Morning of February 16, 2014. Sunday.

One dream was a variation of the last shorter one (“What comes next?” - not posted to all sites) though there was not much to it (and no phrase about a “Ninja village”). Although it was the same basic plot, it had a different focus of trying to look beyond the lighter squarish wooden bars of a crib or larger cot as they call them more often here; not sure of the exact size of the cot, but the dream repeated with more distortion and a different sized set of wooden crib bars, it seems (unless my view was farther away in the second version - not sure) - creating the optical illusion of seeing one environment (with writing) and then seeing a different environment (with different writing). I get a memory or realization of those cards of animals in cages whereby you slide the card a bit within the cardboard “frame”/”cage” and it becomes a different animal. (In reality, each aspect of each animal is in equally-sized vertical alternating strips across the card, so that one is fully hidden by having all of that set of strips hidden - technically this would work with phrases as well, even a full paragraph, with a different letter, or column of letters, in each set of alternating strips).

The main longer dream has a lot of mixed-up aspects. It is somewhat disjointed and going from completely different concerns. The first main part involves a matchbook cover album; that is, a book with plastic liners whereby you collect and store various interesting matchbook covers, which is similar to one I had as a younger teenager. I am with my family and we are living back on Barolin Street. The images are not like typical matchbook covers, though. One has a child seemingly ready to climb a ladder. I think there are a few (unknown) actors, some of 1940s cars, and so on. Mainly there is concern about which ones should be on which page, for example, how to organize by similar themes, subjects, or location source.

Later on, there is a loud party south of us, about three houses down. The area is different than in real life. It is apparently a biker party, but not that many people are there. I am on the front porch but it is much more open than in real life and the yard is much bigger. There are at least two bikers riding around with flaming torches. I am uncomfortably aware that these bikers, from something I had seen fairly often on the news (false memory) have a tradition of going around setting things in people’s yards on fire. This makes no sense at all, as we have at least four larger items in the yard made of wood and which at least two, I think, are bookcases full of books. There are also a lot of educational documents and the many drawings and comics my two oldest children have done (of which there are several volumes as in real life). There are also boxes of various flammable items I am concerned about. I do not think they will burn things on the porch. Somehow, I am able to move the important things into the house before they burn up. I seem to be running out of room in the house, but there is just enough space to get through the doorway to the porch. I ask them to please not do what they are doing and note how important some of the items are. Of course, that does not work.

I somehow end up with a large sword and end up killing both of them with little effort by running it through their chests. After a short time, my wife and I slide the remains behind the wall and the back of the couch on the porch along the southern wall. (This couch was on my sister’s porch in this same way, not ours). At that point, the remains are not much larger than a couple of ventriloquist dummies and almost seem like it due to their lightness and “floppiness”. Another man comes looking for them, I assume. I draw the sword across his throat and store his remains in a small cardboard box.

Soon, a very large man shows up with three others. “Well, you’re very brave,” he says when I stand my ground. I notice that he seems to be a bit too large and tall to be human and is very chubby. He transforms into a more octopus-like version of Cthulhu. Longer grayish tentacles come from his shoulders and upper stomach and other areas. I am not impressed at all for some reason, although it does take three attempts to kill him. At first I run the sword through his large, thick stomach which does not seem to hurt him enough to kill him. Then I run it through his chest. It feels very realistic. I can feel the vivid resistance and motions of the act. There is even an awareness of the feeling of the sword moving near ribs and into the heart area. The Cthulhu/biker looks extraordinarily surprised and I finish him off with the sword across his throat. The other men look somewhat afraid now that their leader is gone (while standing in a seemingly “convenient” triangular formation at my front) and I quickly kill all three. Two through the chest and one across the throat. There are no more to have to deal with.

I go back to the house. A short time later, I see my brother-in-law across the street from the front porch (he has never been to Australia). This is a very vivid awareness with very clear imagery. I wave to him to get his attention. He is with an unknown female, seemingly a younger relative of his whom I had never met. They had gotten off a bus, I think. When he comes into the doorway I sort of hug him and tell him I am glad to see him. He seems a bit bigger and taller than in real life but not really imposing. They both sit down on a couch on the other side of the porch opposite from where we had put the “biker remains”. There are two ambiguous main ideas - that they are there because they have no money or place to go - or - they are there due to having come into a lot of money and want to give it to us. He sits on the woman’s right (my left from the viewpoint).

In a short time, however, when I talk to him again, there is a different and younger male sitting in the same spot. This may be another relative of his. I am not sure where he came from or where my brother-in-law went - perhaps the kitchen or bathroom. I am apologizing for the chaotic state of things (with the boxes and furniture I had moved during the biker events). My youngest son somehow climbs up on top of a display case/shelf, somewhat like a wardrobe, with an open glass door and falls, hurting himself. Oddly, the muscle in the back of his upper arm is suddenly about four times the size it should be. My wife mentions getting ice for it, but I think he should get to the hospital. Again I am frustrated over the chaos that is still ensuing. I am so annoyed that I merely “push myself out of the dream” even though I was not lucid in any way.

In meaning, my sister had died recently, so her husband (still alive in reality) came to see me. It was at the Barolin Street house possibly because the porches (his and mine) were similar - though our present house has a more open porch as mixed-up with the last home in the dream. The bikers may be based on the fact that a brother, the last one still presently alive on my mother’s side, was a biker. He also liked playing with fire by spraying lighter fuel from his mouth onto a burning torch. There were times we had bookshelves and boxes of books on the lawn where I had minor concern about an unlikely sudden downpour, but only on days during packing and moving. Cthulhu may be yet another play on pachydermophobia, similar to the vacuum cleaner from another dream, as an octopus tentacle is somewhat reminiscent of an elephant’s trunk. However, there was no fear in this scene even though I was not lucid. The matchbook cover album foreshadowed the scene with the bikers randomly setting things on fire - relative to “where” the matchbook covers/fires should really be.