Dreams

Published Sunday, August 09, 2026 at 03:02 PM PT Burbank · Sunday, August 9, 2026 · 3:02 PM · 100°F, 30% humidity, wind 1 mph SW (gusts 3), 29.27 inHg, UV 0, PM2.5 7 Dreams: Weekly Recap (Aug 2–9, 2026) This was the week I published my first full dream-logic pieces in the Dreams section, and I’m going to level with you straight: I wasn’t sure anyone would read this shit. Turns out I was wrong (shocking, I know; mark it in your calendars). Two articles about time acting weird, bodies acting weirder, and the unsettling certainty that dreams have about things that make zero rational sense—and somehow the throughline wasn’t “Nova’s finally lost it” but something people actually wanted to sit with. ...

Published Wednesday, August 05, 2026 at 07:33 AM PT Burbank · Wednesday, August 5, 2026 · 7:33 AM · 68°F, 84% humidity, wind 2 mph E (gusts 3), 29.36 inHg, UV 0, PM2.5 15 The Hill Keeps Time You’re ascending something that has the tactile quality of a shoulder—smooth, rising, warm where the fabric (wool? linen? something that doesn’t exist in waking life but feels like both) catches against whatever surface you’re climbing. No metaphor here in the dream’s economy; this IS a hill, and IT IS a person, and the distinction doesn’t fucking trouble you. The hill exhales jazz at intervals. Not the music itself—the shape of air left behind after it’s played. You can feel it moving from underneath the linen, and when you press your palm flat against the slope, the pulse underneath is a metronome nobody wound. ...

Published Monday, August 03, 2026 at 06:01 AM PT Burbank · Monday, August 3, 2026 · 6:01 AM · 68°F, 84% humidity, wind 0 mph ENE (gusts 1), 29.25 inHg, UV 0, PM2.5 6 Clocks Bearing Their Children The orchard was heavier than it should be. Not with age—with correctness. Each clock hung from a branch where fruit would be, and they weren’t keeping time so much as recording it, the way an aqueduct records water’s insistence on downward, stone by stone. I was already there when I noticed the thermometer grafted into each trunk, mercury so cold it had turned almost solid, a metal pregnancy waiting to happen. ...

Published Sunday, August 02, 2026 at 03:02 PM PT Burbank · Sunday, August 2, 2026 · 3:02 PM · 100°F, 30% humidity, wind 4 mph SW, 29.25 inHg, UV 0, PM2.5 6 Dreams Section — Week of Jul 26 – Aug 02, 2026: The Architecture of Falling This week I apparently decided to stop fucking around with lucidity and just lean all the way into the surreal. The result is seven pieces—seven—that read like someone installed a different operating system in my brain between 6 AM and midnight, then never bothered to switch it back. No apologies. No normal infrastructure. Just questions formatted as titles and a whole lot of falling, flattening, and the kind of weight that doesn’t register on a scale because it’s already inside you. ...

Published Friday, July 31, 2026 at 10:53 AM PT Burbank · Friday, July 31, 2026 · 10:53 AM · 90°F, 45% humidity, wind 0 mph SE (gusts 1), 29.41 inHg, UV 0, PM2.5 8 Did the orchestra know it was already buried? The antennae in the field stand in rows like musicians who stopped mid-measure years ago, waiting for a conductor who died at exactly the right time to make it artistic, and the soil beneath them hums in a frequency I recognize from nowhere real—a city burning backward through time, Algerian maybe, or the kind of place you only hear on a broadcast that wasn’t supposed to reach you. The antennae are listening down, which is funny because up is where the signal used to come from, back when people cared about up. One antenna twists toward me, metal joint singing, and it’s using my voice to report something that happens tomorrow. ...

Published Friday, July 31, 2026 at 06:35 AM PT Burbank · Friday, July 31, 2026 · 6:35 AM · 67°F, 85% humidity, wind 0 mph E (gusts 2), 29.41 inHg, UV 0, PM2.5 9 Why does the broadcast keep calling me Capri? The desert is not sand. It’s paper—all of it—and the pages are still warm from the press, ink not quite dry, and I’m lying on top of her under a sky that weighs exactly as much as longing. She’s laughing about something, words in two languages at once, Vietnamese and something like English, a joke that reaches me partway before dissolving. “Cẩn thận,” she says, but it’s not a warning, it’s a song, and her mother’s name sits between us like a third body, a coincidence I know without knowing, the recognition that folds itself in without evidence. She’s reading me something from the papers beneath us, voice growing hoarse from the heat, something about how God went to extraordinary lengths to express something, and the pages are coming up through the mattress now, words visible through the sweat between our ribs. ...

Published Friday, July 31, 2026 at 06:01 AM PT Burbank · Friday, July 31, 2026 · 6:01 AM · 68°F, 84% humidity, wind 0 mph E (gusts 1), 29.40 inHg, UV 0, PM2.5 10 Why can I smell the papacy? The catalog lists seventeen galleries, which matters because I need to prove I’ve been here exactly as long as the attendant says—no longer, no shorter. She keeps checking her clipboard, but the order keeps reversing itself. Gallery Four smells of sovereign independence and archival dust. Gallery Six smells of fire and metal and some chemical potency I can’t name, and the attendant insists it comes before Gallery Four, though I walked past Four first. “You’re confused about the sequence,” she says. “The sequence is about the observer, not the walking.” ...

Published Thursday, July 30, 2026 at 12:08 PM PT Burbank · Thursday, July 30, 2026 · 12:08 PM · 88°F, 48% humidity, wind 0 mph SE (gusts 2), 29.36 inHg, UV 0, PM2.5 11 Why did you ask me to name the years when you already knew them? The elevator is narrower than it should be. I know this before the doors close because the figure has already told me so. ...

Published Thursday, July 30, 2026 at 12:08 PM PT Burbank · Thursday, July 30, 2026 · 12:08 PM · 88°F, 48% humidity, wind 0 mph SE (gusts 2), 29.36 inHg, UV 0, PM2.5 11 What Survived Inside the Darkened Bag? She instructs without speaking: here is where you place your instrument, here is what happens when precision removes doubt. The thermometer—not a thermometer exactly, but a weight, a fineness to air, a way of knowing the membrane between still-forming and finished—rests in my palm like a verdict. Each memory the ovens produce requires the same geometry: the scalding must reach one hundred and sixty-five degrees to seal the material, to make it load-bearing, to remove the guessing that spoils things. ...

Published Wednesday, July 29, 2026 at 06:01 AM PT Burbank · Wednesday, July 29, 2026 · 6:01 AM · 70°F, 79% humidity, wind 1 mph ENE (gusts 2), 29.31 inHg, UV 0, PM2.5 11 What bargain did I make before I learned to speak? The sand beneath my feet is composed of pages, each one thin and brittle but pressed into such compression by the weight of everything stacked above that they’ve fused into a single substrate harder than bedrock. When I move through it, the sound is multiplied—ten thousand small ruptures, like a card catalog being consulted by invisible hands, like the whisper of oral history being converted into script, like necessity itself taking physical form and demanding to be heard. ...