I know people find it tedious, but it’s fascinating to me that I could, or my brain could, write whole comprehensible pages of a book for me to read on a subject I know nothing about. I was learning from what I was reading in my sleep.
(TL; DR: I knocked a drunk kid over in gym/dining hall/undercroft utility area of a school or business building.)
I had some kind of issue with a bully, another student my age (though my age seemed to change in the dream at times. It’s fodder for the common idea that you don’t much “feel” your age–in your mind you’re always the same age.)
This kid would bother me and pick on me for my interests, since they were’t hs and I think he was jealous of my ideas.
Finally I announced to the teachers and other boys in the class that this guy was bothering me and I wanted it stopped. No one listened. The kid approached me, with all classmates present, and I pushed him as he spoke. He fell flat on his back, no attempt to catch himself. It appeared his skull fractured horribly, like an egg, and there was a lot of blood and bone showing. He would surely die. No one seemed concerned.
Calling an ambulance but calling my teachers (?) first? It felt like it would make a cracking YA story.
I felt guilty, though I disliked the kid, and no one seemed to care what I had done. But I felt I should have gotten him help before I basically killed him. My guilt and grief seemed businesslike, though; I seemed to understand that there would probably not be consequences for me, so my own self-inflicted consequences weren’t as bad as they might have been.
I went looking for a place to piss, and finding one, and pissing in it. This happened twice in the dream.
First was a little toilet that was sideways to me. It was inconvenient.
Second was a stall, like a shower stall, with nothing but a tiled hole in the floor, made to be pissed in. While in this room, there was a vent through which I could completely hear a radio in an adjacent office. The man speaking on the radio was reading baseball scores, a lot of them, and very quickly.
Doing a craft wrong: we were wrapping half inch wide strips of soft metal around a cylinder with a shallow groove in it. You wrapped the strips and then heated them or beat them down with light hammer taps until the welded or melded to the cylinder, and then you could pull the strip tight around a drumhead, for example, to hold it on better, or improve it. I was doing this on a brownish-orange plastic drum that looked like an ancient olive jar, but with a solid molded top. It already worked as a drum, so what ever I was doing seemed more for practice than anything. It wasn’t mine, and that seemed significant, but the school was okay with me putting a metal strip on it. There were a group of us doing this, it felt like a church thing.
I was messing up the hammer-tap thing–I had wound my strip around the small grooved cylinder, but hadn’t seated the strip in the groove, so it was spinning around the cylinder instead of sitting still, and I wasn’t tapping hard enough to meld the layered strips so I had about five “wraps” around the cylinder but nothing was welding right.
This kid “Peto” Perdomo offered to help me with cleaning or protecting this vehicle. He was a younger student at the school, he had a tie on, as was traditional. Helping was something he was supposed to do.
His name was pronounced like “pedo”. He said his name was a family tradition. I said I had a problem with my hearing, I didn’t mean to hurt his feelings.
I remember I was on a hill with a road on it, I was guarding or cleaning a car there.
Riding in car with a long ago co-worker who put in a tape a very generic bluegrass music (the music that seems to me to want to be generic, its listeners like it best the more it’s like other bluegrass they’ve already approved of.)
I was reading a book about useful knowledge to have when at sea or working on land near the North Atlantic Ocean.
The book had comedic descriptions of dialogue between Massachusetts-y fisherman with words like “SHEESH!” but the author’s practice was to type it like “shi’sh!”
I can’t remember and it breaks my heart:
- the title of the book, though I can kind of see the cover. I can see the typeface! It’s a bit like old Apple manuals’ typeface, but thicker.
- It had the word Sea in it, and it was an instructional book.
- Like Making Sea _______ .
- The part I read was a recipe for making some useful product out of the shit in a certain type of fish’s guts. Apparently making this was a task fishermen’s wives were called upon to do often. Maybe it was for staining and sealing boat decks.
The recipe was laid out like a recipe, but I couldn’t read that part.
It sounded disgusting and the writer agreed, but this is what the book was about.
