The Dreamfactory

I've been dreaming of this for years. Now it's real.

Yesterday, seven of us gathered in an old factory building in Providence. Oscar bought it outright—the man has more faith (and capital) than any of us deserve. The space is raw: exposed brick, high ceilings, massive windows that flood everything with light. Industrial bones waiting for a new purpose.

We gave it one.

The Space

The building is three stories of possibility. The ground floor is our common area: kitchen, living room, research station. We've set up whiteboards covered in dream maps, timelines, synchronization schedules. There's a growing library of dream research texts—Tumanov, LaBerge, Tibetan death manuals, neurological journals.

The second floor is sleeping quarters. This is where things get interesting.

The Dwellings

My theory: the physical environment where you sleep affects the quality and content of your dreams. We've all experienced this—falling asleep in an unfamiliar hotel feels different than your own bed, and your dreams respond accordingly.

So what happens if you design your sleeping space specifically to evoke dream content? What if your bedroom itself becomes a bridge?

Each of us built our own "dwelling" today. I provided materials—fabric, wire, found objects, paint—and the only instruction was to create a space that reflected our relationship to the dream city we've been exploring.

The results are stunning:

Anastasia's Dwelling

She built something like a cocoon or chrysalis. Draped white fabric creates an enclosed sphere suspended from the ceiling. Inside: a narrow bed, string lights that glow like stars, and pages from Tumanov's manuscript pinned to the fabric walls. She says it makes her feel like she's already dreaming before she falls asleep.

Oscar's Dwelling

Predictably architectural. He constructed a geometric wooden frame—almost like a four-poster bed had been exploded into its platonic form. Sharp angles, precise joints. Inside the frame, hanging mirrors create infinite reflections. "Like the tunnels," he said. I didn't ask what he meant.

Martin's Dwelling

He built a nest. Literally. Gathered branches from outside, wove them together with fabric and rope, created a curved structure you climb into. It's primal, organic. Inside he's piled cushions and blankets. "I want to dream like an animal," he said. "Before language. Before civilization."

Lily's Dwelling

Multiple spaces, actually. She's the only one who insisted on creating several small pods rather than one unified structure. "Different parts of me need different homes," she explained. Three interconnected chambers, each with its own color scheme and texture. She moves between them depending on which version of herself she wants to take into sleep.

My Dwelling

I cheated. My apartment has been becoming a dwelling for months now. Sculptures everywhere—forms I've seen in the dream city, half-remembered and half-created. My bed is surrounded by them. I sleep among echoes of Ethel every night.

For the factory, I built a doorframe. Just a doorframe, standing alone in my corner of the space. No walls, no room. On one side, I painted a realistic recreation of my Providence apartment. On the other, an impressionistic rendering of a street in Ethel. The bed sits exactly in the threshold.

Every night, I choose which way to face as I fall asleep.

The Ritual

Tonight we attempt our first synchronized dream.

We've prepared for months. Anastasia's protocols. Breathing exercises. Documentation habits. Careful attention to sleep cycles and REM timing.

But the dwellings add something new. We're not just trying to sync our minds—we're trying to anchor ourselves in a shared aesthetic space. If we've all been bathing in similar visual languages, similar textures and forms, maybe we'll find each other more easily on the other side.

Or maybe we'll just have weird dreams in a factory. Either way, it's an experiment.

The Hope

I've always believed art could be a doorway. Not metaphorically—literally. That the right image, the right space, the right arrangement of forms could open something in consciousness that's usually closed.

The Dreamfactory is our attempt to prove it.

Seven artists-researchers-dreamers, sleeping together in spaces we've built with our own hands, reaching for a city we've all seen in our sleep. If we find each other there—if we can verify, document, replicate the experience—we'll have evidence that consciousness is stranger and more shared than anyone believes.

If we fail, well. At least we made some interesting art along the way.

More updates as the experiments progress.

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Photos to follow once I figure out how to capture these spaces properly. Light in here is challenging.