*Midsummer 1976 and the NewTone-ian Politics* -- 8 Dec 2000


   Thursday, 7 December 2000,

   I awoke in a dream, the third of successive vivid involved 
dreams, this last one quite long, for me, in terms of sequence of 
parts produced such that I remember them clearly.
   The first one: was about several large boats, like fishing 
boats, on a lake with a sand lakefront.  They were rentals, of 
similar design, and I considered comparative characteristics, like 
simple facility equipment each one had on the deck, seeing each 
boat in sequence at use in different places on the lake.
   The second one: in a low-lighted scene seemingly on the 
lakefront, was about two rival small baseball teams.  I was 
pitcher and the other team had a star hitter.  The final softly 
lighted scene suddenly had me, as if then vaguely in a living 
room, looking down upon like a 20-inch black-vinyl record spinning 
on a turntable at what may have been 33 and 1/3, on which was 
standing that player (supposedly), miniaturized to about 7 inches 
tall, repeatedly taking identical-looking demonstration swings -- 
showing the accomplished swing of a champion hitter -- the while 
remaining in the same position relative to the record.  It spun 
around a couple times.
   The third one: (of which I omit many details here) takes place 
at a university in a warm setting.  There is a girl (who really 
existed at the University of Miami) with whom I am minimally 
acquainted and for whom I have esteem -- and it never occurs to me 
to think of her name.  My roommate from my one semester at the 
University of Nebraska at Lincoln is there, with a situational 
allusion to the girl I should have married.  In the next to the 
last scene, right after I see the UM girl with her (actually non-
existent) twin sister and her mother, in which, standing outside 
in the breezeway in front of the on-campus mall-like store 
complex, they are going next to buy the girl eye-makeup -- she has 
very large eyes albeit devoid of makeup, I look down into my hands 
seeing a handwritten draft, in pencil on lined white pad-paper, 
several sheets, this top sheet filled margin to margin and above 
the top line of which is the letter’s “title,” to wit: “Citizen 
Canery” -- which I dream-process is funny, a play on the word 
“chicanery.”  (It was so funny I laugh out loud even now.)  In the 
final scene, I’m thoughtfully viewing the girl’s art in a display, 
among others situated in what seems like a gym -- in a way it’s 
more like a little swap-meet, very small sculptures out of ivory-
like substance, many replicas of obviously to-be-serialized copies 
of several different works laid out on some tables.  I think her 
art is interesting and evidences talent -- better than I could 
ever do, and I hold and look carefully inside one of the small 
cylindrical jar-like containers within each of which is a really 
little sculpture immersed in a fluid looking like mineral oil, 
considering that the fluid is for curing the little white 
sculpture. [whereupon I woke up, realizing the dream, and within 
about 20 seconds my alarm went off at 1600 hrs, after hours of 
sleep, this not being my routine “waking time,” after having sent 
an email, right before going to sleep, containing reference to my 
last public message in which I ever said something about this sort 
of wake-up event that I find interesting -- this being the first 
time for such coinciding event since that message]
   After a couple of minutes I was able to recall the main-girl’s 
name, and then I realized the relation to the UM “Canes,” which of 
course I didn’t get in the dream, because UM didn’t exist in the 
dream-consciousness, although UNL did.


   Wednesday, 1 November 2000, 2230 hrs (after going to sleep at 
2000 hrs),
   Drm:  At a community swimming pool in early afternoon on a hot, 
sunny summer day, I’m stepping into a small Jacuzzi-like warm pool 
set into the light-gray concrete pool-deck.  Across the deck at an 
angle to my right is the main pool (which seemed to be a 25-yard 
pool without lane-lines running lengthwise away in line with the 
direction I’m facing).  The Sun is high in the cloudless sky at an 
azimuth about in line with the main pool.  Some very uninteresting 
guys are already in this little pool.  I notice that I have my 
dark plastic-framed sunglasses, half in each hand -- the frame is 
broken in the center between the lenses.  Putting the sunglasses 
on, them situating together for the moment and me feeling totally 
stupid by this, I reluctantly sit down into the warm, Jacuzzi-like 
still water.  Looking out in front of me across the warm, dry 
pool-deck about 20 meters, I notice another small pool.  It would 
all be more fun over there.
   I see over by that pool on its left side pool-deck is a cute 
blonde girl standing on the deck, in a yellow bikini I think.  
Some guys are there too, and they’re having fun -- that’s where 
the pool scene is happening.
   (scene-shift, totally resolute)
   The Sun seeming brighter than real-life shining down from high 
in the sky positioned as before, now I’m in the small pool in the 
deck to the left of the main pool -- the small pool I was earlier 
looking over toward -- this one a little larger than the one I was 
in before.  I’m leaning back against the pool-side facing the same 
direction as before looking lengthwise across the pool which is a 
rectangle maybe 3 meters long and 2 meters across.  I must be 
sitting on a little step, sort of like a Jacuzzi-pool.  My 
shoulders are just above the deck level.  The total depth of the 
pool is about 0.75 meter deep (2.5 feet), the topaz-blue 
translucent water in this pool as if naturally warmed by the hot 
Sun.  And I look up at what’s happening.
   On the pool-deck over on my left and in front of me, that girl 
I’d seen before -- a cute girl with medium-blonde straight hair to 
her shoulders -- is being held by two guys, slightly older, one on 
each side -- her totally naked as she playfully struggles in their 
playful restraint.  The guys are “trying” to throw her in, but 
really they are all play-struggling.  I’m looking directly at the 
girl, so I don’t really notice the guys other than they are taller 
than her and have dark, relatively short hair.
   (scene-shift)
   For a moment in the play-struggle, the guys have held her way 
out over the pool as if putting her in jeopardy, like they might 
let go.  They bring her back, and then in a quick moment, she gets 
dropped in.
   (scene-shift)
   As if just then turning my eyes to look back over my left 
shoulder, now I’m looking over toward the wood-framed changing-
room facility.  That small structure, in front of which the pool-
deck extends, is about in line transverse from the Jacuzzi-type 
pool and 15 meters to the right, at the perimeter of the pool 
complex.  I catch this glimpse as the girl is entering into the 
shower area in front of the portal to the changing room.  (There 
is one shower from the wall between the doors to the facility.  
The Girls door is on the left.  The door was as if fixed open, 
allowing free-flow traffic turning to the left around a corner 
into the room.)  She disappears into the changing room.
   Then in a short moment she reappears holding a white towel 
closed around her waist, stopping in the shower area turned angled 
to her left from the direction in line with us.  Standing there 
seemingly knowing that we, the sub-scene participants, are still 
watching from where we are, she adjusts the towel now, pulling it 
open where her hands are along her right side at her waist having 
to make an adjustment, and then snugging it up she fastens the 
towel corners -- a rather short white towel -- there at her waist, 
her right leg showing up to the fasten-point.  During this last 
part, a few non-descript pool patrons are milling by the changing-
rooms and pool entrance to its right, as if oblivious to anything 
notable in our sub-scene. [end, awake]


   Deciding to think over the dream for a while, I lay there 
thinking to remember who that girl was.  I knew her, from 
somewhere . . . or was it a dream-girl I knew but never have known 
for real?  After a couple of minutes, in a mind-revelation, I know 
who it is.  She is a girl from an incident in midsummer 1976, when 
I was head lifeguard at a sand pit beach and swim park on the edge 
of town.  Especially because sand pits are cone-shaped on the 
bottom, swimming was restricted to a roped-off area out in front 
of the main sloping beach.  The changing-room facility was at the 
top of the sand-slope on a concrete foundation, about 60 meters 
from the lakefront.  (The dream changing-room was modeled very 
much upon this structure: same color, similar entry-ways, but the  
real shower was on the side of the structure.)

   Beyond the changing facility and beach, the built-up dune-like 
area extended out like a peninsula.  So the lakefront continued on 
past the swimming zone and around the peninsula to behind the 
changing facility and past behind it a ways.  This part of the 
lake formed a narrow inlet, the bank of the lake not very far 
across it.  This curled-back inlet was sort of isolated.  
Lifeguard duties required making persons to not swim outside the 
designated area, like over in that part.
   Around 1400 hrs on a hot, cloudless day in the middle of the 
summer, I’m on a tour around the lakefront that goes out of sight 
from the main beach.  On the opposite side of the dune-like area, 
two girls were swimming out in the little inlet.  I’d seen them 
some times before this and I knew they knew it wasn’t allowed.  So 
I told them they had to get out, and they just said no.  I thought 
one of the girls was cute.  She was 15, I think, from what I 
understood about everything that was going on at the lake.
   Having told her I would have to come in and get her out, the 
girl determined being coyly disobedient resisting the notion of 
leaving the warm, green lake water.  So I had to try and go pull 
her out.  Somehow, the strings of her skimpy bikini top came 
undone, and *still* she playfully resisted, seeming to want that 
we should just stay out there playing around.  I finally got her 
to promise to get out, which she finally did.
   Anyway, about a half hour later:  I’m by the changing-room 
building in front of the concession window when that girl walks by 
with her friend, making some playful assertion feigning 
indignation -- a late-20’s woman happening to be standing there, 
here brought into the middle of it, turning her head with mouth 
somewhat agape in wonder of what *that* could have all been about.

   (and back to sleep)

   Thursday, 2 November 2000, 0500 hrs,
   Drm 1:  Looking down into a Presidential debate hall.  The room 
seems like an old theater or university lecture hall maintained in 
elegant simplicity, high-ceilinged and all fresh-looking with 
very-pale-gray painted walls.  The room is completely quiet.  Down 
in front on the dais around the one podium, George W. Bush -- the 
only debate participant -- is momentarily inwardly confounded. 
   George W. excuses himself without a word, exiting the dais off 
to his left side, down the several steps, and he goes into the 
restroom which is along the theater wall, across from about the 
third row of seating, shutting the white-painted wood door behind 
him.  Another identical door is to the right of that door.
   It’s like he is in there for a discrete break as if dealing 
with needing to cough or blow his nose or something.  But through 
the door you can hear inside.  It’s like he’s fixing his voice, a 
number of times forcefully emitting from his throat, “a-Hoe’! . . 
. a-Hoe’! . . . a-Hoe’! . . .” the a-sound as in “cat.” [end]
   I awoke in the dream, thinking how odd the dream was at the 
end, like a major-league consternation problem he was in process 
of managing.  I woke up long enough to look at the clock and go 
back to sleep.
   (then)

   Drm 2:  In the middle of the night, I’m in the dimly lighted 
upstairs hallway, walking back over to the bathroom along the 
hallway edge beside the door which is swung open back to the wall.  
The bathroom light isn’t on, but some light is cast inside from 
the hallway.  Although the water hadn’t been running into the tub 
that I could tell -- there hadn’t been a sound and I know the 
water wasn’t turned on -- the four-footed porcelain-coated tub is 
full to the very brim, having *been* filling slowly.  It has just 
right before this moment become full of warm water, and I’m 
concerned what to do about it.  I can’t reach in, of course.  I 
imagine doing something with the valve in the drain line 
underneath in the front at the left end, which I would have to 
crawl underneath to do, but there’s space. [end, awakening in the 
dark]

   (and sleeping a bunch more)

   Drm 1:  Like on a warm summer night, at a pool scene with my 
best friend from Texas A&M.  The pool of lighted blue water is off 
to one side.  It’s like an evening social meeting place -- like a 
club or restaurant, but with swimming theme, and seeming to be on 
the edge of town like in the open spaces around College Station.  
The scene is illuminated with incandescent lighting including 
light bulbs strung above in a line along the board walkway with 
wood fence railing.
   (scene change)
   Near to where we were before, but now I’m alone inside a 
temporary-seeming enclosure, in a small room like a bedroom but 
with some sort of wall-space open to the outside.  It’s still the 
warm summer night, which I can tell by seeing out and hearing the 
people a distance away, conversation of a social gathering.  
Looking in a mirror, with my right index finger I smear Vaseline 
onto my face with several short downward strokes, from under each 
eye down onto the inside cheekbone. [end]

   Drm 2:  Something about a JFK movie-frames sequence.  Taking 
place in what was like a conference room, I’m with a small group 
of guys analyzing information.  We’re resolving information  
publicly available but which we know hasn’t been noticed before. 
[end, awake]


   Saturday, 25 November 2000,

   Drm 1:  At Burtek, Inc., the small aerospace company in Tulsa 
(one of my sometimes dream-places), in the design room seeing 
across drawing-table desks: a problem has just come up with the 
drawings -- this relating to what seems like the company’s primary 
contract, one of very few.  (They sometimes do subcontract work 
for bigger companies.)  I’m seeing a group of guys beginning in a 
state of emotional concern holding drawings rolled out in their 
hands over the desks.  The project has to do with design on the 
plane’s plumbing system -- stainless steel tubing routed all along 
the plane -- which I’m perceiving is something like the hydraulic 
system of a commercial airliner.  The problem that has just become 
evident is that the tolerances are very wide and therefore total 
length numbers are way off on all the length dimensions.  So that 
whole part of the design contract is maybe completely screwed up.
   A meeting is rapidly organized.  I know my boss woman -- who 
isn’t an engineer but somehow got into this management position -- 
will suspect me even before knowing anything.  I get the sure 
feeling she may well try and see to it for any blame found to be 
put on something I have been responsible for.
   I feel the need to quickly prepare a defense for my part in it.  
I gather up a stack of file-size drawings and work-papers which I 
put in fat beige-brown envelope.  That’s when I see my boss 
looming across the room -- I can tell she’s preparing in her mind 
for the meeting -- as other engineer-people are busying about. 
[end]

   Drm 2:   I’m at College Station on a mildly warm, sunny late 
afternoon, things seeming a lot like when I was in school there.  
It seems sort of like a football game Saturday.  I’m somewhere not 
on the campus but not too far from school, walking to a room I’ve 
recently rented or which I must make payments for if I stay there.
   (scene-shift)
   Inside the small apartment, afternoon light coming in through 
the windows, I consider alternatively sleeping in my car a few 
hours to avoid the otherwise required payment.  But I also 
consider that I may not be able to function on just the few hours 
of sleep I would get by going with the sleeping in the car option.
   The telephone rings which I answer and the guy realizes I’m not 
the girl who was, prior to this, listed as having the phone (-- 
and therefore the room, which is the implication in my mind, this 
something like residence hall rooms which may have telephones -- 
specific phone numbers -- associated with the rooms, regardless 
who lives there).
   The guy is making an administrative call having to do with 
assignment of the room and phone service, and he recognizes the 
potential mismatch.  He says something about the records showing 
the girl still being assigned, and whatever he said then meant he 
would pursue further verification to resolve the issue.  Without 
considering whether I have hung up the phone, I go into thought 
over the problem: if this girl still had the room, then the phone 
would still be assigned with her identifying number, therefore the 
phone wouldn’t connect with my number, yet my number *does* 
connect with the phone here . . . I think.  And I try to recall 
for sure if I have received a call (indicating my number being 
connected with the phone) in the recent time leading up to this 
moment, since I “moved” into the room.  I thought it had.  But 
while I’m still trying to recall for sure, like to remember a 
specific telephone call that has come in on the phone for me here, 
a small dot-printing device sitting on the table next to the phone 
activates, which device I realize in the moment is connected with 
the phone line.  It’s a unit that prints out roll-paper like a 
cash register does.  This is responsive to the momentarily 
precedent phone call from the room and phone administrative unit.  
I know what it is, it’s a bill for the girl transmitted through 
her identifying number.  In the moment, it’s conclusive that 
according to the records, the girl is still assigned to the room.  
So what am *I* doing?  I don’t know *what* I’m doing.
   (then a scene without image, but as if it’s happening like a 
real situation dream, Bobby Ewing speaking, as in an important 
discussion, matter-of-factly to a small group of his collaborating 
associates . . .) 
   “Don’t forget to give deference to Mr. Al Gore, than me in 
these things.  When all this is over he will still have 3 more 
games than me in this.” [awake]

   My mind dream-processed “three more games” in the context of a 
score tally, like comparing pitchers and one having three more 
wins or something like that -- although the words don’t make any 
sense.

   I scribbled down that dream-statement, and while I doze-rested 
conscious,

   Vis:  (like shown as a resolute projected photo-slide: on . . . 
then gone, not something fuzzy or imagined.)  As if seeing one 
panel from a comic strip drawing, only as if my eyes seeing it as 
a real scene -- like being there -- with a slight effect of 3-
dimensional spatial depth, and almost all gray-tones with a hint 
of color:

   Donald Duck, leaning over from behind the table in the 
foreground on top of which is a gray metal-looking box.  In his 
left gloved-hand Donald Duck is holding onto a light-toned smooth 
blank card (about three inches wide, like a computer card) which 
is sticking out of a slot in the top of the box about four inches.  
In his right gloved-hand Donald has a pair of shiny office 
scissors which he is desperately positioning at the center of the 
card portion showing -- ready to use.  His expression was best of 
all: “sudden, total, what’s happening is beyond his control” 
desperation.

   Donald’s appearance made me remember what I thought of electing 
a dead person as Senator.

   Constitution, Article 1, Sec. 3 --
   [3] No person shall be a Senator who shall not have attained to 
the Age of thirty Years . . . and who shall not, when elected, be 
an Inhabitant of that State for which he shall be chosen.

   Amendment XVII
   [1] (how Senators are now popularly elected, requirements 
haven’t change)
   [2] When vacancies happen in the representation of any State in 
the Senate . . . the legislature . . . may empower the executive 
thereof to make temporary appointments until the people fill the 
vacancies by election . . . 

   So, supposedly, seeing how the once-person is no longer a 
person but is dead, and the seat being still “empty,” the prior 
term having expired and no person having been elected, it’s filled 
by appointment *as if* the new term of Senator once *was* occupied 
and now is vacant --

   though no one *was* ever a Senator in that Senate seat, any 
such Senator not having *been* disqualified from being a Senator 
by the Article 1 exclusions (which “technically” *seem* to only 
apply to *persons*, but not, perhaps to horses or dead persons) 

   -- it of course evident the supposed-Senator who vacated the 
seat was never a Senator because at that time of being elected he 
wasn’t even a person or a resident of the State . . . But it’s 
what more of the people of the State of Missouri wanted to do, 
than not do.  Why let “rules” matter in it anyway.

   So I thought: Okay, so if persons write-in “Abraham Lincoln, 
16th President,” and he gets enough votes to win, does it make a 
difference that he died a *long* time ago, or that although he had 
*been* in Missouri, at the time of “election” he was not a 
resident, or even a person.  Can Abraham Lincoln *win* election 
for Senate, and thereby create a “vacancy” by way of subsequently 
being realized to be deceased?

   The possibilities seemed unbounded, no different from what 
really happened in Missouri -- completely unchallenged by the 
Republican who had quit campaigning because it’s so unseemly -- 
impossible -- to campaign against a dead person (him having been 
so untimely and tragically screwed) especially since a dead person 
can’t even be elected, so how could a dead person win?

   Finally, I extended the hypothetical to Donald Duck winning 
with write-in votes.  Does a cartoon character “get” votes? (does 
a vote “count” if it’s not for a person? or does it make a 
difference if the non-person was *never* a person?) . . . he’s not 
a person -- but neither is a dead person.  I concluded Missouri 
could elect Donald Duck “in memorium” if they wanted to, so they 
could appoint someone to the Senate instead of electing a person 
like the Constitution plainly says.  That’s where I quit thinking 
about it.


   Wednesday, 8 November 2000, also having made me think of 
cartoons,

   Drm:  I’ve been journeying in the north, unfamiliar part of 
town, the part of town -- seemingly very far away -- with schools 
(elementary schools) I never see and kids I’ve never known.  I’m 
on my way back to my part of town, but I’m still in this strange 
area.  I seem to be nearing a gray-beige large, old school.
   (scene-shift)
    I’m up on the roof above the top-second floor of the 
unfamiliar school building.  The roof is flat and bordered with a 
wall about a meter high, which I’m mostly looking out over, but in 
the other direction away from the wall there on top of the roof, 
there’s a doorway in a structure.  Deciding to get back to the 
ground for continuing on, I climb over the wall and start to think 
about dropping down to the school yard.  I look down.  Whoa!, it’s 
like 20 meters up (and I think I see a few people way down there 
in normal-seeming activity).  No way could I drop down from here.  
I climb back over the wall fixing to go down the right way, 
feeling noticeably better once I’m firmly situated upon the roof.  
And in the moment, a small body -- as if it had been running at 
the level of the top of the wall -- runs out into the air over and 
beyond the wall several meters, and, like in a cartoon, it stops 
still for a moment until realization occurs that it is over mere 
air, and then flailing off balance, away it falls.  I am sure the 
result was a bad one.  I’m taking the stairs, through the doorway 
and down. [end, awake]


   At about 0300 Sunday morning, 26 November 2000, I stop at a 
show about elephants on the Federal State Television channel 
($360M annual spending of tax money for political-explanatory news 
and shows on how animals “evolved”).  It told about what some 
elephants’ lives have been like.  One old elephant born in about 
1945 was working in the circus.  Early in the morning, getting the 
elephant ready, they rub Vaseline all around and under her baggy 
eye-lids, because of all the dust in working in the circus.


   (in the seeming distant past)

   Wednesday, 17 June 1992,
   Drm:  Standing in the parking lot of an upscale grocery store 
on a warm, sunny day, I see J.R. and Bobby Ewing, and Ken 
Kerscheval.  They must have just gotten out of their car and be 
going into the store.  I say to the other person with me, “There’s 
J.R. and Bobby and Ken Kerscheval,” then adding something like 
that I want to go in and introduce myself and get their 
autographs. [end]


   Thursday, 22 October 1992,
   Drm:  The situation is that preparations are underway for a 
Nebraska football game, soon to start.  Nebraska, the visiting 
team, is to arrive by train.  All is run efficiently and security 
is maintained.
   (scene-shift, now seen from as if on the train arriving)
   The Nebraska team in uniform is arriving near to the game site 
by way a smooth-running city train, the train car decelerating 
into the annex-station near the school.  It’s right before game 
time.  The silver double-doors slide open from the center and the 
players file out.
   (scene-shift)
    Then, immediately after game -- the team boards the train as 
if having come straight from the field location, and the train 
departs. [end]

   The silver doors slid open smoothly, like for an elevator.  I 
had never been on a Metro-rail before, but after I rode it and 
later saw this dream, I knew that was what the train was like.


   Friday, 23 October 1992,
   Drm:  I’m in a room . . . it’s at the house belonging to a 
former “wife” (who left in 1984) where I’m viewing TV, seeing 
James Baker -- a former Secretary of State -- and a middle-aged 
guy with curly dark hair.  I ask her about the other guy who I 
don’t know.  She says he’s pretty good, they’re teachers (the 
group he’s from, I guess).  But, I consider how James Baker is 
known and eminently respected.  Apparently changing the subject, I 
ask about parking my van there.  She says I can’t because it would 
be seen and a neighbor would cause a problem over it being there. 
[end]


   In the matter of Burtek,

   Friday, 22 November 1990,
   Drm:  Being shown a list on paper (nothing else in the scene 
that really is visual) of about 5 or 6 girl’s names handwritten in 
a column, and told “breast reduction” -- it was girls who’d had it 
done, with some significance of note.  And I read one of the 
names, with a feeling of awareness, “Josie.” [end, awake]
   (And I think: I don’t know any Josie.)

   Saturday, 23 November 1990,
   Drm:  The discussion is helicopters, like how many.  Someone 
suggested 15.  I said 18.
   (scene change)
   At aerospace company work:  I’m with several co-worker guys, 
group-mates in a special development project at this aircraft 
design place.  Our project is a new technology 3-dimensional 
hologram effect.  (This scene was sort of as if having to do with 
an integrated software project after developing the sub-routines 
and having combined everything, and now watching it run 
essentially correctly for the first time, doing the simple basic 
function it’s supposed to do.  But there was also the aura of 
component design and functional performance -- it wasn’t just 
software logic.)
   Now in this first successful demonstration, across the room (in 
a space of which the lights have been turned way down) in a 
cylindrical lighted space, a blonde girl from the place is 
modelling naked, very nice . . . but it’s just a real-looking 
hologram.  We’re in that sort of momentary atmosphere that 
accompanies small-group engineering success.
   (scene change)
   There’s a girl on my lap. [and I woke up]
   
   I was reminded of that dream when I saw the futuristic film 
*Virtual Combat* (1995).  It’s about virtual-imaging technology 
developed by Burtech Industries.  (Their “B” company logo I 
thought was stupid looking compared to the actual Burtek “B” logo 
which I considered cool enough to have on the rear-side wedge-
window of my 300ZX.)  The technology product is widely used in the 
Las Vegas sort of gaming industry -- this evidenced near the 
film’s beginning, Peggy Trentini making her holographic-VR 
appearance as “Debbie” like in my dream.  But the drama of the 
story happens when they make real girls “. . . dimensionalized 
from virtual reality to reality.”


   *    *    *    *    *    *

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