Shadsventures

Last night (the 1st) I managed to remember an encyclopedic amount of my dreams, mainly via waking up during the night and carefully mentally cataloguing the foregoing dreams. Here goes:

I think I was driving somewhere with one of my friends; I remember being stopped at an open area like the west side of the green in front of the Hancock TOB, it being just after sunset, with the daylight in the southwest. The next scene I recall was having an overhead view of a set of roads, looking down toward the west, with western daylight; a river flowed west-east to the right, and there was a highway paralleling it on the left bank. Then there a couple of other highways branching off it to the left, which were nearly parallel to each other and in close proximity for a fair distance as they turned leftward a couple of times; I was narrating directions to somewhere along one of them (I think it was 123, and the other was 137) to some other people and mentioned how it was annoying and redundant that they went to approximately the same places.

I rode this way (I think) northwest (the frame of reference rotated) to Shads, a town maybe west of Nelson that I had somehow never known about. I arrived at an area of conservation land, where there was smooth white glossy plastic covering the ground. There were unmarked parking areas at each end of a short north-south lane that along its length had parking-space-like lines on each side (that actually indicated no parking); there were verdant woods (with a path through them off to the east) on each side of the lane, but the parking nodes’ surroundings were were more open. Shads village was up on the continuation of the lane further north; it was split by Route 9, so we didn’t bother going there. At some point there I saw a big black waterfowl-like bird flying around; had a big head of feathers and ragged feathers streaming all over the rest of its body. I saw it a couple of times; the first time I found out or knew its time, while by the second time I had forgotten it, contrasting it with the black heron but not remembering its own name, this while driving away again toward the south and east.

While riding back down the road toward home, I looked at the NH atlas or similar publication and noticed a couple more previously unknown towns: a nearly town-sized gore, shaped like Washington, NH, but smaller, near Harrisville, and right next to it a tiny spiky-gamma-shaped gore named Chester, which was no wider than 0.1 mile at its widest (which I remarked on aloud) and its legs were probably less than 1 mile long.

At another point I listened to and watched an investigation by a woman researching druidic practices in the area; she interviewed a chieftain (who I later realized looked like an even more spectral version of Alan Moore), sitting (she on the south side, he on the north side) in the east-facing wide raised-up opening to a cave; a huge shadowy ghost version of him filled up the space of the cave behind him. I later saw an overhead view of a big circular pool filled with polenta, though I think it had begun as something else, but had turned into polenta by being mixed by the druids ambulating through it in a circle; the polenta steamed and foamed with spirits.

Her next project was getting paint on people’s bicycle wheels that would then leave painted tracks wherever they rode, a kind of public art; I was looking at a poster of this (a guy next to his road bike, its front wheel with orange paint and the track from it on the ground, plus a yellow one underneath it), at the Shads village, which still had an east-west main street running through but not the highway. I sat on the ground there (but it seemed more like a floor) at the southwest corner of an intersection on the main street and talked to one of my friends who was also sitting there, plus another guy I didn’t know. It was a bright overcast day, with the afternoon sun maybe showing through the clouds slightly. The latter raised the idea of starting a band and wondered what my friend was interested in playing; he said he would most like to play synths by a company name with a monosyllabic name starting with L that I’ve forgotten the rest of, as he was a huge fan of their products. I said I would love to pick up the drums, even though I hadn’t really played them much at all before, as I felt that I could keep tempo better than I used to be able to because of working on electronic music and often coming up with ideas through beatboxing. The other guy looked amused and slightly skeptical. Another middle-aged man in office attire walked by to the southeast, saying how he wanted to change into shorts and looking overheated. I noticed how a number of the buildings across the street, some with vertical barn board siding, had wall-size ads for books painted on them, including one about “plain hospice care” (in bold Helvetica Narrow font on a dark blue background with maybe a small house in the middle). An upper-middle-aged woman, schoolmarm-like, sat down in a chair (the main street seemed by this point not to really be trafficked at all anymore, and the scene was more like a square than a street, almost more the size of a room bounded by miniature buildings) in the northeast corner of the square to start a meeting; several other people gathered and sat down in chairs in a rough circle. The meeting was about town planning in some way; someone brought up urban design, which was met with approving murmurs; one guy (who looked like Taran Killam with a buzz cut) sitting at the southwest side of the circle talked about how the main configuration of houses in Shads was having the garage door right next to the house entrance, which was a pathological situation. He repeatedly called the typical house a “dump” in his arguments. After someone else started talking I (sitting near him) made a sardonic comment about having a degree in urban design and not having a job despite it, and he asked me if I’d talked to the NH Director of something or other, which I hadn’t; then I woke up.

After falling asleep again, I dreamt the following, and recalled it once I woke up for the morning:

  • I was sitting at a table with one or two other people, including a Damian Abraham-like figure, at some east windows at what seemed to be home in NH; I drank from a bottle of lightish-colored port and then got another one and did the same. I remarked how it could get you messed up a lot faster than beer (I thought of saying wine initially but realized wine was probably similar proof to the port). The first bottle was from 1986, the second from 1984. It was morning, with bright sun, but also with stormy clouds and varied kinds of weird springtime precipitation outside, including yellow and green streams of flowers or leaves or something, and maybe also regular rain.
  • There was group of high-school age kids around the house; a couple of girls from among them were outside on the parlor patio discussing roofs, wondering whether they could be designed so they wouldn’t need to be shoveled of snow. They were also saying how they didn’t like the main roof of the house because it was too narrow proportionally, as well as difficult to shovel safely. I think it was summertime and maybe overcast, so the daylight was dim. I heard them from an upstairs window and called down to them that yes, a roof just needs to have a good slope and metal covering and then it sheds fine. I think I said this right after some snow shed off the boatshop roof, illustrating my point before I got around to it.
  • I was with a class in a brown room in a museum, which had some overhead daylight and maybe daylight from the southwest as well. There was a big velvety light-brown bed in the middle of the room with what looked like a restaurant-menu-sized informational pamphlet resting on it; I picked the pamphlet up to look at it, and it turned out to be actually just a number of pillows sewn together edge-to-edge and folded over like a pamphlet.
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