[soviet russia potato] (denas) wrote,
[soviet russia potato]

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testing testing

Evening, July 23, 2005

Me and this taxi driver chap, we were going to pull off a heist on an unsuspecting coconut hawker. We were in his taxicab, staking out the hapless mambubuko for what felt like the fourth day or so. In the trunk sat dozens of fake coconuts, which we intended to use in a classic bait-and-switch maneuver. My partner was the sleazier of us two, and he wore a panama hat with a Hawaiian shirt.

I wore a pinstriped suit.

It turns out that what he really intended to rob was a branch of the United Coconut Planters’ Bank. I can’t remember what happened next.

Morning, July 24, 2005

1: All I could remember about this dream was that it involved an ad for floor wax, and that the sole advertised characteristic was that it was colored ube purple instead of the usual red.

2: I was at home, and my family and I were packing stuff up into these big balikbayan boxes. We were leaving for San Francisco the very next day, apparently. There wasn’t enough room for all of my things, as my mom was using up most of the space for the junk she’d accumulated over the years (she was the sort that never threw things out – lifestyle sections of newspapers, hopelessly shot appliances, etc.). I was surprised at the extent to which I had put down roots here, and at the fact that I was about to leave a lot of it behind just because my mom can’t bear to throw Tim Yap’s columns and a broken electric fan away.

Evening, July 25, 2005

I had to bring my sick brother (who really is down with the flu right now) to a hospital notorious for its undead population and its inadequate parking space. I had a bit of trouble once they got him all fixed up, as I could not remember where I had parked the car. So my mom, my brother and I ended up threading our way around the mostly-empty complex at midnight, careful not to spring any traps that the zombies laid out. The architecture of the hospital was similar to those gray monoliths that Marcos put up – something of a cross between the main theater at CCP, the Philippine Children’s Memorial Center, and a videogame medieval dungeon.

It turns out that I was parked next to a friend’s car, someone I haven’t seen in a long while. And as luck would have it, he was heading towards his own car, and so we traded gabs right then and there, at midnight, in the amber-lit parking lot of some Marcos-era hospital with a zombie infestation.

I just realized that ‘finding a parked car at night’ is a recurrent theme in my dreams, although I’ve never had the problem in real life.

Afternoon, August 1, 2005

In my hand was a piece of fried chicken that could pass for a relief map of France. I took a bite out of the Bordeaux region, and all of a sudden I understood why it was famous the world over for its wines – Bordeaux was absolutely delicious. Normandy, on the other hand, tasted like stale, salty bread.

And then I dreamt that this dream would make a great dream journal entry.

August 2, 2005

I dreamt of the smell of freshly toasted, freshly buttered bread.

This sort of dream usually happens when I chew caffeinated gum before I sleep, which I did. The last time I did, I dreamt of nothing but the smell of cinnamon buns.
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