle and a band leader accused of murder. They decide to test whether his community actually supports him.

Temporarily free, he hosts an orgy. As with all orgies, there is someone there whom I'm more interested in than others; someone whom I've always had strong feelings for. Do I partake? As with all orgies, I am reluctant. I am looking for reasons not to get involved; reasons to be asexual. At last around some people. Maybe I could lie nearby? But it's her. And she's interested in me too. And this is probably the only chance we'll ever get.

But there are hints that something is amiss. People going missing. I am in the rafters soon, in black-tac, sneaking, like Chris.

Like TV: a sunny and rolling landscape, like widescreen California, where youth with magical secrets receive their elixirs. Each bottle strangely numbered to indicate its effects. I secretly quaff those of a fried, her numbers are 3-6-9. Drink this one and I look so young, I look how I feel when I play the larp character Emily the Science Nerd and I realize what was supposed to happen when I was fifteen, but which was derailed by being in the closet. How odd. How pleasant, this. My friend, experience and gothy, she says there's a drawback, a bounce, a price. I'm curious, but not deterred.

Moving on.

Dropping and being someone in a dream is nice, but what happens when the dream is done? Do they wake up with missing time, or do they remember being your puppet? Will this good ol' boy like the fact that a transsexual was dreaming that I was him? At least I did so unknowingly and didn't destroy his life. Saul is out there, and he joyrides his host bodies. And here he comes, angry.

I drift outside of the man I am riding. I let him speak. He's not happy about this. I explain myself, the situation, and leave.

I am a guest here.

This time I wake up in the traveller's lodge. In a body built to spec. It's my proxy self. A fluid disposable with no original consciousness. Much more ethical. And it looks different from how I do day to day. It looks like all those other women who, in my waking life, rounded out the audition room for the EMT role: dark hair in a long ponytail that suits her face, that doesn't make her look like a long-haired rocker boy. Fit, like I am now, but not in such a way that makes her afraid to stretch, lest she tear the shoulders out of her blouse. Someone who had time to be functional, and isn' racing to make up for a decade and a half inching along in the closet. Oh, and a tan. I'm through with sunburns.

It's not that bad in waking life. In waking life, I look pretty sharp, my health is good, and people generally assume I'm a woman. But what's important here, More importantly, most importantly, she's not like the person I remember seeing in the mirror all through the wrong puberty. Not like that ghost that is riding me. As her, I have space.

The body isn't stable of course. But the first thing I could do when I figured out how to work a basic lucid dream is to dream my way into a more comfortable body. And it's an improvement. But even when my focus shifts, and my subconscious self image reasserts itself, my body stays female.
Right. I should really tell people.

I see Christopher, or at least his parallel, and I ask him if he saw The Thirteenth Floor. "Because it's like that."

He's skeptical of course. But this is a dream. And I've been lucid dreaming for a bit and I have my tricks. In this case, telekinesis. Observe sir.

Now he's starting to get it.

Of course, I'm not the only rider in here. There are people here from six, seven universes up. People who stop through my waking life on their way here.

I will swim back up with them later.

Dreams

Aug. 16th, 2013 03:24 am
Arguments about building construction machines out a lego

Running from secretive neighbours down a flooded street.

Dream of a soceity run by AI's, deisgned by "Aurora Twice," "Twice-Twice," "Twice-Twice-Twice," and so on. Twins, triplets all.

Repeating grade six.

A medieval war in a battlefield. Bronze swords. Run a man through. Spooked by this, surrender, taken hostage by another.
The landlord had taken up the pleasant grass and weeds in the hallway and replaced them with grey-boarded red linoleum. The industrial stuff. He aims to turn this bohemian artist's colony into a profit-making enterprise.

 Dreamed of an alien "invasion."

More of a giant saucer over a city.

An opportunity to join it on its next voyage. A tall alien, like a bland man, is our guide/pilot/leader.

He offers me changes to my body. I delay. Next time I'll get what I want. I pospone. He makes whatever alterations he thinks are right.

We are in Nelson. Again. In the near future. Time dilation? Wormhole effects? Are we even in the same plane?

We've been "away" two years. The city is largely abandoned. But we need groceries. The new co-op should provide.

I see myself. I am awkwardly assembled. Clunky. And this body is pre-op. Again.

Well, I've been through it once...

 

 

(I keep dreaming I have sensate genitals - ones without nerve damage - but of the wrong kind)

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