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A full series of remembered dreams...
Jun. 3rd, 2007 10:03 amHigh Fidelity dreams, talking to my dad about Trivia, and knowledge to answers, which turnied into watching Rob, Barry and Dick sitting around talking about trivia.
After that was me and my family, in a restaurant, sifting through papers, looking through impornat informations, something about a prophecy, or about prophecy, in general. My cousins, there, looking at me, strangely. Putting pieces together.
Third section was about talking to people online, getting e-mails, and the like, and having to sort through spam in order to get to the e-mails that mattered. The spam was strewn throughout my inbox history, and I had to hunt it down. I woke up, at the end of it, when I found an e-mail from![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
venacava.
Spent about 20 minutes forcing myself to remember those dreams, and to get back to sleep. That shit is difficult to do at once, but I refused to only get six hours' sleep, again,resolved to both get back to sleeo, and remember my damned dreams.
Next set of dreams, very nonlinear: I was in a Conference room, in "The West Wing's" White House, and I'd just returned from haing been away, for a while. Just as President Bartlett comes out, to applause and stoicism, I realise that I am woefully under-dressed. I was wearing black jeans and my red dragon t-shirt; not press conference attire. I ran out of there, to go get dressed.
I was in the Old Philosophy and Religious Studies departments, over in the warren-like Arts and Humanities building, but the building was also Sacred Heart Hospital, from Scrubs. I was running around, in a panic, trying to find someone who would listen, as I told them what needed to happen, for us to survive as a department. After going through all the offices, Dr Kelso pulled me aside, and asked what I was doing. We sat in the stairwell, and I told him about my plans to bridge connections between Philosophy and Religious Studies, and between Philosophy and other disciplines, allowing for an interdisciplinary interdependence or at least -connection, Dr Kelso laughed in my face, for thinking that Dr Herman would ever go for that, as that's who I was thinking of asking. When I explained all the things that would happen, if done right, he stopped laughing, and told me to tell people. I went out of the hallway, looking for more people to tell, and was in the White House auditorium...
I was then running through the streets, around here, the Oakhurst/Agnes Scott area, trying to get to what was, in the dream, "my old house." I still needed some appropriate clothes for the conference, and as I turned a corner and saw N. Park Drive, but reveresed, I remembered that my clothes wouldnt' be there, anymore. They had automatically been transferred to a new closet, when the new tenants had come in. So I turned around, and cut through several side strets, almost getting hit by a truck that was driving through the fences fo a church yard. Not knocking them down, mind you, but driving through them, phase-shifting.. I dodged out of the way, and rolled back to my feet, running down the drive way, and out on to another street.
I was then joined by two guys, one of whom was definately ex-secret service, or maybe not so ex, the other of whom was our neighbourhood conspiracy nut. They would regularly jog together, in the early mornings, and they thought I was out, with them, by coincidence. At least, the second guy did. After a brief exchange of glances and nods, they continued their conversation, the Government Spookjob talking about how you could always tell a NATO hit job, by certain earmarks, at the scene, almost completely unnoticeable, unless you were looking for them. (Cibo Matto - [Working for Vacation]). The spook stopped at a phone booth, next to a diner, which was way out in the middle of nowhere, as well as being right there, in the middle of this residential city area; the nutjob and I continue running, and he asked about my work. I replied that my life was full of enough weird shit, as it was, with what my family did, that I didn't need to compound it by joining the NSA. He looked at me, strangely, then, and I repeated myself. He chuckled, and started to walk into the diner on the corner, but stopped and turned to me. He held out a diner butter knife, with a diamond-patterned handle and said, with a certain gravity, "You know, I thought there wasn't any difference between the diamond handled knives, and the smooth ones? Most people don't think there is; but these guys," he nodded his head back toward the diner's interior, "assure me that you can tell the difference, when you know." I knew that he was talking about heft, weight, balance, and accuracy for throwing. I woke up.
Cibo Matto - [Blue Train]--- I feel much better, today, even if I did still only get 6.75 hours' sleep. It worked. Dreams remembered.
What are you thinking about, lately?
After that was me and my family, in a restaurant, sifting through papers, looking through impornat informations, something about a prophecy, or about prophecy, in general. My cousins, there, looking at me, strangely. Putting pieces together.
Third section was about talking to people online, getting e-mails, and the like, and having to sort through spam in order to get to the e-mails that mattered. The spam was strewn throughout my inbox history, and I had to hunt it down. I woke up, at the end of it, when I found an e-mail from
venacava.Spent about 20 minutes forcing myself to remember those dreams, and to get back to sleep. That shit is difficult to do at once, but I refused to only get six hours' sleep, again,resolved to both get back to sleeo, and remember my damned dreams.
Next set of dreams, very nonlinear: I was in a Conference room, in "The West Wing's" White House, and I'd just returned from haing been away, for a while. Just as President Bartlett comes out, to applause and stoicism, I realise that I am woefully under-dressed. I was wearing black jeans and my red dragon t-shirt; not press conference attire. I ran out of there, to go get dressed.
I was in the Old Philosophy and Religious Studies departments, over in the warren-like Arts and Humanities building, but the building was also Sacred Heart Hospital, from Scrubs. I was running around, in a panic, trying to find someone who would listen, as I told them what needed to happen, for us to survive as a department. After going through all the offices, Dr Kelso pulled me aside, and asked what I was doing. We sat in the stairwell, and I told him about my plans to bridge connections between Philosophy and Religious Studies, and between Philosophy and other disciplines, allowing for an interdisciplinary interdependence or at least -connection, Dr Kelso laughed in my face, for thinking that Dr Herman would ever go for that, as that's who I was thinking of asking. When I explained all the things that would happen, if done right, he stopped laughing, and told me to tell people. I went out of the hallway, looking for more people to tell, and was in the White House auditorium...
I was then running through the streets, around here, the Oakhurst/Agnes Scott area, trying to get to what was, in the dream, "my old house." I still needed some appropriate clothes for the conference, and as I turned a corner and saw N. Park Drive, but reveresed, I remembered that my clothes wouldnt' be there, anymore. They had automatically been transferred to a new closet, when the new tenants had come in. So I turned around, and cut through several side strets, almost getting hit by a truck that was driving through the fences fo a church yard. Not knocking them down, mind you, but driving through them, phase-shifting.. I dodged out of the way, and rolled back to my feet, running down the drive way, and out on to another street.
I was then joined by two guys, one of whom was definately ex-secret service, or maybe not so ex, the other of whom was our neighbourhood conspiracy nut. They would regularly jog together, in the early mornings, and they thought I was out, with them, by coincidence. At least, the second guy did. After a brief exchange of glances and nods, they continued their conversation, the Government Spookjob talking about how you could always tell a NATO hit job, by certain earmarks, at the scene, almost completely unnoticeable, unless you were looking for them. (Cibo Matto - [Working for Vacation]). The spook stopped at a phone booth, next to a diner, which was way out in the middle of nowhere, as well as being right there, in the middle of this residential city area; the nutjob and I continue running, and he asked about my work. I replied that my life was full of enough weird shit, as it was, with what my family did, that I didn't need to compound it by joining the NSA. He looked at me, strangely, then, and I repeated myself. He chuckled, and started to walk into the diner on the corner, but stopped and turned to me. He held out a diner butter knife, with a diamond-patterned handle and said, with a certain gravity, "You know, I thought there wasn't any difference between the diamond handled knives, and the smooth ones? Most people don't think there is; but these guys," he nodded his head back toward the diner's interior, "assure me that you can tell the difference, when you know." I knew that he was talking about heft, weight, balance, and accuracy for throwing. I woke up.
Cibo Matto - [Blue Train]--- I feel much better, today, even if I did still only get 6.75 hours' sleep. It worked. Dreams remembered.
What are you thinking about, lately?
