King Tut. Acrylic on paper. 2008.
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Snowy Hill Dream
This is a dream I had of a hill a few years ago. The apartment block. In another part of this same dream, I am entering the small apartment of someone. Photorealism is the only way to portray dreams, much better than CGI. I saw crayon drawings of shamans that depicted blue skies, rainbows, clouds and groups of people, obviously and OBE NDE. That crayon drawing, I can just picture how it must have looked PR, because I had a dream kind of like that once.
Glossary:
NDE: Near Death Experience
OBE: Out of Body Experience
PR: Photorealism
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Dream March 12, 2008
Last night, I had a dream where I had to get some coats off a couch for my friends.
In the hall was an elevator. There was a box that had my things which I did not need anymore.
I burned them and threw them in the elevator. Me and my friends went into the elevator next to it. When we arrived going down to the ground floor, I looked in the elevator.
Looking up, I saw the box that I threw in was burning on the roof.
The Police and Fire Department were arriving but when they arrived the fire was put out and they did talk to me. They did not seem to care at all.
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Dream: Tam
I saw my friend Tam who died, in a house with a medieval atmosphere. There was a treestump coffee table in the room with a whole bunch of knickknacks thereon. Outside was a small swamp with a path.
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Dream: William Burroughs
When I was in Thailand, summer of 2003, I met William Burroughs in a dream. He was sitting on a bench in the middle of a concrete island in a city park. I asked him if he would mind if I sat with him. He seemed very happy with that and motioned me to sit.
I sat across him. He said, "You have to write for a lot of places before you get published."
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Dream Saturday April 12, 2008
I had a dream where there was a Vietnamese waitress in a restaurant. She ladled down some food.
Not only did she put the food on the customer's plate, she gently broke it up with the ladle in a few soft up and down chopping motions.
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Dream Thursday May 8, 2008
A warning of why I should not travel to Asia again.
I was in a cement room. There was a Chinese guy with a huge red headress. A crowded room full of Chinese. He was on a stage. He was going to destroy some parchment or else piece of literature.
I was in a restaurant. There was a girl there I knew before. I am with her.
Later, I am on a street. There is a far house kitty corner and on the left side of the street. I go there to look for the girl. A Vietnamese guy, slow, kind greets me on the street. He ushers me to walk on, backtracking, away from the direction of the house. He said that the Chinese who are guarding her do not like me.
I then teleport to a restaurant where I am working as a dishwasher.
Back to the cement room, a Khmer guy, rival to the Chinese guy in the red headress puts up a big white plaque with green writing. The plaque is to the far left.
Next I teleport back to the front yard of a house on a hill. The front yard slopes down respective of the hill. There is a mud trench running latitudinally along, just 45 metres in front of the house. I run through it. "Life with these people is an obstacle course," I thought.
There is a bunch of Asians running throughout the yard. The chief is that Khmer guy, rival to the Chinese red headress. He sees me and then now I am in his radar and he gets an inkling of my telepathic personality when it comes to my opinions about the Asians. All my articles about the decrepitude of their languages and the horrid incomprehensibility of their garish writing systems rose to the surface in an instant and he sensed that I had an "attitude" about Asians. And not in a good way.
He ordered the other Khmers to release me. I hopped on a motorcycle and sped down the hill on a road that curved right.
As I was leaving the other Khmers were shooting at me with orange guns. A few of the bullets hit me thudding and punching me gently yet strangely, I did not die. Well it was just a dream, of couse I would not die. When you die in a dream, you wake up in the 3-D World. When you die in the 3D World, you wake up in the dreamworld.
At one point,I am on a highway in Bangkok. Again! It is night. I am sitting at the ledge of a building, street level with my left side facing the street. There are two trucks that pass me going from right to left. On the open flatbed trucks are a bunch of Asian high school students a couple with very Japanese looking faces and wearing bright white starched short sleeve shirts. The tshirts are as White as usual; Dreamworld white, 5th dimension white, master vibration white. I have seen white shirts hundreds of times in my dreams and they are all nauseatingly fresh and clean like the Ray Bradburian "ice cream" shirts.
Ergo: I have had this "attitude" whenever I dreamed of Chinese, Asians, Khmers, Thais, etc. I have had lots of dreams of Asians and I never wanted to hold them more than arms length at the closest. Except the Thais. I really like the Thais. The other people from other countriesin Asia like Korea, China, I don't care about. China means nothing to me.
This attitude is one of diffidence and really not wanting to know too much of their language.
If I go to Thailand, etc again, this attitude will emerge strongly, in quick telepathic spurts at times, and people there can sense that. There are people there who either hate the West or envy me because of me being raised in the West. That is why I maybe should not go. Asians, the gangster types who are actually there as I visit there will sense that I think the Asian languages are primitive and silly, at times and they would not like that.
My friend Daniel DocThailand of YouTube somehow sends me letters beckoning me to visit Krapi. I would not be surprised if I went there one day. He said that there are lots of blonde girls there. I like blonde girls. I like girls of all hair colours.
Everything I have ever wanted I have gotten. Soon, I will have a girlfriend again. But this time, she will be the best girlfriend ever. Better than any girlfriend I have ever had. Oh great, my past girlfriends would be happy to read that! She would be different but of course having some qualities that remind me of my past girlfriends. Some of my past girlfriends are now, eternal gems of light. Some have passed on, and some as it will turn out, I am destined to never see again in this physical framework of time called My Lifetime. They are all ever precious gems eternally suspended on the glistening folds of sweet memory.
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My Mother, Sunday May 11, 2008. Mother's Day
This is pictures of my mother. The top picture was done with a night vision exposure and with the flash off. The other picture is with the regular exposure, aperture setting, and with the flash off.
As far as I know this is my mother. My adoptive father was one of the most mendacious of all compulsive bullshitters I ever met. Even my outspoken cousin called him a bullshitter, asking, "Why is he always bullshitting?"
My family situation is one that is better non-existent. If they were so gung ho about family, which thankfully they are not for they never contact me. My adoptive father only ever introduced me to his side of the family. He never introduced me to my mother's side of the family. The other day, in 2002, at a restaurant, my adoptive father told me that in 1977 my mother's family wrote for the last time asking about me. That decrepit leopard faced bastard was always a day late and a dollar short. Why did he not tell me this before. Why wait til 2002? Or else why tell me at all?!
I used to resent them withholding information about my mother. But my parents and extended family were not the most poetically articulate of people. Any story that they
would tell me about my mother would be another communication conveyed in the typical way that they handle most of their verbal exchanges. Short, platitudinous quips that do not go beyond a grade five vocabulary. Any story that they would or could give me about my mother would be just that, a story that they would or could give me replete with their patchwork, displaced immigrant, faulty selective memory.
There is no legal obligation for me to ever at any point in the future contact any of those people who were ostensibly introduced to me as my so called family. Not a one of them means anything to me. I certainly do not know any of their phone numbers addresses, etc and I do not want to know.
Do I believe this is my mother? Possibly. But it probably isn't. There are a thousand women who have similar facial features as me and could be my mother.
I am at the age where I would not be contacting my mother very often anyways, even if she were alive. That she is dead, I don't have to worry about this all together. Most people find something to resent about their mothers.
I don't really know what my mother's name was, and to tell you the truth, I don't really care. I like to imagine that her name was Molly Noble.
Brad Pitt said, in Seven Years in Tibet, "Better a dead father than a lousy one." Absolutely goddamned right. And this applies to the mother too.
I don't care if I ever become a father. Passing on my genetic line means nothing because I have had enough scientific training to know about genetic drift. That thanks to genetic drift in, say, 50 generations my great- great-x25 grandhild will be no more genetically related to me than the person standing next to him waiting for the light to change as he crosses the street. Especially if my grandparents had like, for instance 25 children. Then for sure, that is already taken care of. Whether or not I sire offspring, my genetic line will still be existent on the Earth.
My mother died in 1971. I have no real story as to how she died and just about no information about her life. A lot of people met their mothers and it would be better if they had no mother at all. A lot of people have mothers who have tourette's syndrome, biploar disorder, drunk, a junkie, a prostitute, always negative and verbally abusive and spending time in prison. It is better to have no mother at all than to have a mother like that. Typically, my mother would be somewhere along the line between that and an angel.
The adoptive mother who raised me was in one word, a goddamned asshole. No wait, that's two words. I would not call her on this or any other Mother's Day. I think I have seen her for the last time and I would not be surprised if she died. She did not look so good the last time I saw her.
Most people in town on Mother's Day, like to go to the local White Spore, I mean White Spot. That is a joke. I love White Spot. The food there has an electricity to it. Always bracing flavours. I would bring my mother to White Spot. Even though I did not make a lot of money and even though I have not found Miss Right yet, I think that she would be reasonably proud of me. Certainly.
I also have a copy of her cremation and exhumation certificate from the Bureau of Funerals, Crematoria, cemeteries, etc of the city where she died, and I was thinking of posting it online, but my mother is another citizen other than me and she has rights like another citizen like not posting her personal certificates online. And also all that would say is where she was buried, plot number, it would not give details of her death. This division of labour in these compartmentalized bureaucratic structures of government means that cause of death and where person was buried are two totally different and unconnected jobs.
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Dream Saturday May 17, 2008
I had a friend about my friend Jaroon from Thailand. I was in Thailand talking about films or else what I was doing there and then I was running through a city heading East. It was dusk. Slightly dark, early evening. I was running close to a Shopper's Drug Mart large store parking lot. The Shopper's Drug Mart was to my left. To my right, I saw a bus stop cubicle. Next to that was my friend Jaroon from Thailand. He was wearing a purple short sleeve shirt. Fat brown cherubic face, smooth not a blemish. A shock of dark black curly hair on his head like Ernie on Sesame Street. In my mind I was thinking, "I don't know if I really want to go to Thailand again, but that is Jaroon!" I teleport next to him. We are facing the SDM. He is sitting down writing on a notepad. He said, "Nay huoy been doe sinn?" Where are you going first, in Cantonese.
I said, "That's not Thai, that's Chinese."
He said, "I am working with Chinese people as my clients these days in my job as a tourist guide."
I was about to tell him that I don't really like that language, not as much as I like Thai, and Jaroon stood up and started to walk away, walking away to the right of me, as I was still facing towards the SDM.
"Poot arai, Khun krup?" What are you saying, sir? I said, in Thai.
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Before I continue, I wish to say that I had a very good time with a lady, and she gives me the inspiration to go on. Fun times with women have always defined what is a paramount good time for me.
Dream: May 2008, I Met The Rolling Stones
The Rolling Stones came to visit me in a dream. In a living room. Keith Richards showed up all grey, gnarled, soft spoken, spiderly and monkey. A wide benign grin.
Then Mick Jagger appeared and sat a distance away, Mick Jagger, circa 1982 with white tank top and wrist bands, long hair, he sat in the couch all athletic. He reminded at once of my Aunt Lila, Dan Feeney, and Giles Chin. Excuse me for lapsing into free verse. Only an ET could know what I am talking about.
Then I am led away to this other room. I look to the distance and Mick Jagger and Keith Richards are down the hall. They turn right, along down the hallway. I look to my left. My friend from Vancouver Richard Leavis is there. He confirms that they are the Rolling Stones.
I follow the Stones and go into a room. To the right is a bed against the wall, top of bed and right side of bed, to your right are pressed against the wall. Just sheets and pillow. No blanket.
On the dresser facing alongsideways on the left with the front of the dresser facing right, is an ashtray full of marijuana buds. Large buds.
Teleport back to the original living room. The Rolling Stones want to meet the guy who wrote the article of the 5th Dimension besides all the other stuff he did, ie, me! I briefly see Charlie Watts, a cool old man dressed in a light purple armani suit. Then I see Bill Wyman. He is young, wearing a ultraviolet coloured tank top with black borders and leopard stripes on it. He is also wearing a black leather wrist band with spikes on his right wrist. He is young, a penguin. And someone like a leopard, small, sleek, very much respected in the cocaine world for his artistic and logical expertise coming to check things out. To personally inspect the scene.
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Dream
I was going home from my dream, this was near the nearing of the end of my dream. I arranged for a ride with my friend in the shopping mall. Outside, I saw a car who with people who said that they would give me a lift.
CGI Inside the shopping mall
I went back into the mall to tell my friend I am riding with others. When I ran outside, I saw a bus. This bus had a running board on the side and ever since this dream I had on June 24th, I have noticed runing boards on cars and trucks ever since.
I ran in the bus. The bus had a row of outward facing seats in the center with a divider, all made of wood. I hopped over to the other side.
Towards the back of the bus, I saw a lady I recognized as Grace Y. from the past. I sat next to her, touching her hips. I was on her left. On her right was her husband who did not seem to mind. Grace was wearing a black thin knit sweater, sleeveless. At one point, she lifter her shirt to reveal her breasts. I touched them.
The bus ran down Hastings, towards Main and Hastings in Vancouver Canada. At Main Street, the bus rounded a corner turning right. Like this, although there were no people on the streets in the dream, this just shows how the bus moved, and from SPOV, spectator's point of view:
I looked down out of the bus window and saw large holes in the sidewalk.
I recognized this as Main and Hastings, the block just North of Hastings outside the front of the Vancover Police Station, the view looking towards the South. There, under the sidewalks were 100 foot shored holes, reminding me of an Egyptian map room. The bus turned made a U-turn at Main and Cordova and as it rounded the corner, the wheel ran over a thin segment of the hole on the sidewalk, the bus almost falling in the hole.
Interpretation: I have even had a dream about the Carnegie Center. The Center was more stark, no furniture. There was a tube with glass walls, each floor indeed each room of the entirely glassed walled dim foyer was partioned with a thich painted green wrought iron divider. Mahogany walls, mahogany tables, otherwise strategically pine green painted walls.
Anyways, I visit Vancouver often in my night time astral projection dreams. Seeing the important structures of Vancouver in its pristine heavenly vibration, at the time just before it starts being young. I have seen the Granville Street Bridge in my dreams with just patches of it completed. I remember walking across the odd wooden prefloor of that bridge with still large gaps looking down to reveal the water.
A traveller will often travel to his hometown, otherwise a town he spent a lot of time in, when he dreams. A traveller like yours truly.
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Dream June 27.
I had a dream that I visited a restaurant and saw one my relatives who I will not name here. She was always known as the nosy one. In the dream, she was young, slight, hair all black, not a trace of white. I am sure she looks very different today as she is pushing 60.
Anyways I saw her behind the counter of a restaurant. The fixtures, furniture all white. She asked me to say something to her in Cantonese. To my surprise, I said to her, "Hoy say!" which essentially means, "Drop dead!" I really don't like this relative.
I sat at a table and ordered something to eat for now and something to go later.
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Warning: This next part, not good.
I was teleported to a room. I was in the center sitting sidelong a table, my back against a wall. . There were two guys sitting on my left against a bench seat against a wall. There was a door to the left. There was a table between us. Across from us there was a man who shot the three of us. Me and the two guys to my left sitting against the wall. Now all three of us were slumped down on the table. Then three people appeared and wrestled with the bad guy with the gun's hand and took away his gun. One of these three people was a female. These people may be guardian angels or else plain clothes detectives.
Interpretation: Even the littlest things can be meaningful to others and meaningless to others. Gangsters will wait, if they can until everyone in the house is seated at a table which means no one in separate rooms where they might have access to guns. No guns on the table, if the guns are in the pocket, it may be too late to reach for it as the person just bursts in and fires, gangland execution style.
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I then went back to the restaurant. The waitress at the cash counter said that I owed her $25. I said the meal cost $12. She said that I also ordered an item to go for later and that costs $13. I looked down and saw the noodles in a red soup and remembered that I did indeed order something to go.
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Dream: Old school
When I was in Thailand, summer 2003, I had a dream where I was with some friends visiting a hall of corrugated aluminum which reminds me of the walkthrough that was the reptile/monkey house of the old Stanley Park Zoo in Vancouver.
Then I was at an old school. Stairs leading up to a second floor landing. I went Picasso on this one and drew the 1800s style wooden slats of the ceiling and a hanging incandescent light.
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Last night, July 4th, I had a dream about me, this is going to be weird, making out with a dark haired girl. I pasted this on a video clip on a television over a video of a short haired blonde lady porn star of the 80s lying on her side as she is ****** lying sideways. Then, a local personality whom I will not name here was standing behind me. At this point a nature program for a second and then a shot of water street in Gastown Vancouver looking West towards the SeaBus station. He then stands behind the television to the right. He asks me, "What kind of movie are you making?" I said a movie about nature and documentary. He then walks in front of me and brushes the top of my head. I look down at a piece of paper on the table, lengthwise along the table a segment of the right hand part of that white piece of paper is green.
When I was in Thailand, I had a dream about visiting my father at work. Tall support beams like corral pens for giraffes. Two in front along side one another, and one to the left. In the center of each corrall was a ladder. My father was nearing retirement at that point. This dream was very beautiful. The dark grey cement floor that you would find in an industrial setting. Sawdust.
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July 5th. I had a dream where I was staying at a place. Later on, I went back to the place with my dog, a black lab. The room was a totally steel industrial room. When I first opened the door, I noticed that the ducks that might have been alive before were dead. Like in an oil slick, but all dead ducks look like that. They had brown feathers like a fire design on their otherwise black coat. Next to, and to the right of the ducks was a pit with a lot of rotweilers. I looked to my right and against the far walls were shelves with a lot more rotweilers, numerous, prolific, squirming. My dog was going to crawl down the pit with the rotweilers. I pulled my dog back with my left hand underneath him and my right hand pulling back up by the front curve of a hind leg.
I walked outside. Me and my dog were walking down a country lane sparsely foliaged with a few trees. To the left and about 50metres off the road was a small cave, a den. My dog went to that den. I was worried about my dog.
I teleported into the cave and was able to get a point of view behind the wolf in the cave. I could see it's muzzle. It ran out chasing my dog.
I got three twigs together and was preparing to hit the wolf that was chasing my dog. It disappeared. I saw some Natives on what I thought was a hill. When I went there, it was a place to sign up.
Interpretation: My dog was going into the pit because he was responding to a primal call that those squirming rotweilers, hearing a slight sexual moan from a female rotweilers and seeing her glistening wetness, perhaps a smell even. I pulled my dog out because as primordial and prolific as that pit is, life is cheap. I pulled my dog out of there.
That reminds me of life in the Third World and life here. That dog was me. The dog wanted to go to a Third World place like Thailand where life is indeed a squirming mass of fecund prolifery. But life there is cheap and not like the cool, wide open spaces of a civilized life in a First World Country.
That dog I recognized as the dog of a pawn store in town and that dog was a friend who decided to accompany me for that one day, for that one dream. A black Labrador retriever with long hair, shaggy coat.
And there were more parts to the dream. A bus driver. Running and kicking and doing excellent perfect flying kicks, staying up in the air for a long time. I did a flying kick and then held on to a lampost, with the side flying kick position as I held on to the lamp. Someone who was tall was at face level to me as I was hanging on to the lamp. He said to me, "Are you from Yugoslavia?" Perhaps this was the same guy who as in that dream in Thailand who said, "I kick your face, I kick your face." I twisted his arm as I fought him. Japanese restaurant make sure not to step on any of the shoes on the ground, L shaped planks snaking around a corner, outdoor restaurant, as I am making my way into that Japanese restaurants.
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The Most Amazing Police Dream
The day after I uploaded 'The Dean Noble Cover Version of Stephen King's The Running Man', I had a dream where I was hiding in a vent. The Police entered the room and they approached the vent door and opened it. They somehow knew I was there! They told me that they were looking for someone in the vent to the right of me. In the movie Cocoon when the old people were hiding in that room at the swimming pool with the shuttered doors and looking out reminds me of this.
I then left the vent and was at the floor of the restaurant. I was heading for the door just through the Japanese screens. Then a Police Detective in a black felt trenchcoat, thin, very well mannered was walking towards me, anticipating, intercepting me in my path as I went for the door.
CGI Police Detective, "You are very artful in your creations."
He said to me, "You are very artful in your creations." He was referring to my short films. I have had a lot of dreams about my films, lately. The Police do say things like this.
Once I told a Police Officer in a squad car in Vancouver that I was an artist. He said that my work would one day be displayed in an art gallery, or something like that.
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Dean Noble
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