8/13/2021 –
I’ve written about the concept of art as spiritual technology, even extensively in relation to David Lynch’s work and found myself watching Mulholland Drive for the first time in probably 20 years on the Monday before this visionary deluge. Nothing in the dream was reminiscent of that film, other than the way my conscious perspective artfully shifted between related character arcs, which is exactly what happens near the end of that picture.
First I’m with my wife and she’s now working for this at least semi big time publishing company apparently. We’re in like a vacation house type situation with some other guests and for unknown reasons Jordan B Peterson is going to stop by. I’m really annoyed by this but I’m also somehow aware that I’m not really allowed to be a dick to him to his face in this particular social situation. I’m not happy about that either and when he comes over to hang out he’s quite obviously there just because he wants to fuck my wife. But it’s one of those things where it’s just a crush he’s not going to act on but still obvious. Like, he’s not actually going to try to sleep with her but it’s apparent that he only showed up because he wants to on a behavioral level.
My consciousness is now somehow transported to the downtown office of this fancy publishing house and my wife and I are slotted to do an interview with who I get the impression is an up and coming black author. We didn’t script the thing and so we start reading from a teleprompter and are immediately horrified by the first question as it strikes us as super inappropriate. We go through the rest of the interview with no issues but after it’s over there’s a sense of unease in the astral vibes of the place. We’re hanging out and partying but the tainted vibes suck us into another room to confront what’s off.
Yeah, what was up with that first question? We both agree it was completely uncalled for and fucked up in a racist way (although I don’t remember the specifics at all) and essentially just confront the people who set the thing up for putting us in that shitty situation. They sort of apologize and the author says it wasn’t an issue and he was fine with it. We’re not though.
But it’s resolved for the moment and we’re back partying. Eventually a younger friend of ours wants to go outside and smoke weed so we head out to the bottom floor of this old construction roughly 20 story brick office building. I then get called back in for a second by some minor shenanigans, but when I come back out my wife and this girl have apparently just ditched me while running up the street to her apartment. I have no idea where this place is, so I go back in and am mildly irritated but figure I can just text and see what’s up.
Then things get weird and I can’t. I’m now winding my way up these labyrinthine spectral stairways, wandering between swanky living art spaces where shapeshifting bourgeoisie painters and sculptors are honing their astral craft. It’s suddenly getting pretty MC Escher in an unpleasant way and I can’t figure out how to text on my now mutating phone. But I was just taught what this dream world disorientation represents a few days prior and that serves as a lucidity trigger that I use to suck myself out of the situation.
Now I’m waking up in my mom’s old place on Beacon Hill and I know that I’m dreaming…even though I just woke up. I get out of bed, look out the window and start flying around these complicated cityscapes that I can tell I’m creating with a part of my unconscious will.
But suddenly I black out completely midair and am waking up again in the same bed but I’m now a woman. The author from the interview is at the door and I can tell we’re dating as he’s waking me up by knocking, then bursting through the door with fresh coffee. What the fuck is going on? I somehow now know that I work for the publishing company and that’s why he was apparently cool with the creepy racist Jordan B Peterson bullshit. He’s literally in bed with it. I also know I’m not a heterosexual woman who’s dating this guy and that identity disorientation wakes me up yet again.
Now I’m in this somewhat swanky apartment on northeastern Capitol Hill but it feels like I’m a slightly older version of myself (from where I was in the original segment of the dream I suppose) and I’m more than a bit bummed. There’s just this melancholy negative energy emanating from my previous dream states into what I now think is my waking world.
Driven by this profound melancholia, I hop on a bus headed north for completely unknown and instinctive reasons. While riding around I’m realizing I’m not in a real relationship. I’m have like a fuck buddy thing going on with an ex that I need to get out of, and that’s the only person I can even call to talk about the depressing oneiromancy sitch. My consciousness then starts darting around the bus. It’s like half full but there’s a wide cross section of races and cultures represented, most of whom are lost in a similar state of lugubrious introspection.
Also, there’s a wall blocking where the driver would be and in its place is a huge TV monitor, playing episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation in what looks like old, choppy VHS resolution. Some of the characters have fantastic bushy sideburns and almost a late 70’s aesthetic which is much different than the actual show.
So we’re cruising around in the TNG bus to mopesville in what would honestly be the like Wallingford area of Seattle when we cut off on a secret enclave. The driver knows a place. All of a sudden it seems like we’re not really in the city anymore at all. Everyone is baffled.
Eventually we cruise up to the destination which it took me waking up the next day to finally decipher properly. It was this secret park we all agree none of us had ever been to before with all these convenient places for futuristic buses to park and ample campsites. What we’re looking at, is essentially what the city of Seattle would look like while looking south from on top of the hill in Wallingford, but the city wasn’t fucking there. It was absolutely beautiful before we built a goddamn thing. That’s what I’m being shown.
We’re then all out at this amazing staged viewpoint and we’ve gone from collectively bummed to unison smiling in awe. The toothless redneck dude is now cool with the two black women on the bus. No shit, the metaphor was that heavy handed. Everyone was now joking around in disbelief that they’d never seen this before.
If you ride the utopian Next Generation bus, it takes you to the future where we’ve become in tune with the spirit of the natural world. As it turns out, that disconnection is what was turning us against each other the whole time. Consumerism is a suicide trip.
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