Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
Don’t you hate it when you’re stopped behind two other cars, because they’ve legally stopped for a person in the crosswalk, and the car coming up behind you whips into the other land and accelerates to about ten M.P.H. over the speed limit and just misses the pedestrian in the crosswalk?
Yeah, I don’t think the man in the crosswalk was happy, either. Mindful of people being like icebergs, with so much of them hidden out of sight, I wonder what kind of idiot is driving that car.
I’ve been doing a lot of writing in my head. When I sit down to write, I’m already spun up and ready to write. I’ve noticed that when I write in my head to such an extent, I also seem to dream more. It’s like some portal in me has been opened during that period, and imagination flows into my writing become diverted into dream flows when I sleep.
I didn’t star in this dream. I was there, and featured, but the stars were a young female tennis player and a wealthy country man.
It started out with country boy. I call him a boy, but that was the nature of descriptions in this place. Boy didn’t denote an age, but a style. Gregarious, beloved, and admired by his farm-based community, he asked me, out of the blue, if I’d like to ride in his helicopter. I was teenager. I immediately understood this was an honor and treat, and accepted. People were envious, but in a joking way, because they’d not been in his helicopter.
He and I did some errands in his truck. When done, we drove down to his helicopter. It was a little two-seater with a bubble cockpit. He was the pilot, and took us aloft on a aerial tour of the region. He regaled me with stories about his life as he did. When we landed, he offered me a ride in his burnt-orange Lamborghini roadster. We did that, riding through town and around the countryside. It felt like a special day for me, and I was flattered to be treated like this.
A young woman arrived. Actually, she was fourteen, so appropriately, she was a girl, but people in the dream referred to her as the young woman. She was small and slender, with dark eyes and hair. No one thought much of her. She was supposed to be some tennis star, but everyone was skeptical of her because of her stature and quiet demeanor.
A demonstration game was arranged, her against local pros. Suddenly, she was revealed as a different person. Her relentless speed, quickness, accuracy, and intelligence went on full display as she beat player after player. Everyone was talking about her long after the games ended, marveling that such a small person could have a powerful overhead shot and tremendous serve, and be so fast. She was going to be given the helicopter and Lamborghini rides, too. I unabashedly endorsed that, telling the wealthy patron she deserved such an honor more than me.
Late day found us eating a huge communal dinner. It was held outdoors. Everyone was sitting on pillows and blankets. The food was strange and exotic. I can’t begin to describe the eels, snakes, and shellfish I saw being served.
Then came a special event where the patron beat his white SUV. It was a new car. I didn’t understand the reasons for beating it, but he hit it one time so hard that the car was folded into two. We all thought it was an astonishing display of strength, but also a statement on his indifference to his wealth.
And there was where the dream ended.
I dreamed last night that I was driving a convertible with the top down on an oceanside road. I was alone, and the weather was gorgeous. The road could been the stretch of Pacific Coast Highway between Big Sur and Carmel. I saw myself and the scene from different angles, like I was in a movie montage, but I don’t know what kind of car it was. No one else was seen in the dream, just me, happily driving. (Almost seems like a pretty metaphor for my writing process.) This song, “One of Us,” performed by Joan Osborn was playing on the car radio during this dream montage.
Cheers
You ever approach your car in a parking lot and think, boy, I did a terrible job parking, and look at your car and think, man, it’s a lot dirtier than I realized, and then try to get into your car and discover —
Yeah. It’s not your car.
Happened to me yesterday. Meanwhile, friends told a Palo Alto tale involving two Priuses and a parking garage. One of the cars was their vehicle. They got in it, started it up, and began backing out.
The wife said, “Something’s wrong.” She looked around. “I don’t think this is our car.”
More looking around was conducted. They noticed a tissue box on the back seat.
Definitely not their car.
They pulled back into their spot, parked and exited. But, what the hell? Where was their car? They’d parked right here.
Actually, they’d parked two spots over. A large truck blocked their car from their sight during their approach. Some color and year, just a little different.
I dreamed about a Porsche again last night.
I dream about them often, and post about them sometimes. (The last one that I remember posting about was an Arctic blue Porsche cabrio, an older model, and I won the right to drive it thanks to my friend, Kevin.)
Porsche – I’m talking about the car manufacturer – represents success and style to me. I fell for Porsches during my first decade, when I discovered cars and then racing. I became a fan of the E-type Jaguar and the Chevrolet Corvette Stingray.
From them, I found Aston Martin and Ferrari, and then Indy, Le Mans, Can-Am racing, and Formula One. The Ford GT became dominant at Le Mans in the late sixties, but the Porsches were there, too. Then the mighty Porsche 917 came on the scene, and my neighbor, a Volkswagen sales person, brought home a Porsche 911S and took me for a high-revving ride.
In last night’s dream, I was part of some process. I was with many others that I knew. We were outside. Our role was to receive incoming people. While I understood who the incoming were, that knowledge seeped away once I woke up. I don’t know if they were students or refugees, but both of them paw at me as plausible.
My role was to organize and hand out information packages when the newcomers arrived. The task was in my wheelhouse. I did it quickly and easily. That left me with a lot of free time, so I purchased a Porsche.
Silver, it was a new 911 Turbo Cabriolet, a sweet ride. After I ordered it, it arrived. I walked around, admiring it with my wife. Others came and gawked, asking the usual questions about the expensive high-performance car. That’s your car? You bought it? People were amazed that I had the resources.
That statement became key to understanding the dream.
Meanwhile, between my work, I explored the car. First, I got into it with my wife. The foot wells were shockingly small. Oh no, we didn’t fit.
Then, miraculously, we did. The Porsche changed to accommodate us…or did we change? It wasn’t clear in the dream world.
The Porsche’s dash was covered by a black plastic panel to protect it during shipping and delivering. I carefully pried it away, revealing a dash that sparkled like jewels.
I wanted to drive it, but the car intimidated me. I knew it was powerful, and I love mashing the throttle when I’m driving. I knew that with this power, the car could bite me in the ass with that behavior. It reminded me that I’d had a powerful sports car in real life. One person told me that they’d owned one, but traded it in after a few months, because the car’s power scared them. Others told me that they’d test-drove the car, but decided against buying it primarily because of its power, speed, and acceleration. Those were the things I loved about it.
I remembered that car and how I drove it while I dreamed. Those memories reassured my dream-self that I could handle the Porsche. I fired it up and then took it for a short drive, feeling it out, but not opening it up.
I returned to the dealer to do some paperwork. They’d been looking for the car because they hadn’t released it. I was worried that I’d done something wrong, and they laughed, waving it off. “No problem.”
A sales rep took me over to gain full and legal possession of the car. At the counter, I was asked to tell them what car I had. I hesitated. Then I said, “Porsche.”
“Which one?”
I hesitated. As I was about to say, “911 Turbo,” the man with me said, “Top of the line, a Turbo, fully loaded.”
“Wow,” people said. Blushing and self-conscious, I said, “Yes, I have a Turbo.”
It was a strangely reassuring dream about my writing as I walked and thought about my writing turbidity. Relax, and don’t fear the process, I told myself. I’m in a Turbo.
Time to open it up and take it for a ride.
You ever get in a strange car, like a rental car, to drive it, and keep adjusting the seat because somehow, your body and that seat just aren’t having a meeting of minds?
Yeah, that can be a pain.
Floobsession (catfinition) – a cat’s persistent preoccupation with an activity or idea.
In use: “Papi’s water floobsession drove him awake in the other room. A thump was heard as he jumped to the floor, followed by thundering paws as he galloped down the hall, into the kitchen, and leaped up on the counter with a Cheshire cat grin and a question mark tail.”
One of last night’s dream seemed structured like a feature film.
It began with me becoming aware of a contest. I can’t tell you the details of the contest. They were vague and dreamy. But I entered the contest and was selected as one of the winners.
That thrilled me. As a prize, I was going to drive a Porsche 911 Cabrio. It wasn’t the current model, but a car that was part of a collector’s garage. I was happy and excited.
But the dream took a twist. Other people needed help. It wasn’t inconsequential help, but help they needed to survive. Although it meant that I would miss out on my prize, I did what I needed to do to help others. Yes, on the one hand, I regretted that I would miss out on my prize. On the other hand, come on, it’s a silly prize, compared to the larger picture of helping others who are fighting to survive. There wasn’t a question; it’s what needed to be done.
Smiling and happy, they thanked me after I helped them (I literally gave a number of people helping hands to climb out of muddy, swollen rivers.) When it was all over, I waved good-bye to them, satisfied with the result.
Taking another turn in the dream, though, a friend, Kevin, showed up. He said, “I called the guy and told him what you did and why you didn’t get your prize. He admired you, so he came up with another prize for you.” I was presented with the keys to an Arctic blue Porsche 911 Cabrio.
Oh, it was gorgeous. Although it was a cold day, with melting snow all over the place, it was sunny, and the car’s top was down. Kevin and I got into the car. I started it up and drove it carefully through puddles of slush and over patches of snow and ice.
Kevin said, “Come on. What are you doing? My grandma drives faster than this. Open it up.”
But I’d had a plan. I was getting to a place where I could turn and go up a hill onto a mountain road. Right as Kevin finished making his plaintive statements, I downshifted and mashed the throttle. As he was slammed back in his seat, he laughed and said, “Whoa, shit. This is more like it.”
Laughing, with the car’s engine in full song, I accelerated up the mountain road.
That was the dream’s ending.
I was thinking about another problem that’s not really a problem, and was surprised that some car company hasn’t already solved it.
Driving through the school zone, I wondered why my car didn’t have a “School Zone Button.” My car, a Mazda CX-5, is a pretty smart car. Its lights and wipers go on whenever the need is detected.
It’s locks are always tricking us, evidence of how smarter it is than us. The door locks are key-less, and depends on you having a fob on your person. You press a button on the outside door handle to unlock it. The car gives you a few friendly beeps and lets you in. But if the button has already been pushed on one side, and someone pushes on the button on the other side, say my wife, the car goes into a frenzy of beeping warning that kind of reminds me of the robot on “Lost in Space” saying, “Danger, Will Robinson!” Walking it is much easier; you just walk away. The car has options to change all of these settings, but they’re exhausting to navigate.
The car has a built in navigation system. This system will show you the speed limit for the road you’re on, and tell you when you’re speeding. You figure that if the car already knows the speed for the road, and knows that I’m in a school zone, I should be able to press a button that will keep the car at the school zone speed.
Yeah, I know, how hard is it to keep a car at that speed? Well, from the number of people who ignore it, it’s pretty damn hard. The school zones seem to go a million miles around the schools in Ashland, starting at 7 AM and going to 5 PM. I rarely see a child in any of them.
The School Zone Button. It’s an idea whose time has come.
When I was young, I imagined great careers for myself, glamorous and exciting vocations, like rock star or racing driver. Didn’t come close to either of those, but fulfilled one of them in last night’s dream.
Yes, I was a racing driver, an unknown in Formula 1. Being unknown bothered me not. I was just happy to be there. I was with another rookie driver. Short, he was from somewhere in South America. This was the season’s second race. He’d won the first race. I wasn’t in the first race, but the media was mobbing us because we were rookies, especially him, winning that first race, and his F1 debut.
The time for the current race arrived. There wasn’t any qualifying for reasons I don’t know, and I was starting from the back. (I think this was just a dream contrivance as a metaphor for how I view myself and my life sometimes.)
Then, just like that, I was surging through the field, was at the front and gone. My wife was in the pits, watching, and was mega-impressed. (Yes, I was given that view.)
“Where’s the other guy?” I wondered about my fellow rookie while the race was still going on. That question permitted me to view a screen in my car that showed the car’s relative positions, a setting that you can sometimes select in video racing games.
There was my car, in light blue, number one, and well ahead of the pack. The other rookie, in red, was fifth from last. I was exuberant for myself, and sympathetic for him.
I won, of course, amazing all. My wife’s excitement seemed to equal my own. If only life could be more like my dreams….
Michael Seidel, writer 