Month: December 2017

The Superhero Dream

Dreamed I was a superhero, and had special powers. I could loco-levitate, rising up off the ground to about twenty feet, and propelling myself forward to over one hundred miles per hour almost instantaneously. I could only levitate for a short period, and propel myself for three or four miles.

But that was a side dish. My primary power was the ability to make things cease to be there, like buildings. I always ensured I employed my power cautiously, unwilling to hurt innocents and bystanders. I’d usually just create a hole in the side of a building. I could then put it back into place.

In the dream, though, I was being chased, and was out of my red outfit. It was late evening, in a large metropolitan area. I don’t know who chased me, but they were persistent and organized. I developed increasingly desperate and clever ways to employ my powers.

I was spotted by others, of course. One teen-age girl was thrilled to encounter me unmasked, and pointed it out to others. They became my boosters, cheering me on. My supporting nation grew as the chase continued. The cheering fans then involved themselves to slow down my pursuit, allowing me to escape past the city’s lights, and into the night.

Great fun.

0

Quidfloof

Quidfloof (catfinition) – a nosy cat, demanding to know, what now?

Ed. Note: specifying “nosy cat” seems redundant. Aren’t all cats nosy?

0

William Shatner and Seven

The dreams, the dreams.

A tsunami of eclectic dreams lifted me up and carried me out. The numeral “seven” dominated. I know of at three instances. I believe that I counted seven dreams, and seven appeared in two of them.

An argument ensued, and a rift opened between two groups. I knew them all. I thought it was bullshit, and stayed loyal to my friend. The rest were throwing a party. My friend was being ostracized and wouldn’t go. I went anyway, to make a point. The host asked me if I was still friends with the other guy. I said, “Yes.” “Then you’ll need to pay seven dollars for a beer.”

Fine. WTF? went through my mind. Was that supposed to intimidate me?

I left the house through a back door, just to get fresh air. A Saint Bernard was there. He wanted out. I knew he wasn’t supposed to get out, but he got out when I opened the door. He ran around a moment, and then I said, “Get back into the house,” which he did. I returned to the party and went to the hostess. I had not finished my beer, but I wasn’t staying. I gave her the seven dollars and said, “Give this to your husband.” She didn’t understand and didn’t want to accept it. “Just give it to him,” I said. “Tell him it’s from me. He’ll understand.”

Seven appeared again later:

I’d been waiting with my friend to take a course. He remained ostracized. People avoided our table, and our so-called friends were rude to us. The instructor, noticing this, told my friend and I, “Pay me seven dollars. You’ve finished the course.”

“No, we haven’t taken it yet. We’re waiting to take it.”

“No, you don’t need it. You’ve already taken it. Here’s your certificates. Just give me seven dollars.”

Okay.

It was interesting that I was receiving seven dollars, and then giving seven dollars, all under the umbrella of seven dreams.

In another dream vignette, I didn’t like how matters were transpiring. I was being interrogated and told to sign a loyalty statement. That made everyone afraid. I was afraid at that point, but then asked, “Why should I be afraid? I will not.” So I endured, and signed. Everyone else told me that was a mistake. I said, “You’re thinking wrong about this. As long as they have you afraid to sign, they’ll control you. But because I’ve signed, I can never be controlled again.”

They did try to make me sign again, but I prevailed against them, twice, and felt damn good about it.

Then there was the scene where I was in someone else’s new house. It was very high-tech and expensive, with many windows, and even glass walls inside the house. Its layout bemused and amused me. I thought they were trying too hard. While walking through, I saw a wreath with a candle in a box. I’d seen this in portions of other dreams, sometimes in a box, but sometimes hanging on a door. I’d come to know that these were made and distributed by William Shatner.

Seeing this one, I pointed it out to my friend. I said, “They’re everywhere.” My friend said, “That William Shatner is an evil genius.” We laughed.

Out of all this, I awoke from dreaming and slipped into writing mode. I needed to write a chapter called “Circle,” I realized. “Circle” began acquiring substance as soon as the word was known.

So here I go, writing like crazy, at least one more time.

 

0

Expansion

Don’t you love it when you’re writing a scene in your head, and you overhear some strangers’ conversation, and a word in it becomes a catalyst that accelerates and expands the scene you’re writing?

Oh, yeah.

0

Saturday’s Theme Music

*snark alert* I’m plagued with Christmas music for some reason today. I heard some good songs yesterday. They’re good to me; your preferences are probably different. The performers included Burl Ives, Johnny Mathis, and the Eagles. The person I was with said, “I like this song. They’re playing good music today.” Like they were telepathic, innit?

“Yes, I like Burl Ives and his cover of “Frosty the Snowman,”” I said.

“I don’t know who that is,” the other said. He’s about thirty-five years old. “Is that who it was?”

Oh, generation dagger! I’ve slipped it into others, when I was young. Now I try keeping it sheathed. I asked him about the previous two songs, by Johnny Mathis and the Eagles. They knew who the Eagles were, but didn’t know that was them playing. Johnny Mathis was another dagger.

Out of this morass, Joan Jett and the Blackhearts arrived with a song for the day. Her group hit the music scene as we were living on Okinawa. Music coverage by AFRTS was split among all the genres, so information was sparse. Most rock/pop tidbits were delivered via Casey Kasem and American Top 40, played on Sundays. When I eventually returned to America (after a few years) and saw Joan Jett on MTV at a friend’s house, I realized that she’d been part of the Runaways. Yes, that’s how slow I can be.

“I Hate Myself for Loving You” is one of my favorite J2 offerings. It has fine hard-rock harmonics, with ironic lyrics that are revealing about human nature, and the nature of our desires and attractions. You can hear Desmond Child’s influence, and recognize the similarity of the songs he wrote/co-wrote for Kiss, Aerosmith, Bon-Jovi, and others. Give it a listen.

From nineteen eighty-eight.

 

 

 

1

Out

He went to the door, opened it, and looked back and down at the animal. “Do you want to go out?” he said.

The cat looked at him. Out? Out? What’s that?

2

The Tree Dream

Vignettes played as dreams last night, with each sharing the need for there to be a tree in it.

The first vignette centered around camping. I was with friends (none recognized). We were searching for a camp site. It might have been at Laguna Seca (Mazda Raceway). One of the guys suggested that I go ahead and find us a site. “Just make sure it has a tree.”

I went looking and saw plenty of trees, but none that seemed to fit the need. Alone, I began complaining to myself about why one of the others hadn’t come with me.

Another vignette began. I was with friends. We were there to play softball. “Find us a field with a tree,” one man told me.

“A tree?” I said. “Why would you want a softball field with a tree? Wouldn’t the tree interfere?”

He and others insisted we needed a tree. Exasperated, I agreed to find a field with a tree, and then a third vignette started.

I was with friends. We needed a hotel room. “Try to get us one with a tree,” a friend told me.

A hotel room with a tree? “Do they have those?” I said.

“Yes, I’m sure they do. Just ask.”

They went off, leaving me alone. After looking around, I spotted the front desk and went over. “I need a room with a tree,” I said.

“Yes, sir,” came the answer.

Without further issue, I entered a room. Huge, it was carpeted, with windows. And against one pale wall, grew a large tree.

0

The Funeral

“I have my funeral planned,” he said.

I was getting my hair cut. We’d been talking about Christmas music. I’d complained about Bob Dylan’s rendition of “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” recorded in two thousand nine. It’s not my favorite Dyan song, or the best version of that song I’ve heard. He sounded painfully raspy, to me.

“I’d like to hear Metallic do Christmas songs,” my stylist said.

I said, “I’d like to hear Disturbed do a Christmas album.” I was thinking of their cover of Simon and Garfunkel’s “Sounds of Silence.” I’ve come to like it better than the original.

“Funny you should say that,” my barber said. “I’m going to have that planned at my funeral.” He then described his other music choices, like Madonna and Gwen Stefani. He was having it catered by Luigi’s in Medford. His casket was going to be black, with the Batman emblem on it.

“Why Batman?” I said.

“He’s my favorite guy.”

Ah. “What’s the genesis for planning your funeral?”

“I was sick and had some health issues a few years ago.”

Must have been serious, went unsaid. Instead, I said. “I feel bad. I haven’t given any thought to my funeral music.”

I guess there’s something else to put on my to-do list. It’s always something.

After walking away, I did a search for Disturbed’s Christmas music. Knowing that group, you know it has to be out there already.

 

 

 

1

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑