Sweven

19th

Mes
Amusement parked. Keep a keen eye trained upon niece, nephew, and a toddler I. Little me sees the me, now grown. The tie that binds feels thready fine at best.


20th

Abandoned
Upon a winter whipped cliff a mother leaves us three. We brave the blizzard and happen across a hovel of a store. Strangers permit us shelter and sustenance.

Shutt Bridge
A great river swollen. Our pass is bent, bowed by a slush of trash and trees ripped free. "Go ahead. Go across," badgers she. Cedar eyes shine straight into mine. They nearly convince me. Trust her and maybe die. Mistrust her and stay alive.


21st

Beyond
In a house unhomely, chaos cavorts. Recoil from touch. Sound is too much. Air is thin, stained with nonsensical twangs. Sanctuary! But no. Barricaded with a woman. She feeds her baby milk clots and crushed pink pills. They are beyond. Beyond me. Beyond my voice. Beyond they, past checkerboard glass, heaven whirls black with buzzards.


22nd - Went on a short vacation with a sister and dreams were lost.

Sunday 18th

A mountain range of notebooks surrounds. One word is all I want. Where in all these scarps and spines does it hide? Just one word. One. But wait. Was I not just laying in bed? Was I not just mouthing lucid mantras? Yes. I was. How did I get here? Now the room stands empty but for I. These are not my floors, windows, or walls. What? Could it be?

A finger is pushed through the putty of my palm. No pain. Could it be? A finger is pushed into the webs of my wrist and pulled up my forearm. The feeling? My finger pushing upstream in a tickling current.

It is. This is a dream! A wash of cautious joy. Roam the empty halls of a stranger house. What wonders lie behind this simple slab? Open the door only to see a similarly empty night. Leap from a step to soar to distant stars. But slowly I slip. Toes touch deep green. They slide past. I am swallowed by the supple flesh of an ether earth.

Spin like a feather through a thousand cicada songs settled safe behind a patchwork void. Dreaming. Dreaming. Dreaming. Embrace the fall.

Here, the spirit is a dim blue-black. Smooth, straight trunks stand as far as can be perceived. They stretch eternally up into a swarthy yawn of heaven, branches unseen. Such solitude. Should I fear? No. Dreaming. Dreaming. Dreaming. Be polite. "I am Sweven. I am dreaming. I am thankful to be here." Silence replies.
A palm placed upon a trunk. A rush of falling leaves. Stand knee deep in teal. Touch another trunk. Another rush. Another wade through the weep. Not idly do the leaves of Lorien fall. Now love the lazy rain of a million leaves. Teal strips with golden veins that twinkle as they twirl. Stride soft through the magic of this moment. But then steps sink. Deeper. Deeper. Deeper. Drift like a whisper through the earth. Back to black.

Freefall. The void roars and writhes. Should I fear? No. Dreaming. Dreaming. Dreaming. Laugh. Relish the fall.

Here, the spirit is as grim as a long forgotten graveyard. Clusters of gnarled trees. Naked branches, as crooked as some souls I know, stretch bold but broken. Silence is sharp. Solitude is stark. All is terrible and sacred. Push a finger through a palm. I am safe. Dreaming. Dreaming. Dreaming. I am safe. Step... but no step comes. Instead a twitch like a matrix glitch takes me to the next kink of tree. Awe. I've not known this before. I glitch on.

Senses tingle. Glitch toward the sensation of some soul. It is still. Atop spidery thin legs, as long as trees are tall, is a human-ish shape. Trench coat drapes. Tendrils of shadow tresses spill from under a not quite cowboy hat. Indiscernible eyes sit in ashen face angles. Neither young nor old... safe nor scary, it stands still still. A statue? I glitch past.

"You. Come back," a rustling voice sings. I turn. Trench coat thing is perched upon tree trunk throne. "You. Sit on my lap."

I laugh, a shrill and serrated thing that shrapnels about the dream. I shrink away from my own sound then glitch on. But what does it really want, that spindly thing with its leaf rustle voice? Finger through palm. I'm dreaming. Dreaming. Dreaming. I've nothing to fear and curiosity to sate. Glitch back to the thing on the throne. "I'm Sweven dreaming."

"You. Sit on my lap," it greets. It musters a grin, or perhaps a grimace.

Dreaming. Dreaming. Dreaming. I sit on it's lap. We are face to face... then suddenly not. Like a child on a nightmare Santa's lap, I'm caught. Arms like ropes encircle. Crushing. Tight. Hooks from the top of its bony thighs rip up into the phantom bottoms of mine. We tip backward. Thrown into another night.

I wake.

Post 5:30am dream.
It took 18 days but I finally achieved lucidity. I am terribly thankful for this. I'd begun to worry that I could not intentionally lucid dream anymore. I've proven myself wrong.

Sunday 19th

Sunless
Sunflowers hunched, stare at earth instead of sky. Desperately seek the reason why they no longer upturn their shining faces to the sun.


Re-Departed
He, who departed too soon, returns. Deep within churns, "I thought he died." But his laughter and his smile soften such severe thoughts. We enjoy his return. We savor his hugs. We simply love and are beloved. But then he is re-departed... too soon.

Friday 16th

Vultures & Swine
Vultures circle, wheeling, whipping, and chopping away chunks of childhood sky. "Hide!" someone cries. "When pigs fly," says I. "But they are flying. Right above us. Hide!" the someone cries again. Never!" I declare. "What are you doing here? FUCK OFF!" my ragged voice serenades those unwanted. To punctuate I flip twin birds at flying swine. They circle closer. Closer. Set hoof to the north. Trot this way. They hunt a murder suspect connected to the bloodlines of my yester-home.

Some Hero
A flash dead, red, and black slashes back stampedes empire cats.

Old Trail
In a neighborhood freshly stolen and stacked and old time trail still slithers. Its tail is slender but its head is a swollen graveyard of metal beasts and burdens.


Saturday 17th

Arid
Brooks and beds are coughing dust. Wells are sad and scabbed with rust. Green grows ever dimmer. From above, they laugh at our arid mother. Below, laughter is softly smothered by serpents of twisted sand.

Ice Cave
In cherished caves of ice we shine. Swing from icicle to icicle. Slide from sheet to sheet. A lone scruff tumbles in to stake a claim. I raise false swords and whetted words. He tumbles away. We return to our play.

I can not find the little black book into which I scribble my dreams. So I'll add Thurs night and add the others when I find them.

Dog Days
She is a stray, a barrel of strained golden retriever fur. Twenty pups reside within. Her future is death. In giving birth. Or struggling to sustain. Or starvation of over half. We take up the monumental task of keeping all alive. Ensuing dog days and nights are draining.

Doctors
Whuniverse Con? Am not a fan but the con name sits sideways with me. "It should be WHOniverse, with an O," I challenge all who clap eyes on me. Eyes fall.
We Breach a wall. Friend near faints as five doctors take the stage. A sixth, unknown, takes center, star of the show. When done, sixth strides into his time worn tardis... which disappears. Crowd splits in fascination and fear. Sixth is THE one. The chaos is fun. But friend is undone that she was not chosen companion.

I decided to start flexing some dream muscles by becoming a dream Olympian just for funsies and to work at dream intent. I'm not typically an Olympics watcher but there were so many reality checkable moments and memes from these that I wish I'd thought to dream Olympian along with them instead of after.

At the start of the week I shall select a random Olympic sport. I will fix my dream intent on being a competitor in that sport for the rest of the week. I have the opportunities to win the following awards:
GOLD- I compete in-dream in an Olympics as an athlete in the chosen sport
SILVER - I engage in-dream in the chosen sport but outside of the Olympics
BRONZE - I see or experience the sport in dream but am not a competitor

Aug 11th - 17th The almighty Wheel of Names has deemed Figure Skating as the Olympic sport.
0 medals this week.
Nearly a bronze, I went to watch Olympics with a class but they actually were watching Dune.
And early this morning (the 18th and a day too late) I lucidly tried skating in a dream.

Aug 18th-24th The almighty Wheel of Names has deemed Sailing as the Olympic sport.

-lights the Dream Olympic torch-

Litterfall
Bedroom carpet is oak leaves. Beneath slithers a world of worms. Some, various shapes of pasta. Some, elongated leeches, seeking. Others bulge blue with clitellums of slime and sundew spines. I collect. Inspect. Retrospect.

Dance On
They dance clockwise, two lines of humans hopping and whirling to haunted voices. I long to be part of the pomp. I've neither dress nor dance steps to match. I step in, none the less, stomping, shimmying, and spinning with fierce abandon. I disrupt the flow, I know, but care not. Others flutter to fringes. I dance on until the final mingled note of the last song.

Dog Day
A dog drowns, dragged under by the waves and wrath of a wild river. Aside, someone yells, "We can just refilm the dog scenes without the dog." Film crew falls back to their efforts. The rest lament the lost as the show goes on.

Re Risen
A home to the four footed, the six footed, and the feathered, has fallen. There is no sympathy for the 'soul-less' as the true soul-less step sightlessly around. Alone, I right the left, and yell, "Re-root! Re-rise!" After a tiny eternal time, roots grip ground. It stands, though at a one o'clock lean. It is re-risen!

Shifty
He took a nurse's face and fled. First a woman. Then man. Then child. He hid in a room with Fox and Scull. Salvation slides nigh but the lift lurched to a halt. He morphs into of clear blue gel blob. Slip through crack. Splat. He makes eternal escape.

Resurrection
At long last I wrench free my grandmothers home from the greedy grip of those with low respect. I'm greeted by shrapnel glass, scarred floors, walls of gaping dark sockets. It is a wooden corpse. It is my wooden corpse. Time to raise the dead.

Green Whisperer
She sings with flowers and speaks slow, soft words with trees. All with the touch of a golden glowing hand. She tries to save all that is good, growing, and green.

C-Wing
Sawbones swerve and c-wing patients test my patience. Time is a decrepit snake, slitering on and on and on... until a tender turns up. She dumps a tangle of threads onto the bed. They are the tatters of the dead. And now they all are mine.

Switched
Mirror, mirror, little mantis. Let us play a game. You swerve, I swerve. You step, I step. You pray, I pray. Let us see if friendship follows. DRIFT. Souls shift. And now I am magnificent. See through compound eyes. Behold the fleshy, foul creature across, caught without a prayer. Feel the insatiable urge to eat the twinkle from its eyes. Delicious despise.

Be a Dream
They find him, bits of battered bone and threads of scattered flesh. He is incomplete. Earth slips. Chest implodes. Words thin and wither. Within the gutted hollows of the husk I have become, are echoes. "This must be a dream. Must be a dream. Be a dream. Be a dream. Be a dream..."

Ice Palace
Her house is an iceberg in the midst of the sand. No entry. No exit. No hope. Bloodied hands punch, claw, and rip but I am unable to make a dent or get a grip on anything at all. Out of reach, through glass patches of ice, half frozen children are weeping. Sleet slips from their eyes.

Waterly
Pencils slip. Pages flip. Inspiration flows like spring swept springs. Then watercolors run wild. All artistry is defiled.

Vehicle
Tires and steering wheel disagree. Even with extra hands and webs of rope I can not claim my space, so surrender. I swerve away. Soon I bring up the rear of a family line. We plod pitted roads. Car begets quad, quad begets cardboard box cut to be a car. I carry it, this flimsy thing, that should rightly carry me. Still I carry on, and on, and on.

Sleepless
They need so much, such little souls. Steal space. Take time. Leech light. Weep, wail, bleed dry any succulence of dreams. Life... but a sleepless scream.

Reverse
Ram runs only in reverse so we rage, ass first, into rush hour rift.

Black Rock
Blackrock beckons through bush, bog, and corn stalks brown. Finally free of wandery, we drink. Canteen is a thin black tube taller, even, than I. Passers-by, envious of the abnormal flask ask me to set sale. I decline. Back to black rock trails I fly.

Neighborhood
Snowless is winter. Her kiss sharp. Her breath crisp. We, locked out, wait to get in. They, locked in, wait to get out. In balmy pockets neath slush topped puddles, the lucky ones live summer lives. Across the street slumps a man of filth and ragged surrender. Into his rusted cup I toss a coin. His head raises. He is THE Mr. Rogers. Smiling, he sings his song. Horrified, I trip away. I don't want to be his neighbor.

Detox
She arrives and cries, "Sister, help me." She is weary with the unlit way of her life. She declares, without stout dedication, to give living one more go. She needs to detox. I am no doctor. My mind screams no but my hand reaches out. Does she feel the slight tremors of my dread? She trudges to bed, stays still in the dark. It is the calm before her storm.

The Game
Extended family scattered cross a yard. Like chess pieces they move: Step pause. Step pause. Step pause. I stride normally through other oddities: Jagged fences. Maples in place of pines. Ditch evolved to river. Stone wall rises to the road. I climb. A mad cousin charges our chess locked kin. He stabs, one by one. No compassion wells for any of them. I am no savior... still I crush stabbers skull with a stone. Silence. Surviving chess pieces step pause their way to our cousin corpse.

Driven
Destination near found! He chauffeurs us around. Cars keep crossing lines. They speed then skid to shoulder. My heart could be wrong but it believes more safety abides on the roadside than on the road. But I am not released. Strap in. It is accepted, this driven destiny of mangled deformation and/or death.

Sots and Stars
Moonlight softens life's sharp edges, conceals the clutter of my soul. Night is sweet and safe. Then comes a knock. I swing wide the door. In stampedes slobbering beasts. They are my aunt and two cousins. They guzzle beer, boast drunkard deeds. I sit, un-submitting to their spirits. When finally they fumble their way away, I send no well wishes or waves. Starlight suddenly shakes my heart. Constellations are contorted. North star shines southerly. Sky is awry. How am I to right it?

So many missed opportunities for lucidity.
Upon re-reading these, I see now the tie that binds them: Some obnoxious sort of savior complex that has lost me control of my own life. From now on: Just. Say. No.
It's time to realign my north star.

Attempting my first dream journal entry.

Mud Hill Ritual
Sky sprawls starless. Trees stoop, draped in sultry dusk. We rush, Daughter and I, for sighs of light. Up a mountain of mud, toes rake earth, fingers claw clods of grass long dead. We strive. Finally... apex! We stand upon narrow ledge, worn wooden wall behind. To left and right, nations of shawl, of jingle, of smoke, sing. They punch the wall to the doom doom doom of some shadow cast heart. It will all fall apart, I know. So back to bottom I slide to watch the ritual unravel. But it does not. We do not.

Starkind
Languages spill into the night. Stars are disjointed and stand too near. Amidst them ether fires dance and streak and swerve unobserved by all but I. Fear flares. Then some peace, slippery and warm, spills within. To the speakers I go until ends the omniglot ebb and flow. Their fires fade. One spark remains. Together we weave dreams and schemes for fires yet to be. She is Mox Fulder. I show her the dancing sky fires. She sees! Stars lurch nearer. Now forms the sacred fellowship of the starkind. We are two.

These pair of dreams keep coming back to me with fond feelings despite the underlying dread in both.

My dreaming goals for today are:
1 Introduce myself
2 Read 3 lucid dreaming threads
3 Make 5 posts
4 Start my dream journal
5 Read 5 lucid dreams before bed

Reminder to me: Trying to keep regular dreams to under 100 words because I know that journaling will take more and more time as recall improves. I will write out lucid dreams in a fuller fashion as they happen. Also, I'm not sure if I should give each dream it's own post or post a nights dreams all in the same post. Will figure it out at some point, I expect.

Well, here it goes. First journal entry.