read about this site and my work or check what I'm doing now

#dream #diaries ⚑ Santa Cruz, California

chained by wheels dream

I’m at a rather large two-story restaurant. It’s square in shape with stairs running between the floors and maybe an atrium or an empty space in the middle, inside, on the ground floor. There are rooms and sitting downstairs, where it’s darker—also, outdoors upstairs under the daylight. The patio is only partially covered by a roof that slides down rather close at a low angle, which makes it easy to jump over and climb. Tables everywhere, and people chatter, no specific group, there must be someone I know there, someone I came with or came in to see, but no one particular I look for or recognize, just a sense of belonging to the place. I came in from the parking, where I left my car, noticing the $25 a day maximum with some change. For some reason, it is important for me. I also remember that I wasn’t alone around my car when I was leaving the parking spot.

At the restaurant, I walk around when someone else rushes into the place. It’s a big and strong male, he moves fast with anger and force. He gets into the rooms and around tables and roughs people and things up. I don’t see him beating or killing anyone, I know that he is causing disturbance, fear, and pain. People move and hide around, many under the tables. I don’t get involved. Upstairs moving gracefully over the low-hanging rooftop, jumping off, squeezing under a table with some strangers. I do what they do. We all hear ‘the guy’ and see him at a distance. I feel cautious rather than fearful, but I’m not sure what others think.

I lay over a young woman, under the table, it’s neither sexual nor intimate, she is like an object to me. Few other bodies right next to us, too many people in very little space under the table. My iPad plays music, I curse and pull it out, silencing it, and turning the do-not-disturb mode on, then do the same on the iPhone. It’s quiet now, but the guy is still out there, we can hear him and see his shadow inside through the patio windows. He never climbs up or move closer to where we hide. Eventually, he disappears, and everything gets back to normal relatively instantly. I’m missing what happens next. There were some meetings and conversations at the same restaurant, some meals I ordered, and owed money for.

Walking back to the parking lot, I find my car chained to the ground with many small locks hanging off the chain and across the front wheels. I try to drive off forcefully, to break the chain, but it doesn’t work out. The restaurant bouncer pops-up. He is tall and strong, I’m not sure if I interacted with him before, but I know why he is coming for. He escorts me back to the restaurant to pay for the parking and hand me over to a hostess that points me to the old-fashioned pos-terminal, a machine with many knobs and buttons and tiny LCD-screen that displays numbers and monotype characters only.

I feel playful, and as if I’m drunk or caught with my pants down. I enter my license plate number into the terminal and advise with the hostess what to do next. The terminal shows my legal name and ID numbers, even the billing address, all this information is gliding over the screen. Eventually displaying that I owe $250 or something similar to that amount, it’s about 10 times more than the posted maximum day rate, I noticed before. And I have a memory of staying two nights in that parking lot, no idea why the “2,” and how did that happen. I am confused with the bill, and so is the hostess, she forwards our concern back to the bouncer, who is already approaching from the hall. The restaurant is empty, it is early morning but no sunshine outside, it’s a little dim.

As he advances closer to me, he asks me, “Are you hungry?” I feel playful (again) and as if I was caught up trying to get away with something, even though there is no factual evidence to that in the dream. I say “Da” to him, in Russian, nothing else in that dream is in that language, but that part. I sit with the bouncer at the corner of the room, he lectures me on something, with either brother or father energy to it, I don’t hear, or I don’t listen to what he says, but look at his body and face, both changes gradually. He now has thick glasses on his head, that nerd type that makes the eyes look huge. Next moment I notice that the glasses are part of his face, the lenses grow-in his eye-lids, and the eyes roll around like fish in a tank. His head is enormous, reminding me of the Yubaba from the “Spirited away,” his body is dwarfed. He talks, and his eyes—those two murky portholes—they roll around.

I wake up.