A Wrong-way Highway Dream

The highway dream began with ice cream.

Bowls of fresh ice cream covered a small table. There were different flavors and colors. As I checked the ice cream, I realized that some of it was blueberry. I thought, that would be tasty.

Mom was there, and my wife. Mom said, “There’s more ice cream in the freezer. The freezer’s not working so we need to get rid of all this ice cream because it’s going to melt.”

Get rid of ice cream? Why don’t we just eat it, or give it to people to eat?

Nobody wanted ice cream because they’d had too much ice cream. Cats and kittens came along. I scooped spoons of ice cream out for them to eat, which they did. Then I gave them a bowl.

Time to go. My wife and I got into a car. (I didn’t see the car at all in the dream but knew it as mine.) We were immediately on an broad, convoluted highway with many lanes. Traffic was heavy. Following signs, we ended up a hill along a long curve that went to the right.

I passed a man on a copper-colored motorcycle with a sidecar. He was in the right hand lane and I was in the middle lane. I thought my car had bumped him, and I worried. Trying to check, I couldn’t see the sides of my car. I couldn’t see any of the car, in fact, so I didn’t know where I was in the lane. This unnerved me.

I stepped on the accelerator to go faster. We were still going up a long, curving hill. The man in the copper motorcycle began passing us. I didn’t want that, so I pressed harder on the accelerator. Still going up the curve, we began slowing down, going slower and slower until we pulled into a place where the highway ended and stopped.

I didn’t understand. The highway had ended. How the hell did we end up here? My wife and I got out of the car to ask questions and found ourselves with others in the same situation. We’d all been following the highway but had ended up stuck here, off the highway.

We were told, “You were all going the wrong way. That’s why you’re here.”

Going the wrong way? I’d been going straight, following the road. There wasn’t any other way to go. How could that be the wrong way? And, I protested, “It doesn’t make sense. The faster that I tried to go, the slower I went.” It frustrated me.

Another man agreed, saying, “Yeah, that’s what was happening to me.”

It seemed like I could learn more up a small hill. It was a paved white cement ramp. I started that way but people told me, “Don’t go that way. If you do, they’ll arrest you.”

But I wanted to see what was going on, and I thought that going up there could help.

“No,” others kept telling me, including a woman dressed in an official-looking uniform. “If you go up there, you will be arrested.”

A few others were going up there. From what I could see, they were being taken away.

I decided not to go up there. Staying where I was wasn’t working, though. I told my wife, “Come on, let’s get back in the car.”

“Where we going?” she asked as others asked me, “Where are you going? What are you doing?”

I said, “I’m going back down there.”

“But that’s the wrong way,” everyone said.

I said, “I know. But I’m going back down there, to where the wrong way began, and figure out how to get out of here.”

People were telling me not to go there, but I was adamant. I felt, being who I am, I could go back and figure it out, and fix the problem. With my wife with me in the car, I began driving backwards back down the road.

The dream ended.

Thursday’s Theme Music

Feeling like a bit o’ rut had overtaken me, I sought changes after leaving my writing time. Writing time had been productive and left me with that sense of magic, that anything was possible. Now, walking again, I faced the boring and mundane, the same old shit – trees, house, and streets. My mind is screaming road trip. Get thee somewhere with a fresh view. Been a while, I thought with first world sniveling, months since I’ve gotten away to somewhere else, which is the primary problem with being in a rut.

Out of this, or into this, streamed Green Day’s 1994 offering, “Longview”. Why not? It’s a song all about being bored and doing the same thing hour and hour twenty-four seven.

Sit around and watch the tube but, nothing’s on
Change the channels for an hour or two
Twiddle my thumbs just for a bit
I’m sick of all the same old shit
In a house with unlocked doors
And I’m fucking lazy

Bite my lip and close my eyes
Take me away to paradise
I’m so damn bored I’m going BLIND!!!
And I smell like shit

Peel me off this velcro seat and get me moving
I sure as hell can’t do it by myself
I’m feeling like a DOG IN HEAT
Barred indoors from the summer street
I locked the door to MY OWN CELL
And I lost the key

h/t Lyrics.rockmagic.net


Remembering the past doesn’t do much good.

That’s what they tell me. The past is dead. Water under the bridge.

But we still spend a lot of time there, arguing about what happened in that particular moment (ah yes, I remember it well), trying to pick out the jigsaw pieces of memory that shows how we got here. (You’d think that weird shape would be easy to find, but the pieces are harder to place than you would have believed.)

Remembering the past can be entertaining. Like, remember how your football team used to win? Remember how skinny and good-looking you used to be? Thank god for photos, or no one would ever believe it, right?

Then sometimes, you pause, glancing up to see yourself coming in through a door in the future, then hold your breath as you look back to see who you were and squint at your self-image to know who you now are.

Then the present — which was the future and has now become the past — crowds in with needs about what you were going or where you were doing — oh, look how mixed up I am! — and then rights your direction until memory calls you away again.


Things that are dark in flavor appeal to me. I like dark meat, dark chocolate, dark red wine and port, and dark beers like port and stout. I try – and often fail – to keep an open path to my taste buds. That means sampling offerings that don’t appeal to me based on familiarity and comfort. But I’m such a creature of ruts and routines that varying my choices becomes a challenging exercise.

Daydream is part of that.

Daydream is a Noble Coffee dark blend. As dark as an Italian roast in appearance, it’s not as sharp and bitter as an Italian or a French roast. Its flavor is smooth and fresh to my taste buds, toying me with mild nuttiness.

I do try others at Noble. Each day, they offer a blended dark and a unique, single origin that’s a lighter roast. True to form, the light roasts are revealed as winy and bitter to me. Some, though, have a terrific grapefruit juiciness, a taste that my taste buds like to have in IPAs, red blends, and Pinot Noirs.

Ultimately, it’s a world of choices out there, a distant shout from those early days at work, sipping Maxwell House re-heated in the microwave.

Got my brew, time to write like crazy, at least one more time.


Flooflicious (floofinition) – Something that is highly pleasant in taste, smell, or appeal to an animal.

In use: “The cats each varied which canned food they’d eat and what kibble they preferred, but when it came to tuna water, all agreed that it was whisker-licking flooflicious.

The Broken Mirror Dream

Dreamed I was outside with lots of people. I could see myself among them. I was wearing a short-sleeved yellow shirt. All the people were my age, and I was younger than I am in real life, with longer hair, maybe twenty years old. I seemed to vaguely know a few of the other people. The area appeared to be a college or business campus. Sidewalks connected plazas with fountains, gardens, and buildings, bisecting swatches of cut green grass. Forest lined the edges. I don’t know why I was there. An air of excitement almost shimmered, giving me — and others — goosebumps. A few of us talked about it.

My vantage kept changing. Sometimes, I was outside, looking at myself with other people from ten feet away or so, or coming in for a close-up, but other times, the point of view was from inhabiting myself.

I’d been laughing and talking with others but ended up walking alone, and decided to check out the woods. After passing a line of mature trees, I discovered a stream and began following it. After some distance, I saw a clearing ahead on the right. Climbing the bank, I drifted that way. As I did, a flash of light caught my attention.

I headed there to investigate and discovered a shard of mirror on the ground. The clearing was all dirt. Wondering how the mirror had gotten there, I picked it up, careful not to cut myself, and glanced around for clues about its origins. When I did, I spotted broken mirror pieces littering the ground not far away.

More puzzled then ever, I tried putting some context around the pieces of broken mirrors in what was a clearing in the woods. I guessed there were more than a hundred pieces, thought about counting them, but then shrugged that off as irrelevant. I thought, someone would have needed to bring the mirror here and break it. Part of me guessed that children could’ve stolen the mirror somewhere, brought it here and broke it, but that seemed like a lot of trouble to go through, and an odd location to do that. There weren’t any clear paths into the clearing that I saw.

Going toward the pieces, I glanced at larger sizes. None of the pieces seemed to match to the other pieces, like they’d been separated after the mirror was broken. Dirt smudged some surfaces, making me think that they’d been somewhere else, and then brought here. Bending over pieces, I realized that they didn’t mirror the area. On the ground, they should’ve been displaying reflections of sky, trees, or something. Instead, each looked like an opening into another place, a weirdness that made me shiver.

None of them reflected me, either. I leaned down lower for a closer look at one, trying to see the place in the mirror. Seeing gray behind bushes, I thought it could be part of an old castle.

A noise like a large tree cracking and splintering came behind me. Standing, I turned to see what it was.

The dream ended. Or, that’s all that I remember. Remembering this dream feels creepy. I feel like I’m being watched.

Before, when I began recalling this dream, the song, “Touch Me” by The Doors, began playing. I wondered if my mind had created some connection to the The Doors and the pieces of mirror – the doors of perception.

It’s another dream mystery.

Wednesday’s Theme Music

Dream residue leaves me with “Touch Me” this morning, a song by The Doors from 1968. I was twelve when it came out.

Don’t know why it came up after the dream. Mind works in bizarro manners. Could be the name of my mind: Welcome to Bizarro Manor. Fits. I’m always being accused of having an unusual sense of humor and thinking differently than others. Alas, guilty, but it does bring a sense of isolation.

Hmm, maybe that’s where this song comes in. “Come on, touch me, babe. Can’t you see that I am not afraid? What was that promise that you made?”

This was an interesting video from that era.

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