Tag: Mickey Mouse

Various Adventures

Posted on by Decade Dream Journal

I dream about a movie I’m watching/living: there are two (three?) high school girls running away, they travel through America, when they miss a train they realize they can fly and follow the train tracks from above through the mountains, they see a castle on a hill that is now a hotel. The movie feels magical and lighthearted at this point. The girls can look into someone’s eyes and see/grant their most profound wish. One of them turns a black and red fish into a human.

Then things turn horror, as the girls realize they never left their school, they are in the basement strapped to hospital beds, being fed hallucinogenic drugs by an evil nun. One of them is hugging a stuffed black and red fish. Only an hour has passed.

(I wish I knew how it all ended but this us all I can remember.)

Early in the morning I dream that I’m reading a Mickey Mouse comic; Mickey and Goofy are fighting some pirates in the belly of a ship, they run circles around them so fast they make them faint. Now they only need to defeat Captain Hook, but he’s gone to the bathroom because he needs to pee. I’m confused, can’t he just pee overboard? He goes to the bathroom but can’t find relief, why, why, oh why?

I wake up because I really need to pee.

(There was also a dream about a place, an underground cave below the ocean you can reach swimming in a certain direction. In that cave live the souls of all dead humanity, I wish I could remember more about it.)

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One-Two Chicken

Posted on by Decade Dream Journal

I’m with my sister on the beach. We’ve been fighting lately, but we apparently made peace in my dreams. She puts on her sunglasses, slathers herself with cream and proceeds to sunbathe like a lizard; meanwhile I stay fully clothed because I’m shy.

Times flies and it’s soon time to go back home, she has to pay for our train tickets because I only have five bucks on me. On the train I’m reading a Mickey Mouse comic strip, my sister reads from over my shoulder and chatters on about the artist, apparently a favorite of hers. “See how Goofy really moves like a dog,” she says enthusiastically. Horace is buff, like veins bulging ripped for who knows what reason.

I keep on reading, there’s a two pages interview with a Spanish-speaking comic book writer named Ricardo Pollo. I start chuckling uncontrollably, my sister asks why so I explain: the guy has a son who was born on January the second, and thus he named the poor kid “One Two Pollo.” In the dream, I find that utterly hysterical.

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