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In defense of the "siren"

Morning of January 10, 2014. Friday.

We are living in some sort of composite of mostly Barolin Street (same directional orientation) and the place in Maryborough on Cheapside Street, but with other differences at times. At first, there seems to be some sort of drama with a rowdy neighbor from the halfway house visiting someone in a separate (fictional) apartment in back of where we live (which looks more like the Barolin Street area at that point). This second male, the friend of the one in back of our place who seems to be in the shower, is yelling about the score of an ongoing soccer game while standing outside in our driveway. The other male makes gasping and apparent drowning sounds (as the shower is also unlikely louder from where I am), but nothing related to that matter continues.

There is a scene where I am trying to record on a cassette tape and the player keeps “eating” it (recurring). I try to fix things up, but the tape keeps going out in different directions in figure-eight patterns. Parts are very realistic with regard to the capstan and such. I get a vague impression that one of the cassettes is my sister’s.

Later, I am in the bedroom with my wife. She is lying on the bed (which is south to north unlike the real-life west to east orientation) but I am standing near the north doorway to the hallway that was there in real life (there is also an additional fictional door to the east, which seemingly opens out directly to a downward flight of stairs and gives a feeling of being on the second floor of a building - the house was one floor but high-set in real life but did not have higher stairs in this manner), but something unusual is going on. Another male is in the room complaining about my wife’s “supernatural” beauty because it was apparently the cause of his accident. He narrates his story (I am not sure if he is a ghost, or somehow got lost on his way somewhere else). “I was driving down the road at night and this female steps out from the wayside and I lost control of my stick shift…”

“Yes, my wife has had that effect on males,” I say sarcastically. For a moment, he almost seems like an (deceased?) “alternate husband” of my wife’s (although she never had any other long-term relationships or marriages) and seems somewhat disparaging, but not violent in any way. For awhile, he stands around not moving, almost like a statue. Other men appear eventually - a total of about five or six.

Next up comes Burl Ives (in a white suit, and with a cane and top hat) in an objurgatory stance and mood. He starts talking about how my wife called up the giant turtle and crashed his helicopter into the “blue lagoon”. He continues, “If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never forget that big snow storm a couple of years ago.” (This is actually a recurring idea from other dreams where a type of siren or ghost was causing a blizzard, but is actually his line from “Rudolph”.) “No, no, no, that’s Sam the Snowman, not Doctor Paulis,” I say, but more to the wall, “You’ve got your roles mixed up and…you have snowballs!”

“Oh fer…you’ve got a screw loose Magnus!” he shouts and turns to amble out and down the stairs. I want to be with my wife in private, but these idiot males standing around are seriously starting to try my patience. The truck driver is still standing in the same spot, staring at the painting of a pirate ship on the west wall which now seems to have a bit of water coming out from the bottom of the frame and running in about four streams of differing lengths down the areas between the vertical wall boards.

Another younger male (closest to the corner of the room) narrates…”I was near shore and this young gypsy girl of unearthly beauty steps out from a caravan, and raises her arms. I thought for a moment she held a lantern to guide my way, but then…my ship was lost on the rocks…” (I briefly reflect on how my wife’s mother directly drank seawater in real life and actually bragged about how healthy it was during the time she was also a vegan - her last son was born autistic but has somehow fully recovered in later years - she was also in a lot of fringe systems over time - jumping randomly from one to another).

“You’ve certainly got your prerogatives in order,” I say sarcastically. “Yes, one girl standing in the night, you are distracted, or maybe it was a Playboy magazine - those oil tankers out there having oil spills that wipe out half the planet…watch out for that bit of venison on your plate…it may be the end of the world as you know it…”

The song "Play Crack The Sky" is sung by a transparent temporary character before the dream resolves towards my own direct focus again.

The most vivid part unfolds. I squeeze my right hand lightly into a fist and this somehow causes the male to rise in the air, about three feet off the floor. He starts to choke and seawater drips from him as he hovers in the air a few feet from me. I turn to walk and somehow he floats in the air behind me and I manage to get him out of the room without touching him. The other men look on approvingly, thinking I had healed him, and line up for me to “heal” them as well. I am glad to oblige…

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