By invitation, I am attending a big film premier or such, but I am not the main guest. I am one of at least three. The two others were strange monstrosities but only on the outside. One was billed as Chainsaw Man: a well-toned muscle-armed blue skinned man with chainsaw blades from his elbow joint to the end of his arm; where would be a face is the face of a marlin. The lower part of the other's face seems to be constructed by a wide thick red Letter M, with bits of cilia along its outline, like the M is the upper jaw, within the top of the M the sunked eyes are almost Ood-like.
I am pleased to see Chainsaw Man as appparently we are friends; with the M guy I seem to more of an acquaintence. Chainsaw Man seems not quite three-dimensional, as though he was a two-dimensional mobile Wondermark drawn art character.
I head down far left aisle of the red-velvet'y cinema auditorium, many of the seats filled with waiting people, but for some reason realize I am too early. I head back to the lobby and around to sort of a sterile metal kitchen environment in which Nicolas Cage is stripping entire sides of meat from massive bison like creatures. Literally, from its spine downwards he is rolling the meat clean from the bone, and no organs within, as though the edible meat is merely resting on the creature's skeleton. The roll is similar to rolling a rug, only downwards, with the moist sound effect of the meat coming free. He explains what and why he is doing it, but Dream Fade has taken place so I cannot recall.

I am traveling with a man and his young son. The boy seems to be autistic or such, and sometimes has to "led," apparently often with the light from a flashlight. At one point a large steel frame blocks our path; I move it up and for a moment the man thinks we'll need to coax the boy, but the boy quickly moves past. As I let the frame back down on the grass, there's a spark at one of its interior corners from which a small flame erupts.
Despite being a tiny wee flame, I go to stamp it out and see the entire corner of the metal frame is glowing red hot. As setting it down and leaving it would set alight the nearby brush, I carry the large box framework down into a parking lot, a few yards away having espied a couple of wide puddles into which I figure I can put down the corner and let it cool. The corner hisses angrily as the water cools down the metal. As I lift it up to carry it across the parking lot back to where it had been lying, I suddenly notice on one of the corners is a dead man, attached to the corner at his neck as though he'd used this cube like framework to hang himself. I am concerned I will be blamed for his man's death; he did not come from the puddle, his clothes are dry. It is as though he was attached the whole time and somehow I managed not to notice. The body is at the far end, the cube framework now elongated and the body a few yards from me. While at first he seems to resemble Brendan Frasier in neutral coloured clothing, moments later he lacks hair and has a bright button-down yellow shirt.
Just as I am realizing with surprise that the framework and the full size man dead body appear to weight nothing as I'm having no difficulty carrying across this parking lot (much farther returning than from where I'd found it), suddenly I notice near the end from which dangles the body a car has parked. Just as a family begins to emerge from their car, I make a feeble attempt at "hiding" the body, simply letting it come to rest next to the car, it slowly folding up like a marionette with slack strings. Now I notice a bloody welt at the back of its neck, the face downwards and out of sight. For some reason I know we are near Universal Studios, which helps me as the family's son notices the body; the father is so silently aghast that his hands raise to his head in horror. Clearly obvious that a cell phone is about to come to call the police, I have traversed the distance and as I approach I say simply, "Please do not touch the prop."
The entire family relaxes with relief, as the son and daughter come closer, the boy touching the back of the head (as I anticipated), the boy commenting, "Whoa, it really feels real...!"
"Careful, careful," I gently admonish. "That’s expensive..."
Predictably concerned he might have to pay for something, the father calls the boy away from the body. The freckle faced dirty-blonde daughter (wearing a 1950's hairstyle and similar time period style dress), declares she cannot get past the framework (on which the body is still attached). I sweepingly point with my right hand that she can just go around. "Oh, you think so?" she says in a slightly haughty, challenging tone, putting her fists on her hips.
I lean forward in a quiet but mock-authority/threatening way: "Oh, I know so...!"
The young girl squeals with delight at the playing-her-game aspect of my statement, and she scurries around the framework and joins her family.
My real concern during this encounter is somebody taking a photo with a cell phone of the body, but the family quickly moves off.
Dream Shift: I am in some sort of dilapidated museum; my mother is looking for something but is concerned that some of the tall bookcases, (as though in a library), are causing darkness as they're not well lit. I offer to walk those along-the-wall aisles while she walk in the better little center of the hallway, but she continues on into the shadows.

I am being pursued; I know that my pursuers seek me for another for whom they work. These would be henchmen, not their main boss, who I know to be the Master from Doctor Who (the better Derek Jacobi version, not the sociopath John Simms incarnation). As my pursuers are human, I deduce they might not think three dimensionally, so as I have enough of a head start, I quickly begin to head downwards, down escalators that get thinner. Even the top stairs of the escalators are wider than the lower stairs, as though I am progressing through forced perspectives. I race down several sets of such escalators, almost gliding... but not floating as in other dreams. Several levels down, I suspect I have eluded capture, only to find the Master casually having waited for me patiently to come to him... as I realize he does think three dimensionally, and expected I might try this way. I manage not to be seen and careful get oudoors into the night.
Dream Shift (with much Dream Fade): what would seem to be the climax either of my storyline or one I am witnessing, two adversaries come right down to it. The villain of the two stands near the edge of a pit lined with loose quarry like rocks. The other is higher up on a landing; the pit is within a series of empty bleacher seats. The villain's intent is to have his opponent in the pit from which the hero had already managed to escape. Within the pit is some man-eating monster. As I move left to right as though watching the scene like a dolly-camera, the hero makes his move and drops down, slamming hard onto the loose rocks. Somehow this creates a ripple effect enough that the rocks under the villian's feet loosen and slide him into the maw of the pit. This time the monster is awake; its roar is more like a piercing, peculiar yodeling. The hero and I hasten up the opposite set of bleacher steps to escape, as the villain below chest deep in roiling, white-foamed water, does not relent, but angrily fights to climb before being set upon by the monster that would be his doom.

As I crossing an outdoor childrens-playground of sorts to get to the picnic tables, my feet briefly leave the ground and I continue to drift forwards. Wait, am I floating...? I wonder to myself, and lift up my legs, and drift over a box. I am less amazed than I am puzzled. I stand next to a table as I work at deducing, Don't I only float like that when I'm dreaming...? I rap on the hard wooden table top and as there's no door jam around, I rap again thinking hard, Am I dreaming?
Unfortunately the dream still has me pretty strong and I'm convinced I am awake, yet think no more of the apparent ability to float.
I go into the nearby building, its internatl layout similar to the front hallway and foyer to the Montclair [New Jersey] house, though here the front door and porch lead to a back yard. My friend's dog Dumbledore is there waiting for me; the yard is uneven and at its boundary seems to drop away, bordered for safety by a chain link fence. At the left corner near the porch (where would be hedges were it the front yard of the Montclair house), is a small chain fence enclosure. Near it is a small Yorkshire terrier spinning around madly. I pick it up and I'm surprised to learn it isn't Oscar, one of Dumble's dog friends. It squirms in my hand more to get back to the ground than asking attention as Oscar would do. A man walks up to the fence (not Oscar's owner Shane), and indicates it's his dog that recently got loose.

A young, pretty girl is being very flirtatious with me; she is shorter than I, and slightly resembles actress Anna Kendrick without actually being her. As the conversation continues I suddenly begin to deduce she is a vampire, and she begin to request of me for some blood. I politely decline, mostly due to concerns she could get carried away and instead of a small drink could easily drain (and/or turn) me.
While she becomes more insistant, she does not force herself on me (apparently to her, no does mean no...). While concerned, I am not fearful. At one point she steps close enough that I instinctively put up my hand, which ends up falling on her breast. I quickly pull away and after apologizing, I convey and inquire a) how can either of us be sure she will only take a little blood, b) inquiring after how painful is the process and c) this is a high level request from a female with whom I am not actively having ongoing physically intimate sexual relations.
While she understands, she seems to consider the sexual aspect as appealing. Meanwhile I wonder whether she can accept blood from an alternate method of actually biting me (already quietly determinate that should sex be involved, I could not be expected to allow her to perform anything too -- oral...). Having seen enough films that vampires do not require to drink from the neck, I begin to pull away my right thumb's cuticle until it begins to flow blood. Not without irony, the girl is horrified at this method, and steps out onto a balcony for some air. At first what emits is a strange clear-watery liquid with a hint of orange, almost as though a water blister had been broken. It spills onto some newspaper as she returns and sees the many sickly-orange droplets. She tastes it from the paper and finds them tolerable. Meanwhile actual blood has begun flowing down my thumb in a straight line down almost past the knuckle; this she accepts happily (and for me, painlessly).

As a welcomed guest, I am with a group of [Twilight emo type] vampires at some large estate. Without their knowlege they have been infiltrated by some other not-quite-human species, that have bright silvery blood that glows almost phosphorescent, one being a young blonde girl (closely resembling similarly to Dakota Fanning's character in the New Moon movie). A thin ribbon of silvery blood runs from her nose to her upper lip. Somehow as she goes to hide so as not to be exposed as a non-vampire, she must have bumped into me or such, as a some of the blood ends up on my right hand.
My local best friend and I are attending some large function that will contain a performance or presentation of some sort. I carry a massive long archery bow slung across my back until we reach the front of a balcony from which we plan to observe this display. One of the lead vampires (sort of liked Edward James Olmos), discovers I have the bow and retrieves it from me, admonishing me about taking it, but not outright scolding me.
The balcony extends as though from the second floor of the house, overlooking the large free-standing stage building within the estate's yard. Numerous people/vampires are below on the lawn between the house and the wide stage. The very center of the balcony is thrust forward as the inside of a V; we sit forward so as to have no vision blockage, particularly aware another couple want the same "seats," as it were. At the right of the balcony is a higher section of lawn, resembling a small area of the Pompton Plains homes up in which I grew, at the tween place of the back to front yards.
Eventually I realize I have this weird silvery liquid on my hands, and that it strongly reflects light, similar to the material used as Krypton clothing is the Geroge Reeve's Superman feature. I know this would Not Go Over Well, so foolishly I go to wipe it off but do so on the left knee of my pants, leaving a similar lightning-vein pattern thereon, however on the material the reflective glow is a deep scarlet red. I cannot leave the proceedings that are just about to start so as to change, and I on the lawn along the hedge I quickly manage to find two of my own dark t-shirts (?!), with which I can cover my knees and if asked claim I am cold.
My back is to the lit stage area, but some sort of spotlight strokes my back, and its rays of light seem to "catch" me; the rays of light hold me fast as strong as Hellraiser barb-hooks. I can visualize it as not quite a full beam of light but therefrom numerous such "hooks," holding fast my clothing, and I cannot move my held-out right arm, and other such thin "hooks" hold along my outline, as it were. The lightning-vein pattern on my left knee glows bright red, threatening to expose being on my clothing, and I wonder why/how the light beam can hold me thus. While I deduce most likely it could be being used to expose some of the non-human non-vampires, it must be attunded to the silvery blood.
Like Sauron's gaze, the light beam eventually moves off, and I am released. Relieved, with the t-shirts I hastily cover my knees and resume sitting back on the balcony. The other couple and my friend inquire if I'm alright and as to what is wrong. I simply reply, "It'd take too long to explain, and it would upset you."

Wearing my winter coveralls and gloves, I am with a very small group of people being toured around some large theatre, even though a choir performance of some kind is going on. I never really look to the stage, but I can hear them singing quite well. I get bored and gently lift my legs and float along behind the others, never once suspecting I am dreaming; in fact, I silently commend myself for having finally learned how to fly. From the balcony We ascend stairs to the main hallways at which we turn left to head down towards the lobby, my feet still never so much as touching the floor (I am, in fact, in an apparent sitting position). One of our group is a young woman who I follow. She passes some sort of free-standing concession stand, and I drift too close to it and bonk into it with all the control of a loose helium balloon. She turns and I jokingly quip it being tough to stop. She continues on into a crowd of people, as I begin to float along with a bit more speed. I pass into the parking lot as though it is Pequannock Township High School, though its second main front lot is mired within a Florida bog. I realizes I must avoid touching down in the water, and manage to touch down in what turns out to be thick mud. A small flock of startled ravens fly up at me; I have just enough time for my hands to be up as each hand's glove is savagely bitten by one bird each, and they continue on, passing behind me.
I realize I am in a tenuous situation, aware this is probable alligator country. Very carefully I tread my way to more solid ground, where a tiny long-haired Gary Oldman is extricating himself from an ancient Conquistador helmet (he is tiny as in, his entire body fits into this regular size helmet).
I head back into the building, now at the other end, and find a long room in which two people are watching something (a movie or television program), projected on the wall. One of the two is my Pasadena friend Amy, and I glide by to a corner desk on which is paperwork I know is mine. Amongst the paperwork are some small autographed photo-posters. Nearby is a wide, open door (wide along the lines of being a sound stage door). Outside a station wagon pulls up to a fast-food order box (the box ending up on the car's passenger side), from which a voice complimenting the adorable kitten in the female driver's lap. Without a word the woman chooses to drive off, to the surprise and puzzlement of the order-taker.

My friend is dropping me off. As my jacket and stuff are in the back seat, as I get out I clearly say, "Let me just get my stuff out of the back." The instant the passenger door shuts the car begins to move away. I quickly rap hard staccato taps on the back window, and the car stops; another couple of raps has her unlock the door/s so I can retrieve my jacket.
I turn away and head towards a house as her car pulls away. I see a flurry of golden-brown movement at my right; I see an animal on the lawn has fled, but it was fast enough I cannot tell if it was a large rabbit or a small fawn.
Opening the front door of the modern-day style cabin, sunlight streams in to reveal Daniel, a former coworker. He is on the floor playing some board game by himself whilst just behind him is a rather old fashioned television set, playing December holiday footage. I close the door and notice how dimly lit is the room. I re-open the door as I mention this fact, but Daniel points out the sunlight falling directly onto the TV glares the image.

Of late it has been very difficult remembering my dreams; weird that this is the first that has been vivid enough to record...

I am attending some sort of long-weekend like workshop-like event; in a large modern cabin-like structure, Dream Memory insists it is about three days into the event, and everyone has gotten to know each other. It is very late and all but a few are still up in a large common area (there being a bed in the middle of the room notwithstanding). One of the people is Madonna who has been in attendance since the first day. Dream Memory fuels me with backstory, as I all but exposit about her being late the first day, and it not being that far from LAX. Dream Memory leans me towards believing that geographically we are where the Sportsman's Lodge would be, the building's architecture, layout and design notwithstanding. Madonna chuckles at the slightly-embarrassed memory: she is not in any over-the-top make-up or outfits; she relaxes a bit sleepy-eyed on the bed, apparently simply enjoying my company. Quite uncharacteristically, I spontaneously lean over and give her a slight kiss on her cheek.
"I'm sorry," I apologize sincerely. "I felt if I didn't do that then, I never would."
She reaches up to cup the back of my head and brings down my face for some more direct kissing. It is soft and gentle and very sensual. When she lets go of my head, I continue gently, seeing how long she will allow this.
I am not on the bed with her; I am actually next to the bed leaning over her. After several moments I gently raise my face from hers, and she says, "You're very sweet, not like some others."
While aware there is now no one about but the two of us, I suddenly realize that for some reason I am naked, despite having no memory of having removed my pants. I cautiously point this out, asking if she minds my putting back on my pants. "Stand up," she says, which I do, picking up from the floor my pants. Without embarrassment she merely Looks. Physically I am about three-quarters aroused, which to some can look like more than it is (e.g., at seeing my nakedness her eyes reflect the same facial expression of astonished amazement I've seen in numerous women eyes during my life); she diplomatically suggests I put on my pants "for now." As I do so she goes on to relate, or rather, imply, that occasions of non-consensual sex has taken place against in limos, and for some reason her feeling having no recourse in a self "what're y'gonna do?" sort of "logic." Subtly she does stress her fully understanding I would not do such a thing, conveying her feeling safe with me.

Some sort of at-night initiation is going on with numerous young males of Hogwarts. One boy is nervous about drinking from a goblet, and I notice the goblet is small, and silver, and apparently floating in mid-air. I am unsure if it's being levitated, whether a boy has gone invisible from drinking from it, or if Harry Potter is holding it whilst he wears his Invisibility Cloak. One of the older men running the event urges the boy to go for it; I presume it's also this particular boy's father.
Suddenly a horseman madly gallops in, seeming Draco Malfoy, demanding Potter and not in a good hail-fellow-well-met sort of way: very murderous intent, in fact. Everyone scatters in panic and the scene mildly shifts to another, as though one is in a strange movie trailer, but not of the Harry Potter series. A girl in her late teens or early twenties is at a vendor counter, the sort of vendor one would have at Diagon Alley or a Renaissance Faire. She verbally describes the situation, that she and her boyfriend are leaving on holiday until this dreadful business has passed. Glancing about I cannot see Harry Potter, so I approach the girl, who I notice is a bit taller than I (in fact, it seems as though she is my longtime friend Alison).
"Is this... is this the actual movie trailer?" I ask of her.
"Yes," she whispers, conspiratorially.
"Well," I say, still covertly looking about. "Where's Harry?"
The girl gestures over her right shoulder. Across the aisle is a tall fellow; within his large dark floor-length coat I can just make out (Daniel Radcliff as) Harry Potter, cautiously giving me a bit of wave, his face darkened by the shadow of the coat. The girl all but answers my next puzzled question when she says, "We can't show him on screen yet until his films are all done." I realize she means he (Harry), cannot be seen on film in the trailer with his glasses, as they're his trademark. Once the Harry Potter film series is complete, Harry (as opposed to Daniel Radcliff), can be in other movies...

Somehow a friend has convinced me to accompany her to a newly acquired job... and help her at it. Turns out it has to be do with packing tobacco products (I quickly realize it's more about smuggling tobacco than packaging it legitimately), and after a while she is accused of not being efficient enough. Remembering it is her first day, the boss above her supervisor realizes should watch a training film. We find out way to a white room with numerously highly-raked rows of seats. The silver-bead screen at front row level is easier to see from the front row so we sit right there. I notice that the screen is torn from top left to bottom right; beyond is another room with an ancient film project facing the right. The black and white training film starts suddenly and it remains visible even where there's no screen. Immediately I suspect this thing was made in the 1040s or 50s, just as a narrator starts to say, "It's of paramount importance..." just as the highly recognizable voice of Kevin Murphy riffs in with, "... to find a proper film shoot location!"
Generally having a low tolerance for well-written humour, my friend realizes while this may be a training film, it's a MSTie'd version. She goes to get up to leave, but I whisper urgently in her ear that it'd mean her job to walk out. Sheeluctantly sticks it out to the end (Dream Fade has me lose most of it, but a lot had to do with a group of friends hanging out, and little if nothing to do with doing the job at hand). Even though I've filled out no paperwork, there are hints at scheduling about to take place, and I know if my friend is threatened with being fired, I can threaten to notify the authorities of this operation.
Dream Shift: I am sitting in someone else's car (apparently somewhere on Sunset east of Vermont), and for some reason I need to move the car. I put it into reverse and K-turn it onwards, obviously close to the curb. Instead of parking, I discover my legs are not working, as well as their hanging out the car's doorless driver side. I am facing out the windshield towards the right side of the car, so I can see the curb, and the ground dropping away beyond it... if I cannot keep the car straight and it drifts right, it will plummet down the increasingly deepening ravine. I managed to keep turning the wheel to the left, but the car remains rock steady straight, the curb mere inches from the tire.

I am at work at the table I use as a desk, however, instead of sitting straight on, I am sitting on a chair at its side; the table is between me and the pedestrian aisle one uses when one enters. The gate is open and one or two of my female coworkers enter, saying hello and glancing over to me, and halting in surprise, noting that I am not wearing a shirt and realizing that while the table accurately eclipses anything obvious, I verbally clarify that yes, I happen to be naked.
I have no idea as to why I am not wearing anything, but unlike the stereotypical dream about nakedness, I am more characteristically unembaressed about the situation. I am fully aware that for the benefit of my coworkers I'd best put on something, and I diplomatically suggest perhaps I be given a minute or two alone so as to be dress myself. The ladies are more amused at the situation than embaressed, but they do begin to file out, a few less hastily than others (one or two of the more mischeivously playful ones [who I won't name here] casually try to See What Normally They Wouldn't as they slowly pass, heading to the gated-door and out). One such "dawdler" is gently pushed to the door by another woman to keep her moving. As they depart I begin seriously wonder why I would be undressed this way, as there's no practical reason for it.
Dream Shift:
[Clothed], I arrive at some event, passing behind a group of people that I deduce are actually part of a long queue for something. They are facing to their right, leaning against the metal railing, leaving open their section of the queue as I walk behind them. I figure if I am challenged I can point out I'm not really in the queue, just passing through. I do continue on and enter a large two-storey tall room, a tall and wide open doorway to the sidewalk.
Dream Fade has me forget what goes on in the room, but I bring outside into the night some item that needs washing; a rain spout is broken that a strong shower of clean rainwater or such spews onto the sidewalk, and I place the item there to be washed off.

Outdoors in a park or such, with numerous people milling about (none of whom pay attention to myself or the certain Kenyan who is with me), there is a computer monitor and keyboard on a lengthy picnic table. Apparently to dial a phone number one just begins to enter numbers and the dial-number box auto-pops up; once entered and return is pressed, the number is called (this is not Skype or anything, nor is it a dial-up connection: just making a call). I am assisting Barack Obama who is trying to use the computer with which to make a call (only the monitor and keyboard are visible; if it's a desktop it's under the table). Obama stands there and enters numbers but consistently keeps getting it wrong. My characteristic patience wears thin; while Dream Memory negates my remembering to call him on his Socialist agenda/s: I am busy actually trying to assist him making this call properly.
He constantly misdials by using the numbers across the top of the keyboard, despite my insistence he use the keypad on the right side of the keyboard.
The phone number is either 1-800-900-1010 or 1-800-900-2020, but Obama constantly cannot enter the numbers correctly. At one point he asks if this is okay, and the numbers in the box read 1-8-9-1-0, making me exclaim at him, "Christ, are you really this stupid...?!"
"Are you busy tomorrow?" he suddenly asks me.
"Tomorrow?" I reply cautiously. "Why?" I ask with understandable suspicion, considering the source.
"I need you to work for me for just one day," he says simply.
What's he up to? I wonder worriedly, as I ask aloud, "For how much?"
"The normal amount rate," he begins. Before I can point out this is an (annoyingly and willfully) obtuse answer (plus, my hourly pay-rate working for an anti-American would be well outside his budget, I'm sure), he immediately clarifies this as being twelve dollars an hour. I happen to drift awake quickly, aghast at knowing that for a moment, I actually was considering the perfidious Socialist's offer.

Much Dream Fade, but generally we are at a large house, formerly an orphanage or such. Legend has it there was some major carnage, the perpetrator of same carried off the Christmas tree.
Now it is years later and (the Patrick Troughton incarnation of) the Doctor has been about, examining the house for clues as to what happened.
As we walk through the industrial kitchen, I find the floor so slippery it becomes very difficult for my feet to find proper purchase. The Doctor suddenly realizes something and dashes from the kitchen into a large room, the majority of the unused early 20th century furniture stacked about.
"You see...?" he shouts with worried urgency in his voice, pointing. "The Christmas tree is still there...!"
Sure enough, a relatively small artificial fir tree rests atop a stacked against the wall pile of furniture. Apparently this either means the assailant is not who was accused of the crime, or the assailant has returned, and/but either way, the latter of which means trouble...

After walking some distance I realize all I am wearing is a t-shirt. I struggle to remember how I could go outside such, and all I can think is what a long walk back to where there are clothes. Dreading coming across someone who will see me, I hasten back towards wence I came.
Dream Shift: I am in a tall city building which Dream Memory tells me belongs to Donald Trump. I quickly go into a small office to change clothes: I hastily put on jeans despite wearing a suit shirt and jacket.
A side door into the room suddenly opens. "Whoa, whoa!" I say, my left arm outstretched in a vain effort to keep someone from walking in on me, mostly as I'm not supposed to be there.
A cleaning woman or so stops abruptly on entering, noting I am putting on pants over my underwear, and she hastens back out. As I finish being dressed, I notice that the building clearly is moving on rollers or such, and I somehow know it is heading to the water's edge. It stops, but being way high up I can feel the building gently swaying as the momentum below suddenly halts.
The main door opens and a few business men enter, talking amongst themselves, too busy to pay any heed to me, and I move about a few papers to give the illusion I belong there. I remain unchallenged, and the moment I can, I exit the main door and make a left through the office environment; around the corner I notice the unremarkable side door, which I deem I should make a mental note to remember in case I need to use it again.