<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21328132</id><updated>2011-04-21T14:15:10.329-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Dream Diary</title><subtitle type='html'></subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dreamdiaryofpoo.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/21328132/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dreamdiaryofpoo.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>GrandPooOfAwesome</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06254066067597740920</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='32' src='http://a627.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images01/119/m_5e61bc6793d93f29fe30989dbadd84da.gif'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>7</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21328132.post-7995782432649991530</id><published>2008-03-23T16:18:00.003-04:00</published><updated>2008-03-23T16:30:58.142-04:00</updated><title type='text'>The Sad Psyche at Work</title><content type='html'>It was a sad night, the kind where you feel like you've been physically abused, but you haven't...It's just extreme emotions.  So, I guess my psyche was trying to fulfill me, to send me some happiness.  But, it was bizarre.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I could fly...really well, and I was flying around from house to house looking into windows.   &lt;/span&gt;I think this was because I was so sad the day before that I thought a lot about other people's lives, about whether or not they were happy.  &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Anyway, the only house I really remember was watching some girl undress.  I thought this was pretty perverse, but that's what I was dreaming.&lt;/span&gt;  A lot of the dream, though was the awareness of this new ability I had and trying to figure out what all I could do with it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Maybe I have a new ability that I haven't discovered.  Or maybe it's an old ability that I let grow stale because I was so preoccupied.  I hope I find out.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;[My friend Chris recently told me that spreading sunshine was my super power.]&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/21328132-7995782432649991530?l=dreamdiaryofpoo.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dreamdiaryofpoo.blogspot.com/feeds/7995782432649991530/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=21328132&amp;postID=7995782432649991530' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/21328132/posts/default/7995782432649991530'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/21328132/posts/default/7995782432649991530'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dreamdiaryofpoo.blogspot.com/2008/03/sad-psyche-at-work.html' title='The Sad Psyche at Work'/><author><name>GrandPooOfAwesome</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06254066067597740920</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='32' src='http://a627.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images01/119/m_5e61bc6793d93f29fe30989dbadd84da.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21328132.post-5116186996613462517</id><published>2007-09-09T20:32:00.002-04:00</published><updated>2008-03-23T16:18:40.800-04:00</updated><title type='text'>Almost Lucid</title><content type='html'>So, I came SO CLOSE to having a lucid dream this afternoon [yes, afternoon].  Here's what happened.&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;  I was having a series of unusual dreams full of random stuff with mostly people I didn't know except for my parents, my little sister, Vicki, and my friend Dustin [sorry James, I have no idea why Dustin and not James].  Stuff was happening like my little sister giving me a super rad set of speakers which would probably never happen and having dinner with Dustin&lt;/span&gt; [why not James?] &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;at some strange Japanese restraunt&lt;/span&gt; [but I bet we were waiting for James].&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But then skip ahead to the last dream in the series where&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; I was in my apartment &lt;/span&gt;[though it was not my apartment] &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;and my parents were there, and we were getting ready to go somewhere for dinner.  I had a friend there&lt;/span&gt; [who I made up] &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;and I was getting dressed.  I was changing clothes in front of my parents&lt;/span&gt; [which was weird] &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;and was standing there without pants thinking, "There's some reason I shouldn't be standing here without pants," then my friend walked in and I remembered why I shouldn't have been standing there without pants. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;So, I was going with my friend in a jeep and we were going to meet my parents there.  I was driving and there were four of us in the car &lt;/span&gt;[two dudes, one other chick, all made up not real].  &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;We got to a stop light and I started feeling really, really sleepy and didn't feel like I could drive, so I swerved the car around in the middle of the road and pulled off to the side, which flipped my friends out.  I said, "I'm sorry, but there's no way I can drive like this," and they told me to get in the back seat, which I did.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;While in the back seat, I was reflecting on some of the other things that had happened in the other series of dreams and beginning to realize they were ridiculous.  I started to think that I was dreaming, so I touched one of my friends and I could feel him, so I wasn't sure.  But then, I decided that if I convinced my friends that this was just a dream of mine, we could go on a spree and do whatever we wanted without any consequences.  So, I started murmuring, "This is a dream.  This is one of my dreams," but they weren't paying a lot of attention because I was really tired and they were busy talking about what had just happened and what they were gonna do next.  I finally got their attention and was saying, "Listen guys!  I'm dreaming right now, and if we will all recognize this is a dream, we can do..."&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then the phone rang, and it was my sister.  I kid you not.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/21328132-5116186996613462517?l=dreamdiaryofpoo.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dreamdiaryofpoo.blogspot.com/feeds/5116186996613462517/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=21328132&amp;postID=5116186996613462517' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/21328132/posts/default/5116186996613462517'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/21328132/posts/default/5116186996613462517'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dreamdiaryofpoo.blogspot.com/2007/09/almost-lucid.html' title='Almost Lucid'/><author><name>GrandPooOfAwesome</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06254066067597740920</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='32' src='http://a627.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images01/119/m_5e61bc6793d93f29fe30989dbadd84da.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21328132.post-113790734873328656</id><published>2007-01-22T00:18:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2008-03-24T01:14:36.994-04:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/21328132-113790734873328656?l=dreamdiaryofpoo.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dreamdiaryofpoo.blogspot.com/feeds/113790734873328656/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=21328132&amp;postID=113790734873328656' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/21328132/posts/default/113790734873328656'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/21328132/posts/default/113790734873328656'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dreamdiaryofpoo.blogspot.com/2007/01/first-entry-sticky.html' title=''/><author><name>GrandPooOfAwesome</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06254066067597740920</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='32' src='http://a627.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images01/119/m_5e61bc6793d93f29fe30989dbadd84da.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21328132.post-114290837386310228</id><published>2006-03-20T21:24:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2006-03-20T21:34:22.350-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Put Some Lead in Your Head, Bitch</title><content type='html'>I've had a lot of dreams the past couple of days because we just started Spring Break, so I'm actually getting a decent amount of sleep (and then some).  I haven't tried to remember them, because I keep forgetting to put a journal by my bed.  One part of my dream stuck in my mind all day.  It tells me I have some real issues with trust.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;The part of the many mini dreams that I remember...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was sitting in a meeting with my sister and one of the professors on my committee.  I suppose it's because my committee members do a lot for me and often go to bat for me that his role was more like a cross between my attorney and a member of the mob whose job it was to protect me.  We were sitting there discussing something when he suddenly pulled out a gun and shot my sister in the head.  I didn't scream, I was just more like, "What the fuck did you do that for?"  He said, "She was about to kill you."  Sure enough, there was a gun in her hand under the table.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After that, she, my mom, and I were all together...all dead but still in some sort of living dream.  I was telling my mom what had happened.  I was still hanging out with my sister in this "after life" despite what had happened.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Most surprising to me, I think, was that the vivid violence of the dream didn't bother me at all.  It was as if I knew in my dream that it was just metaphoric.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/21328132-114290837386310228?l=dreamdiaryofpoo.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dreamdiaryofpoo.blogspot.com/feeds/114290837386310228/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=21328132&amp;postID=114290837386310228' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/21328132/posts/default/114290837386310228'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/21328132/posts/default/114290837386310228'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dreamdiaryofpoo.blogspot.com/2006/03/put-some-lead-in-your-head-bitch.html' title='Put Some Lead in Your Head, Bitch'/><author><name>GrandPooOfAwesome</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06254066067597740920</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='32' src='http://a627.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images01/119/m_5e61bc6793d93f29fe30989dbadd84da.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21328132.post-113919072164549308</id><published>2006-02-05T20:47:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2006-02-05T20:58:53.220-05:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;We were sitting at a table. There were several teachers that I work with. Among them was one I like very much &lt;/span&gt;(who was beside me)&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; and one&lt;/span&gt; (male teacher) &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I don't much like&lt;/span&gt; (who was across the table). &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;The two were arguing. The one I like had confessed she has become an internet addict&lt;/span&gt; (which isn't true to life)&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;. She said the name of the website she'd spent time on. Having a computer in front of me at the table, I went to the site. It was a tick-tack-toe game of Jon Stewart who made liberal jokes as you played. Then, when you were finished playing, it gave you an evangelical Christian message telling you how to get saved. I thought this was weird.&lt;/span&gt; (I think I dreamt this because I think it's odd how liberal she is and still a Christian.) &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Later, at home, I found a site where the same teacher had written some lengthy, humorous, and intelligent comments. I was impressed.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/21328132-113919072164549308?l=dreamdiaryofpoo.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dreamdiaryofpoo.blogspot.com/feeds/113919072164549308/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=21328132&amp;postID=113919072164549308' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/21328132/posts/default/113919072164549308'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/21328132/posts/default/113919072164549308'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dreamdiaryofpoo.blogspot.com/2006/02/we-were-sitting-at-table.html' title=''/><author><name>GrandPooOfAwesome</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06254066067597740920</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='32' src='http://a627.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images01/119/m_5e61bc6793d93f29fe30989dbadd84da.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21328132.post-113795473927128785</id><published>2006-01-22T13:17:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2006-01-22T13:35:52.340-05:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>My dreams were very chunked and sporadic. They're difficult to piece together, so I'm not going to try to write down everything. Too much of it wouldn't make sense.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;1&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was returning to the prom for a high school reunion, only there were also high school kids there for their actual prom. One of my high school friends was there waiting for me in a black tux. I don't know why she was in a tux. I only spoke to her briefly. I was wearing a very short but hoopy white frilly dress. It looked ridiculous. We were all wearing skates. No one was dancing (or skating actually) So, I went out to skate by myself. In my dreams I was a great skater (although I'm not in real life). I just kept worrying about that short, hoopy dress and not being able to keep it down while I was skating.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I dreampt about a fellow blogger. I was assigned by her doctor to track her eating habits for every five days. I was able to see that she was bingeing every other day (I could see by a high caloric intake) and not eating at all on the off days. I was worried.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;I met Cate Blanchett.  I love when I get to meet people in my dreams, even though she was a little harsh. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I wrote a short film. I don't know what the short film was about, but apparently it wasn't too bad. I know I had done some editing and thrown it together on film. Minnie Driver was to be the lead. She seemed to be one of my students in the dream, so she was happy to have the part if Cate Blanchett approved. I sent the script and the tape to Cate who would be choosing whether or not to fund the film. So, she was coming and I was beside myself. When she got there, she was nice but very cold and professional. We shook hands and she wanted to see the film. She'd already seen it, so I realized then that she was expecting additions and more edits, which weren't there. She gave me stern criticism in away that I knew was supposed to be to my benefit.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;I was left with the feeling that there was no way I could finish something creative when I had my teaching responsibilities along with the pressure to finish my dissertation. I think this dream was just yet another reminder of all the shit I have to do.&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/21328132-113795473927128785?l=dreamdiaryofpoo.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dreamdiaryofpoo.blogspot.com/feeds/113795473927128785/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=21328132&amp;postID=113795473927128785' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/21328132/posts/default/113795473927128785'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/21328132/posts/default/113795473927128785'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dreamdiaryofpoo.blogspot.com/2006/01/my-dreams-were-very-chunked-and.html' title=''/><author><name>GrandPooOfAwesome</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06254066067597740920</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='32' src='http://a627.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images01/119/m_5e61bc6793d93f29fe30989dbadd84da.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21328132.post-113791175493953399</id><published>2006-01-22T01:30:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2006-01-22T01:35:54.940-05:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I was walking down a corridor either in a campus building looking for a professor's office or in a large hotel looking for my room (they kept interchanging).  I came across a little girl in the hallway with straight blonde hair.  I remembered a little girl I used to play with when I was around ten and she was about 8 named Kelly P__.  She died in a car crash when she was around 16 on her way to a ballet performance.  This little girl was only about 5, but I still asked her, "Are you Kelly P__?"  Immediately I recognized the whole scenario as being impossible and realized I was dreaming.  So, I decided to scrap the idea of a 5 year-old being a girl who had died at 16 and turned my attention to making myself do something I wanted.  I managed to make myself do back flips in the air while chanting "lucid dreaming".&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Quite peculiar.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/21328132-113791175493953399?l=dreamdiaryofpoo.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://dreamdiaryofpoo.blogspot.com/feeds/113791175493953399/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=21328132&amp;postID=113791175493953399' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/21328132/posts/default/113791175493953399'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/21328132/posts/default/113791175493953399'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://dreamdiaryofpoo.blogspot.com/2006/01/i-was-walking-down-corridor-either-in.html' title=''/><author><name>GrandPooOfAwesome</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/06254066067597740920</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='31' height='32' src='http://a627.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images01/119/m_5e61bc6793d93f29fe30989dbadd84da.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
