It's been too long dream blog. The west is burning. I can't see the trees or the mountains. Where's the sun? It's red outside. Apocalypse now. Civil unrest, cops killing Black people still, global pandemic, billionaires making more and more money every week while hundreds of thousands of people in California are being forced to evacuate their homes.
My money's on Mt. Rainier blowing up by November.
Before the worst of the smoke, I met my friend Kelli who claimed you can really control your dreams and be an active participant in them which is really difficult but you can do it with a lot of practice. You apparently just have to become aware it's a dream, which you can do if you get a cue that it's a dream, like if you try to write or type and you can't, that's a dead giveaway that it's a dream.
Last night's dream: Donna and Ellen gave us a night out at a nice restaurant for our birthdays, and in the card I received, they said they were paying off a $3500 debt I owed for Grateful Dead tickets. I was confused. I hadn't bought any Grateful Dead tickets but apparently my debt was public and Donna and Ellen found out about it. I instantly knew it was my dad and got intensely angry. I called him and yelled at him. Then we were in our basement which was also a garage, and my dad's stupid red 1992 Pontiac Firebird convertible was back, parked in there (in reality, it had been at the bottom of our driveway for nearly 3 years until we threatened to have it towed and my dad and Ken finally got it out of here). All of a sudden the FBI was there, asking us to step away from the car, taking pictures, dusting, and measuring things. "We've been looking for this car for a long time, ma'am," one of the agents told me. Another agent was impressed with how high the ceilings were in our basement. "What a basement!" he commented. He grabbed a mason jar off a shelf and said, "Did you or the original owners can vegetables?" I told him yep, the Pilos, who'd owned this house for 60 years canned stuff and had left all these mason jars here. The agent was impressed, commenting on how they'd lived through the Depression.
Upstairs, I asked Matiah why he thought the FBI was looking at the car. We both agreed there must've been a dead body in the car.
