Strange Dreams

On the plus side, at least your dreams are honest about who you may have a realistic chance with. Other dreams are dirty filthy liars that get your hopes up.

same, it's not celebrities for me though but just random women i know and usually not ones I'm attracted to

maybe it's our brains telling us to go out and be fruitful?

one of the weirdest dreams i ever had

was working in a factory in china there were some americans working there that everyone claimed were cia

someone tries to catfish/pig slaughter scheme me, i discover it's the guy working the station next to me, i confront him on it, when he realizes the jig is up he draws a gun and tries to kill me

i escape with a graze - chinese employer tells me everything is fine and ignore that this wasn't the first time a coworker shot at me

beginning to think now that maybe they are ordered to kill me

american colleagues that everyone suspects are cia hitmen tell me not to sweat it, just random disgruntled employees

i get out of work and a new person is trying to kill me, i leave the factory and escape

unable to call the police for help, when i do it gets rerouted to other random gov bureaus

panicking and looking for a way out, i run into a chinese colleague who is holding my flip flops (which i took off to run faster) and says to follow him to safety, i follow but soon get paranoid he may be in on it and grab my flip flops and run, at which point my suspicions are confirmed that he was indeed leading me to a hit squad

then while hiding outside a mosque + cultural revolution era monolith celebrating the province of liaoning (no idea why, does not exist in real life) and trying to figure out next moves, i bump into my parents who came to china to visit me

i explain the situation but they don't take it seriously at all, just kind of go along with it to placate me

i decided we should go back in the general direction of my apartment, not to go into the apartment because they'll surely be waiting for me there but just need to get to a familiar neighborhood where i'll better be ablet to get help - was planning on visiting a police station there or something - i don't recall

no taxis available, we follow crowded streets where we don't think they'll shoot us and go into the subway

it appears nobody followed us and we shook them

we exit at our stop for my house and start heading to whatever it was that i thought we should go

but then i realize my mom isn't with us, i ask my dad and he says she was tired so went directly to the apartment to rest - i remind him about the hit squads going after us and it clear neither beleive that - we sprint to the apartment complex, in the outer courtyard we hear gunfire - next thing i'm like hovering in the air over 3 bodies like in fps deathmatch multiplayer video game where you go into observer mode after being killed, we see new figures enter the area and they fire, it seems they killed the people who killed us

we then respawn - my parents still don't take it seriously, i'm very traumatized by everything, just curling up on the floor and hugging random strangers

i go home, and some people will randomly walk up to me, say, "are you the guy from the news?" and then give me a hug

then i woke up very early in the morning, far earlier than i usually would have

by far the weirdest and most impactful dream i ever had - but it was nice to practice my chinese again

I hate running in flip flops

fyp

shot in the style of mission impossible, pulp fiction, call of duty, matrix

that's because flip flops run you

Just now for some reason I was trying to place who it was I was watching a low grade comedy/horror film with recently. I recall they loved the concept and thus I went on and on about "if you love this then you got to try out evil dead 2" and then of course i gave a lengthy lecture about the history of it and how it came about etc etc

it was then i recalled that no, that never actually happened, it was just a dream i had last night, but one that so mundane that it wasn't filed away in the "obviously a dream" section of my memory

is this what becoming middle aged does to somebody? where they no longer dream about the impossible where they do crazy and exotic things, experience new sexual conquests, go be the protagonist in an exotic adventure like indiana jones or luke skywalker?

that we now dream about the mundane, something so close to reality of me pedanting away upon esoteric topics to an uninterested but captive audience that i remembered it as if it were real life

will i ever have dreams of chess masters pouring cranberry juice into the pool or is it too late for me?

lol I like this one

Last night, I dreamt that two of my best friends from college - whom I haven't seen in over 35 years - were both part of a team who had orders to kill me, like I was some John Wick type. Since we hadn't seen each other in a long time, we hugged it out with tears and then I escaped after bashing them with my tennis racket.

so there is hope my dreams will return to the action packed adventures they should be - because if old age is having a series of pedantic dreams where you're discussing a cult film to someone who's never seen it, i would probably want to end it

I was with an astronomer at a park and she saw a meteor come crashing in near us. She raced over and found it to have the typical crust a meteorite has but she was able to hose it off and it was actually a clear greenish giant crystal with smaller green crystals inside. It was probably two feet by two feet so it was quite large and she was ecstatic to make such a discovery.

I looked up and saw another one coming in near us so I raced over to where it was crashing. It landed on a beach near a forest and there was a little kid who was also looking for it. I found it first but he was right behind me.

As we approached, I noticed it was about the same size as the one the astronomer found but mine was…different. It had a sort of fur or hair on it.

I got closer and it was giant hairy space spider! I took some pictures with my phone and got closer to it. I touched it and its hair was quite fine, dense, and sharp. Then it moved.

I jumped back as it lifted its head and stretched out its legs. It had the face of a hideous crab but was built like a giant tarantula.

The kid with me froze with fear as the giant tarantula space spider crawled over his head. I took pictures of that on my phone rather than help the kid get the spider off of him. Not my finest dream moment.

It ended up not hurting the kid but scuttled off into the woods. I called the astronomer and she was even more excited for me than she was the crystal meteorite on account of me finding an alien life form and all.

I started getting excited, too, then I looked up and saw hundreds more crashing to earth. It was an invasion.

Then I woke up, wrote this, and I’m thinking of writing a B-movie horror script about it.

Had a dream where my calf seized up in a charley horse.

Stepping out of bed, I realized it wasn’t just in my dream.

Calf cramps at night are the nut low!

I had one last night that I had forgotten about already.

Thanksalot for reminding me!

Never had bad dreams until recently.

Last night dreamed that a guy was hiding my car keys.
I was getting angry and broke a door and something else
and was about to punch the guy in the face
when I woke up very upset with my heart pounding.

My dreams are usually with no one I know, just blank faces.

An exception from long ago,

While having sex I look up and a bunch of my
ex girlfriends are standing around the bed watching.

FYP

the only thing worse than the calf night cramp... is the full blown Quadricep lock up!
at least with a calf cramp you can flex that out relatively quickly by standing up, however a completely locked up Quad is a nightmare.

when I was a younger pup, I was a full blown category rated Road Race Cyclist and I got these quad locks often at night... not a good thing.

Had one last night about poker. It was 5-card PLO. I flopped the nut straight to 6-8-9 flop, another guy also flopped the nuts. Multi-way monster pot.. It came a 10 on the turn, and, somewhat strangely, both me and the other nut straight guy had pocket 10s, with the hands turned up now. Fouled deck. It came running diamonds, which I had Queen high. But my queen of diamonds was missing and I only had 4 cards. I said "fouled hand everybody gets refund." The dealer jumped all over me and since I didn't have a legal hand everybody but me got the refund.

Has to be some kind of subconscious thing about being impossible to win a hand lately. I've long had a recurring dream that my whole cards keep changing during a hand and I don't know myself what they are going to be when I turn them up.

I've had the same recurring dream myself.

sounds like a variation of late to a test
when presented with important information you quickly forget
the arrival time or how to play once you get there

No it has to do with the variance in poker and how you can lose any hand that isn't a 100% lock.

what if you thought about the possibility it was another way

how does poetry work through dreams?
from the prism of the dream?
here's a poem I dreamed....

" The Infinity Mirror" by Misha Cayne

Oh right the poem. But first, another preamble of course to put it in context.

It's my "Jabberwocky", in a sense, in that it partially works through sounds. I'm quite good at creating a beautiful sounding poem, probably partially because of my skills at piano. It's a poem by Lewis Carroll. It was a poem made up of nonsensical words.

So what's the point of doing just that? Good question. Here's my short answer.

Jabberwocky | The Poetry Foundation

How I interpret Jabberwocky is there's meaning in madness (to certain degrees, in various aspects) and the reverse: madness in meaning (again you have to qualify the statement, otherwise it's a blanket statement). that's what's brilliant about poetry, it's partially seemingly nonsensical, partially too complex to be understood, and never laden with blanket statements (if well written).

My other interpretation of Jabberwocky is that there are meanings in sounds (that one is obvious, I admit). The beauty of poetry is it works through two prisms: the prism of the author's mind, and then the prism of each reader. Therefore I would argue the knowledge you can get from one well written poem read by one person, is in a sense, vast. Maybe not infinite, although it theoretically could be, but vast nonetheless beyond comprehension, a bit like thinking of a great number in the hundreds of thousands.

But first, another preamble (apologies....)

Probably the best poem I will ever write.

I started writing poetry just as stream of consciousness, and have hundreds of those, some better than others, and admittedly not polished, but valuable as an experiment and also as expression of the unconscious (might be useful to look at with a psychoanalyst, for example.)

I have dozens more of more polished works, some of which I have deleted, I used to have an account on Hellopoetry and another site with some thirty odd poems I have written, and can select some for you, if interested. There are hundreds of thousands of authors (possibly millions) who post their works online for free, and many brilliant poets in this modern age of easily accessible internet access.

I wrote about reflections (literally and figuratively) in a "poem about everything" (and, somewhat paradoxically, nothing) that I called the infinity mirror. I thought of doing it admittedly not through imagination but because there's an infinity mirror in my mother's house in Cambridge.

I wrote it in 30 minutes. Didn't realize its scope and significance (that I am still realizing) until years later. I read it once at a poetry event at a local bar in Central Sq.

Still revealing layers of its meaning and complexity.

As I have grown to say, there's the infinite in the miniscule, and to some extent, the apparent opposite (like a mirror itself), the miniscule in the infinite.

And poetry is a good example of infinite in the (apparent) miniscule.

it's also a warning about technology acceleration and AI. I didn't know of AIs existence at the time I wrote this, back in 2016, but I think it applies from what I understand about these burgeoning technologies, currently.

And that's another key point about poetry, it can be about something according to the original intent of the author, and someone can apply it to almost anything else. Beautiful and breathtaking realization, at least to me that is.

it's about psychosis (which I have from drug abuse), mirrors, narcissism, infinity, the internet, knowledge itself, fear, self-defeating thought processes, turning against oneself being isolated, growing up in a mansion in protected environment, vanity, greed, entitlement, false pretense, societal narcissism, being observer, rather than participant. And also about a meaningless existence.

a poem about nothing, and a poem about everything. a duality of contradictions.

Here you have it:

THE INFINITY MIRROR

Read it as a poem where the mirror is personified, in a sense, as the artist.
So part of the fun and idea is to decide for yourself what your relationship is not only to the poet but to that enigmatic mirror (the artist)

Also a poem about schizophrenia where the voices are imagined as images or ideas. Also in a sense language is reflected back.

As far as I see it there are three basic forms of narcissism the poem touches on. The personal narcissism of the author, the narcissism that occurs from looking into the mirror (or interacting with reality in varying, complicated, and oblique ways), and the societal narcissism, embodied by the infinity mirror itself. And so you can see through that prism of seeing basic theoretical ideas of this particular poem how intricate language and poetry can be in general, and thus how intricate perceptions, distortions and prisms of reality can be.

Stream of consciousness poem, written in about half an hour almost 8 years ago now.

And finally, here you have it.

The naked poem. (reminds me the movie Naked Gun, which I watched in a simpler place in time (1000 years ago, perhaps), in terms of technological "progress.")

The Infinity Mirror
Reminiscent of a dream:
(The mirror, the ghostly figure,
The long, loving grass.)

The infinity mirror, for all its potential
To Smooth over the untamed roughness
Of Humanity's vague contours
Exposes blood with shaving blades,
And generosity in masquerades.

And still the pallor of blush,
And the discoloration of adoration,
Are but servile to anticipation

The reflector of infinity
The eery promise
Reaching towards divinity
Or a torturous, blind hell-bent path

The blind mirror promises
Infinity, duality
The shattered, puerile ghost caught between
The Ubiquitous, sterile host of magisterial illusion

The fragmented stone beneath him
Like an altar on a monestary
Grounding him to the magestic illusion
Of groundless deceit, Of Boston's conceit

Reverse that curse! Oh arrow-bent skies
Of intrepid, oblique, malleable time
That bends about paths through human hearts
To human marrows, to decay, to remorse

The skin, like a cage like a gibbet upholding the body
Knows not the force of infinity's grasp
Until it overtakes him in a moment of intrepid deceit.

In these hallowed halls ghostly particles dance,
Ghostly bodies collide and recombine into once visible
Charades of macabre cavemen.

Once, always visible in the mirror, unknowable is the heart.
In this illusory rebirth, is the ghost in the machine
A rare emblem of an oscillating enigma.

Identity is unknown to the mirror (clearly)
Vanity is unknown to the self
How transparent the mirror makes
Blood-meat of a man!

Gushing listlessly, he retraces the mirror's arrows
Onto the lines on the page.
He retraces the chalk on the lines.
He becomes just the vane words on the page.

Words, and the mirror of language
The potency lost to fragmented duplication.
The mosaic is born,
Unseen, to vague, blurred visions of a fragmented incarceration.

But language outcasts him,
Him tangled deeply within its moat,
Its dubbed deeply embedded within him,
Ah, again the duality!

His mirror-image, the words
Against the page, untold sillhouttes
Of a dark, flickering, menacing display
Of brash omens.

The words, his craft of silence's
Burrow, of despair's laundry,
Of an empty room without
Any charge at all.

The words, against the words.
But that he sees not.
The words against the self.
He sees not.

Blinded by narcissism, by that mirror.

That's more like a short story than it is a poem.

okay, interesting comment. but many poems are the length of short novellas.

my wisdom for today is "one should be honest, wise, persistent, and curious enough to attempt to balance believing in something, with believing in something.

along the lines of "in the miniscule we find the infinite..." (one poem vastly complicated a good example)