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 that 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 this may be a training film but 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 hstily 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.

I enter a cabin of sorts with a wide living room which is an extremely crowded waiting room of some kind. I sit on a sofa against the wall as a seemingly random amount of people rise up and head to the next area while simultaneously the same number of people enter from outside and take the newly available seats.
I get that it's more of background artists that are going and new ones coming in, as though carefully choreographed for specific movement, or at least for minimal chaos.

(in what seems to be a mall "store" or such), I find myself in some tantric workshop or such where the naked participants are working on their own mats (far apart from each other), each of them all rather middle-aged and not very attractive (to me). As I stand observing, I notice my pants are down; as though I've drowsed for a moment I notice the people are up and milling about, their clothes back on.
I'd better put this away, I think to myself and hastily pull up my pants. I go upstairs where as I try to keep moving forward my progress is nearly non-existent; outside I can see through the windows the background exterior (trees and streets and such), is all moving as though the building was moving though no momentum is felt. With all this I suspect to the point of realizing I am dreaming but I neglect to take advantage of Lucid Dreaming.
Finally I make it to an upper level with a very thin ledge onto which I land, and even though Dream Memory assures me I've done this route countless times, but I still find myself concerned about stepping off into space and falling to the one-storey floor below.

I am near the center of some science museum. There is a clamour inside than some major exhibit for which everyone has come, has been closed. I am walking with someone around the perimeter outside the room, a glass wall separating us from inside. I cannot make out what the multiple projection screens are indicating; for some reason I believe the exhibit is about fractions. Once inside we head to a bank of escalators, almost all those working are coming up (one or two others are closed for preventative maintenance). I can now see banners indicating the closed exhibit is about the rose. I find that as surprising as the multitude of furious people that are angrily leaving due to the exhibit not being available.
Later, not a participant myself in the scene, I witness a woman, seemingly resembling Kathleen Turner (in the 1980s), having returned to some distant (from California) state, apparently southern. She has been crying so hard that her words are almost difficult to understand. I am aware she has been affluent, but she has been downsized from a high paying job; she has had no choice but to return to her home town, a choice she loathes. She is sober but her crying jag leaves her voice sound suspiciously so...
Sitting in her parked car, she makes a lame attempt to get the help of a local postman. Her description of for what she seeks has him suggest he drive her "out to the Wainwright ranch."
She gets out of her car, her ragged voice still in pain from crying, refusing such assistance (I deduce that that is her former home, at which lives her family she dreads facing). She manages to point out she might do that, but that she does not know if anyone is home, and she cannot remember the location of the hidden key.
On the sidewalk a man she her and decides to help, but cannot see beyond his own perceptions, thinking her to be a "regular homeless" person, despite, her pearl necklace, wearing white high heel shoes, et al.
The man makes a lame attempt to comfort her, citing a bit of scripture, but this sets her into a sarcastic binge of citing numerous such lines, as she literally prances about (almost madly), proving her point that such recitations do nothing for her situation
When he cautiously suggests she accept his information about a local homeless shelter, her voice clears up in fury. She reveals the job she just lost was at 20th Century Fox... where she was earning a hundred thousand dollars... a month (as clearly she'd worked here for some years under such conditions, I personally wonder briefly why she would be so distraught as to be [that is, sound as thought she is] financially destitute, having been making one point two million a year: she an't have lost it all...).

I am in a moderately lit grey warehouse in which a close friend has some sort of college science fish experiment. For some reason I am to clean two aquariums, one atop the other. My friend stands there, ready to depart for class, but is a little snappy, demanding, "I want you to clean that side dish!"
While I know she means a meal dish, not anything to do with my immediate cleaning project, her order is still overly vague and I have no idea as to what dish she refers. Aware of her dislike of being clear in th'first place, and her being even more aggravated when her vague directions are given clarifying questions, I do not answer to find out what she means.
The aquariums are on a large piece of plywood atop saw-horses: not exactly sturdy or secure. My cleaning thankfully only consists of the exterior, not inside. But as they are precariously placed, the shift dangerously, and I struggle and manage to maintain their Not Falling (a tricky enough endevour, as I have to stand on a step stool).
I move the top one over onto another pile of something flat, when suddenly while I'm not looking there is a rush of water. I look up and the nearest wide-side has broken, all the water in the tank has rushed out. Just at my waist is the other tank, and a large fish rests on a wide drink coaster, above water level. I do not know if he fell out of the higher tank with the water; I put him into the water of the tank in which he rests, and be breaches violently. I figure one tank must be salt water and the other fresh, and I've no idea what sort of fish this is.
Being an emergency, I go to call my friend, but my phone refuses to start up properly, its screen showing bizarre symbols and incorrect menu choices. I quickly walk up the path and even though it's an incline, I feel it's a movie sound stage back-lot. A few Dream Characters greet me pleasantly as I walk by, or they're walking in the same direction. I feel a tug and my phone has a massively long power cord coming from ahead, despite any farther back and I would not have reached.
As I walk outside the lot on the sidewalk (still an incline, to the left), the sidewalk has a strong current of water coming down, just above shoe sole level, making my feet drag as I try and walk uphill against the current. With no way to save the fish without my friend's help, even were I to get her on the phone I dread the fact by now they must be goners.

Following some events Dream Fade has clouded, I am in a small elevator with three others who are space merchants (apparently Star Wars-ian), but unbeknownst to them, they are marked for an "accidental" death, to avoid having to pay them. And unfortunately... I simply happen to be in the same elevator.
The elevator begins to drop suddenly, clearly out of control. The control operator comes on, reassuring to stay calm etc. She tries to explain how the contraption operates, indicating it goes through a loop (as in, passing the same place in a single direction).
"Wait," I offer, and suggest some technobabble about quantum mechanics that should stop the elevator.
After a pause, the operator replies with, "I dunno even know if you actually jus'said anything...!" Somehow I manage to repeat it, as I simultaneously visualize that the control operator is a large, sentient, angry-faced white chicken.
The elevator manages to slow to a sudden stop, but on going to disembark we find there is no floor, just a ledge just outside the elevator door, barely able to accomodate a foot. A few feet out on the wall is an old black-rotary pay phone, on which I rest of right hand. The three hold my arms to keep me from falling; the leader of the trio assists me in sitting on the ledge. Below us is a marble floored elevator lobby, as though we stopped one floor too early. It's not an overly far drop, but a bad jumped landing most likely could break a leg. One of the two others carefully jumps down and manages do so so without injury. I cannot find a wall-ladder, and when all three are down there they're able to catch me as I hop down.

I am in a small loft-like apartment that has been mostly gutted of furniture; during what seems to be the poorest turn-out for a wine-cheese party, a large screen TV plays the film Strictly Background while its director Jason frets at the sad turn-out.
I meet a young man who greets me at the bar; Dream Memory tells me this Dream Character is a recent but good online friend (a la Facebook or MySpace), and we chat for a bit.
I go to get a chair but despite it leaning casually up against a long flat table, a cascade of nearby stacked chairs takes place. Dream Memory tells me that locally this is a strong cultural taboo: that it is a very dark omen of bad luck. I attempt to make humour of it, and thankfully those who assist me do not appear to be frightened.
After a bit, Jason and I are distracted looking out the window at extremely mobile clouds, many of them right only ten or so floors up in the streets. They are moving as though via time-lapse photography in real-time. In the distance between two buildings we see a massive black cloud forming and rushing this way, all but racing past us above the buildings as we watch it zoom by like a cloud-made dirigible.
I run downstairs and find the backdoor to outside. Making sure there's handle so I can get back in, I walk out into the wide, sun-lit alley. The clouds zoom about in the strong winds, as in one direction I see what would appear to be the Los Angeles skyscrapers but they are all varied shades of dark-chocolate brown in colour (that is, not all one dark-brown colour: some highlights are darker than others, but all very dark brown). I head back in and up the stairs to hear what seems to be a live staged reading with my friends Jack and
Marvin, through which Dream Memory makes me "remember" I am part of this live show and I've aleardy missed any earlier scene in which I was supposed to be on stage. It seemed to be behind-the-scenes scenes of Strictly Background; I wondered if I would be allowed to participate in the Q&A if I wasn't part of the "show."
I go up many flights to large white-walled suite in which I am staying with my best local friend. I notify her of the strange clouds and the strong winds, just as I notice outside a peculiar white shape. I quickly realize it is not a cloud, but an out of control, quickly deflating hot air balloon.
Aghast, I tell her to look, as we watch in horror as the winds outside pull it down the street below our floor level. Suddenly the entire building lurches, swaying in the wind's grip. She and I feel the building pushed, then right itself.
"Time for us to get out of here," I point out and she does not argue the point as we head down to where the wine and cheese party is located.

I am at a college eatery with a young woman (seemingly) very attracted to me. The server brings over a wide round tray and sets it on top of my head. When he removes it, a large pile of french fries cover my hair. They do not want to simply fall off; with some annoyance I walk to the grill area and swish my head hard, expecting them to fly off my head into the food preparation area.
They don't. I touch them and find they've all but apparently solidified together in a mass in my hair. Extremely annoyed, I pull out what bits will come out, and toss them into the food preparation area, but the cooks (and the server) don't seem to mind or take notice. The girl, meanwhile, figures she should go to class. While she sympathizes with my predicament, she merely gives me a kiss goodbye and leaves me to it. I realize I am going to have to walk around with this lot on my head until I can shower it off. I take a bus to San Pedro to house and cat-sit for my friends, anticipating having to ask them to shower off these french fries on my head. On the bus is a girl I briefly mistake for the previous girl, which this one finds extremely amusing. The bus is close, but I find myself having gotten off a few stops too soon. I start walking, the geography seeming a bit off: the back streets are a bit labyrinthal. At one point I come to a yard with a rise in its lawn, and I note I have to climb down a jagged rock to get back to street level.
A tiny Yorkshire Terrier appears before my, barking at me, mostly for attention which it receives. On the street level is a slat-wooden bench, under which is another dog barking until I lean over to pet it.
The road bends to the left, which I know is the wrong direction, away from my destination about five blocks away now (according to the street signs), but I spot a small parking area at my right, at which is a doorway to the next street over towards the correct direction. Someone comes through and I have to run to catch the door before it closes. I then notice that somehow my Sherman Oaks friend's dog Dumbledore is with me, his red leash in my hand. I do not mind (despite IRL Dumble would be thrilled in a household of cats mostly in his insistence on killing them). We get through the door, meeting a large dog and its owner heading in the opposite direction. The man's dog is about a good third larger than Dumble, but is handsome and friendly, though Dumble uncharacteristically growls a bit at it.
"Maybe yours is another alpha-dog," I surmise, and the owner concurs, as his dog gazes at me longingly to be patted and to let me be kissed.

I have just microwave-cooked a dinner; outside I put it on a level surface at about eye level. Suddenly to my surprise, from off the plastic serving plate is a green turtle, the shell of which is about six inches long. Of course now he has his head fully extended. I go to pick him up but he goes to bite me, and rather energentically. I am careful to keep his wide mouth from catching my fingers; at one point pressing on his head with my index finger, but he tries to circumvent this action.
Someone comes out and wonders what is going on. I reply that this turtle is trying to bite me, as I also wonder whether he was in the plate as it was cooking. The wide round plate contains a large helping of spinach, but I do not notice any other food. The rest of the plate seems to have been large enough in for which the turtle to have been resting.
As I notice the person speaking to me is one of my best local friends William, the turtle is now far more... flexible, and it drops to the grass and heads away rapidly. I go to pick it up to keep it safe as I realize it is now a very surprisingly large hedgehog, its back a dark mossy green. I manage to pick it up, but (to William's apparent amusement), the little animal is also (or technically, still), working at biting me as I hold it, though as a hedgehog it isn't trying as hard as was the turtle.